Du Cang didn’t right away unleash the entire nine thousand blades. To a grandmaster who had stood atop the martial world for five hundred years, overwhelming an empty-dantian mortal with raw volume was an admission of inefficiency. A true sword saint cut with perfection, not waste.
“Three blades,” Du Cang declared, his voice carrying the freezing weight of mountain glaciers. “Three micro-intents of the Void-Seeking Trigram. If your iron bar can touch even one of them, I shall grant you a full quarter-hour of breath.”
The Sword Saint pointed his two fingers toward the promontory.
From the swirling silver dome above, three spirit swords detached themselves from the backup sky-high ring. Unlike the crude, mass-produced projectiles of the last volley, these three weapons were intricately detailed. Their silver blades were etched with tiny calligraphy that glowed with a pale, sickening violet light. The signed name mark of refined spatial poison that dissolved organic tissue upon contact.
They fell in an echelon formation: Lead Blade Alpha in the center. They were flanked by Beta and Gamma three paces behind.
Lin Tao’s left eye locked onto the three dropping trajectories. He switched his sight HUD into micro-time frame capture mode, slicing each second into twenty-four discrete test frames.
