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When Zhao Changhe met up with Xue Canghai, the scene was steeped in the aura of the jianghu.
Snow was falling heavily, blanketing the city walls as the setting sun cast its crimson light, bathing the battlements in hues of blood. Xue Canghai sat cross-legged atop the wall, rhythmically sharpening his saber.
The saber, as red as blood, reflected the dying light of the sun, its color a perfect match.
The northern wind howled, carrying the steady rhythm of the saber being honed. Its sound echoed across half the city, resonating among the thousands of troops stationed there.
Zhao Changhe stood silently behind him, watching without interrupting. Xue Canghai paid no mind to the arrival of the so-called saint of the Blood God Cult, continuing to hone his saber as if no one were there.
Zhao Changhe found himself oddly captivated by the scene. If it had been someone else, it might have been perfect. But with it being Xue Canghai, there was always the potential for some comments to ruin the atmosphere…
Still, it seemed like Old Xue had redeemed himself. In Puyang, he was now a respected figure among the soldiers and civilians, and across...
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