The drunken old man approached the three, his sword energy swirling and diving straight for Nan Wan’s forehead. Nan Wan’s eyes widened in terror as Chong Zhao leapt up, blocking the strike with his sword and pulling Nan Wan to safety just in time.
Nan Wan looked at Chong Zhao in confusion, astonished that this seemingly insignificant disciple possessed such skill and spirit energy. Under the spiritual-sealing restriction, he had actually outdone him!
“Senior, if this was only a test for the heartfire of Wu Tong, we’ve already lost. Why do you need to take his life?” Chong Zhao asked, placing his sword defensively in front of him.
The drunken old man let out a surprised grunt and lifted his drunken eyes slightly. “I never expected Yun Xiao’s foremost disciple to lose to a nobody. Boy, are you a disciple of the Mystical Sect?”
“Yes,” Chong Zhao replied solemnly, not daring to underestimate him.
“Young and promising, boy; I like you, so I’ll spare your life,” the drunken old man said, looking at Nan Wan with a flash of red in his eyes, hinting at a trace of demonic energy. “As for him, he touched the tombstone here. For me, the only word left for him is ‘death’!”
Another burst of sword energy swept out from the drunken old man, and just as it was about to hit, another sword flew out from the sky. Er Yun leapt forward, joining Chong Zhao to shield Nan Wan.
“What’s this? Are you all planning to die together?” the old man’s voice grew heavier.
“The hundred families of the Immortal Sect share a common bond,” Chong Zhao said, his sword in front of him. “Even if I cannot defeat you, senior, I cannot just stand by and watch as you kill him.”
“Common bond? Nonsense!” the old man’s eyes revealed mockery. “Since you’re asking for death, I’ll grant it to you!”
The drunken old man swept the withered branch in his hand at Chong Zhao, who struggled to fend it off along with Er Yun. Just then, Nan Wan suddenly leapt up from the ground and, taking advantage of the old man’s engagement with the other two, struck him from behind with his sword.
The immortal sword pierced the old man’s body, causing his spiritual energy to explode. The old man grunted, looking down at the sword sticking through his abdomen.
Chong Zhao’s expression changed.
A glimmer of joy appeared on Nan Wan’s face, only to vanish when he saw no relief in Chong Zhao’s eyes—only horror. Following Chong Zhao’s gaze, Nan Wan froze. The sword that had pierced the old man’s abdomen showed no trace of blood.
A chill crept into Nan Wan’s heart as he tried to pull the sword out, only to find the old man already turning towards him, a wicked smile on his face. Those frail hands, thin as dried branches, were tightly gripping the sword.
With a loud snap, the old man crushed the sword in half, his body radiating a golden light, before bursting apart into a cloud of mist. The old man… had no physical body?! What in the world was he?
Nan Wan had no time to think further as the cloud of mist suddenly reformed behind him, the old man’s shape reappearing, holding the broken blade in his hand and thrusting it straight towards Nan Wan’s chest.
“Senior, don’t!” Chong Zhao cried, his expression changing drastically as he leapt to block, but it was too late.
In the grass, Bai Shuo also gasped. Just as Nan Wan was about to meet a bloody end, an immortal sword shot through the air. Its energy was powerful and pure, not aimed at the drunken old man but directly hitting Nan Wan, sending him flying.
The white sword energy knocked Nan Wan away, and the old man’s broken sword missed its mark, leaving Nan Wan’s life intact.
Bai Shuo, hidden in the bushes, nervously watched the rapidly changing battle, a sudden thought flashing across her mind in this critical moment.
Why? This drunken old man seemed neither immortal nor demon, clearly not a good person, and even harbored intense hostility toward both immortal and demon races. So why would the venerable Immortal Jin Yao place the Wu Tong heartfire here in the Stranger’s Grave? For the drunken old man, killing them was as easy as crushing a few ants. Surely, the venerable Immortal Jin Yao wouldn’t have sent the young disciples of both races to their deaths, would he?
Beside the grave, the white immortal sword struck true, but, not lingering in combat, it swiftly returned to its owner. Everyone looked up to see a white-robed immortal lord slowly emerging from under a withered tree—it was Bei Chen of Kunlun.
How did he get here?
The drunken old man fixed his gaze on Bei Chen and let out a creepy laugh, “A Kunlun sword cultivator?”
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