The long wind blew, seeming to disperse much of the blood stench. Within the manor halls of the Lingxi Sword Sect, there were still places shrouded in thick, lingering smoke,
and beneath that broken memorial arch,
two Horizontal Sabers were stabbed into the stone slabs, the dried blood upon them still reflecting under the morning sun.
Gu Zhan's bloodstained long robe swayed,
as he gazed silently down the mountain.
Gu Fengwei wanted to persuade Gu Zhan, but the words reached his lips and he could not find what to say,
for he, too, was a Martial Artist, a Great Cultivator,
and knew deeply that though there are countless Martial Artists in this world, those who achieve anything are always one in ten thousand; these all share one trait,
and that is a distinctiveness unique to themselves. Every genius in martial arts possesses perceptions of their own, unmoved by others. Those easily swayed by the outside world rarely carve their own path in Martial Arts.
