Four years have passed, like the flash of a white colt, slipping quietly by.
Inside the secret chamber, tranquil and profound, only the faint glimmer of Spiritual Qi flickers.
Xu Ping, as usual, immerses himself in sword training, his aura concealed yet implicitly extraordinary.
The Magical Treasure Wooden Sword in his hand seems unremarkable, yet with his swings, it brings forth fierce sword shadows, traversing through the air, emitting subtle hissing sounds.
The Wind Night Sword Skill, as performed by him, has reached a realm of mastery and perfection. Every move and style contains endless mystical charm.
As he maneuvers the sword moves, it seems to carry the mystical rhythm of the night wind.
Sometimes relaxed, like a gentle breeze caressing the face; sometimes urgent, like a sudden clap of thunder.
