The air didn’t cut. It screamed.
When Gu Yan realized his six formation students were lying unconscious in their own blood, the seven-foot butcher didn’t retreat. He threw his head back. That let out a deep-throated, beast-like roar that sprayed red spit across the inside of his black iron mask.
His dantian—a Peak Foundation core holding thirty drops of dark, blood-nourished spiritual essence—blew up into an unreserved, suicidal surge.
He crossed his twin serrated sabers before his chest. The notched steel glowed with a sickening, oily crimson soft glow that smelled of rotting meat and ozone:
The Blood-Vulture Cleaving Gale.
The signed name killing art of High Elder Kuang’s private lineage.
Gu Yan slashed downward with both arms, his muscles tearing under the huge torque of the release.
SHRRRRRRK.
