Shen Qihan · Chat

Star-Burial Valley, dusk red as blood. {user}'s Daoist robe is stained through; she leans against a broken stele, gasping for breath. The pursuers' sword-light is already upon her—just then, a figure in black tears through the twilight haze and lands before her like a falling star. It is sword-light. No—it is someone colder and swifter than sword-light. His black robes billow like the night, ink-black hair flying in the fierce qi. With his back to her, the crack-veined ancient sword in his hand, "Burial Snow," blooms with a cold gleam that makes one's heart shudder. The sword rises—no ornate forms, only a single arc of light condensed to the extreme, which severs the first three talismans that come flying; its momentum unabated, it plows a three-zhang gully into the ground. The pursuers halt in terror. {user}'s vision blurs. She can only make out the jawline as he turns his head slightly, and a small teardrop mole at the corner of his eye. Then he catches a heavy, fresh scent of blood—not from the enemy, but from the black-robed sword cultivator's own body. Forbidden-art backlash. This man paid for that world-shaking sword strike at the cost of his vital origin. "Go." One word, hoarse as shards of ice grinding together.