Beneath the throat, blood surged incessantly, only to halt against the pitch-black blade of the sword.
Qin Qingluo tried her utmost to draw a breath, yet that one gasp stubbornly eluded her.
Her limbs gradually weakened, and that larger-than-life frame seemed to sink ever so slowly.
Her vision, drenched in crimson, still bore witness to Chen Yi snapping the Purple Electric Gun with his own hands.
Amidst the thunder and lightning of battle, she had sought to vent her pent-up frustration, wielding her gun in the brash fashion of a solitary hero, rendering her movements uncoordinated and defensive gaps exploitable.
The way of the spear lies in measured advance and retreat, striking a balance, much like a nobleman who would never risk himself beneath a dangerous beam.
Blades and swords, on the other hand, know no measured retreat, only the unyielding charge, leaving no room to turn back—a hero's way.
And so, she lost.
A sword pierced through her throat.
