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“That monk is in Qinglong Temple. We’ll make our move tonight. The others will coordinate.” A voice suddenly rang out in the night, startling Li Yanchu.
Inside the room were two people: an elderly Daoist holding a whisk, and a middle-aged swordsman, dressed like a jianghu wanderer.
The swordsman's longsword was slender and a full chi longer than typical sabers.
Li Yanchu recalled that Fang Qinglan, a disciple of a prominent sect, had once mentioned that people who used such long swords often had cruel and ruthless swordsmanship, favoring unpredictable, extreme styles.
As for the old Daoist, he certainly looked like an immortal sage, but there was a cold sharpness in his eyes, suggesting he was not a kind or upright figure.
Li Yanchu, still in his soul-projected state, moved in closer, hoping to hear more. But suddenly, the old Daoist's gaze shot straight toward his hiding place.
“Which fellow Daoist dares eavesdrop...
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