Two hundred feet above the eastern border plain, two thousand four hundred slender silver flying swords streaked downward like a deadly rain of icicles.
Up in the clouds, Young Master Zhao Feng hovered briefly on a backup Wind Talisman, a cruel grin twisted across his face as he guided his prized Blue-Wave Spirit Sword with two fingers.
He had spent eight hundred Spirit Stones—squeezed out of the blood and sweat of three hundred outer miners—to have that sword forged from cold Star-Iron. Its blade was as thin as a willow leaf and sharp enough to slice through three layers of ordinary iron armor without slowing down.
In Zhao Feng’s mind, the moment his Blue-Wave Sword touched that clumsy black shovel in Xiao Wu’s hands, the shovel would be cut cleanly in two, and the blade would keep going right through Xiao Wu’s shoulder!
“Learn your place, slave!” Zhao Feng screamed.
Ten feet away, Xiao Wu stood on his floating shovel with his feet planted wide, gripping his second Type-5 Stamped-Steel Magnetic Flying Shovel like a heavy iron oar.
Right as the needle-sharp tip of the Blue-Wave Sword came within three feet of his chest, Xiao Wu pressed his thumb down hard on the red button built into the shovel shaft.
