The sun stood directly overhead.
Its intense rays blazed with a piercing brightness, as if the fires of hell had ignited all the accumulated madness and fervor of countless lifetimes. And in this one day, this one hour, this one moment, it all erupted without restraint.
His vision turned into a blinding expanse of white. A dazzling brilliance.
The muscles on his face tensed suddenly, then relaxed just as abruptly.
Yet, he could no longer see for himself.
At last, he collapsed.
── He had fallen at the moment closest to triumph!
Even as his body crumpled to the ground, he seemed to glimpse the Iron-Blood Guards behind Zhong Xiong slowly advancing. Their drawn swords were poised at every vital point of his body.
The icy cold of blades against his skin—this sharp pain felt as though it belonged to another world. Yet even these elite guards seemed to realize how unnecessary their actions were. At this point, even a child could extend a finger and take his life with ease.
But as they looked at him, their eyes reflected not just fear but also respect.
── Among all who could command the respect of the Iron-Blood Guards of Junshan, besides Zhong Xiong standing among them and the Prince of Xiangyang ruling from his palace, there seemed to be no others in this world.
Zhong Xiong gazed at the fallen Zhan Lu and murmured, “The ‘Twin Flight of Blood, Crane Soaring to Heaven’ truly is an unparalleled martial art.” He was still immersed in the lingering echoes of that soul-shaking move.
What kind of technique was this, after all?
The Twin Flight of Blood, Crane Soaring to Heaven—was its beauty born from the image of a crane soaring into the heavens, pursuing the fiery sun, reborn in its splendor?
── This was a move that surpassed humanity, transcended the mortal realm. Did it drain every ounce of spiritual energy and legend from heaven and earth, every fragment of beauty and soul from time immemorial?
Yet every kind of beauty and soul comes at a cost.
── Could the price of this Crane Soaring to Heaven be life itself?
── Had he spent his own life to execute this move?
Zhan Zhao’s face turned ashen in an instant, pale and lifeless as though he were already a corpse.
His cracked, bloodless lips oozed fresh blood, yet this blood was no longer bright red. Amidst the dark crimson hue, faint streaks of deep, deathly black gleamed—silent, foreboding, like the harbinger of death itself.
His blood seemed to have run dry.
Could the end of blood flow be the end of life itself? The conclusion of every ounce of strength, every breath, every heartbeat?
His eyes remained open, but the brightness that once shone like stars piercing the dark night was gone.
Had the extinguishing of that light marked the end of his spirit? Of every love he held dear, every sense of duty, and every act of unwavering resolve?
He heard the sound of his sword hitting the ground.
─ Why did it sound so deafening?
A sound so overwhelming, yet unbearably light, like distant thunder that once roared or the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
The sword slipped silently, unfeelingly, from his hand, much like his life, which drained away quietly and inexorably.
Suddenly, he realized the sun overhead seemed to have gone out.
At that moment, time, with its eternal and frigid face, struck the evening drum and passed over the West Bridge crossing.
In another world, a mournful song rose, accompanied by unyielding, relentless footsteps.
As Zhan Zhao collapsed, a gentle wind stirred, carrying a soft sigh through the air. This faint whisper seemed like a crushing hammer of sorrow, striking the lonely, unyielding hearts of mortals and shattering their fleeting dreams.
At the moment when that sorrowful wind howled, a thousand miles away at Song Jiang Prefecture, on the banks of the Fei Hua Isle, within the Mo Hua Manor, Ding Yue Hua—lounging lazily against the floral trellis—felt an inexplicable sense of unease. Distracted, her embroidery needle pricked her finger. A single drop of pale red blood stained the white silk stretched across her embroidery frame.
─ The white silk had borne the image of his handsome face and gentle eyes. That drop of blood fell directly onto those embroidered eyes, transforming them into teardrops of blood, as though his distant sorrow had reached her.
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