The wind howling through the Grand Central Colosseum died down to a breathless, respectful whisper.
Dropping from the golden royal terrace, Sword Prodigy Jian Chen didn’t walk the marble stairs. He stepped off the stone railing into empty air, his snow-white sky silk robes billowing gently as seven orbiting astral swords of pure starlight materialized beneath his boots. With each step he took through the open sky, an invisible ripple of razor-sharp sword intent spread outward, slicing through falling leaves and dust motes with tiny perfection.
His white boots touched the gravel of the dueling circle. Then, the loose stones within ten paces snapped in half with clean, glassy fractures.
In his right hand, Jian Chen carried the Star-Shattering Sword, still seated inside its dragon-bone sword sheath.
He was twenty-two years old, with high cheekbones, skin as pale as unpolished mutton-fat jade, and eyes as cold and dark as a deep-sea deep gap. Across his brow rested a thin band of star-gold inscribed with the ancient glyphs of the Heavenly Sword Sect: Above the Heavens, Only the Blade.
“Mortal,” Jian Chen said, his voice flat, melodic, and chillingly devoid of human warmth. “You have performed amusing parlor tricks today. You danced around Bao Shan’s clumsy clubs. You took advantage of Liu Yun’s fragile bones. You even found a seam in Lei Zhen’s raw beast lightning.”
