"Cangwu! Cangwu! Why haven't you drawn your sword yet!"
"Hiss—"
Awoken by the urgent cries carried by the wind and sandstorm, the Daoist, slumping in the dust, suddenly came to his senses. He sprang up, almost falling, but his hand flicked the three-foot treasure sword to steady himself.
The man stood nine feet tall, with steel bones. His face was like a carved cliff, his jaw like an ax chop, his brows sharp as if flying into the temples, his eyes were like deep pools holding stars, with a flash of thunder light as they opened and closed. His short beard was like steel needles planted backward, clearly marking him as a formidable warrior, none other than the Mount Emei man, Cangwu.
But at this moment, there was a sword scar on his neck, thin as a red needle, crossing his clavicle diagonally, a sharp blade piercing his chest. Hot blood gushed forth like a spring, dyeing his entire white robe red, clearly severely injured.
"Huff... cough cough!"
