Lu Ying's sword light followed closely, like chaotic moonlight.
"Fuck!"
Yan Zheming cursed under his breath, unsheathing the curved blade at his waist to meet his opponent. His guards had already arrived, torches in hand, encircling the riverbank tightly.
A sword flash slit across Yan Zheming's left arm.
Yan Zheming glanced at the mangled wound, unable to suppress the surging blood and qi. His well-built, bronzed chest heaved with tension, the gold and sapphire serpent head of his weapon reflecting a dangerously sharp gleam.
He scowled at Lu Ying, his voice low and menacing: "I hadn't planned to take your life—just to drag you off the Crown Prince's throne—that would have sufficed. But you're insisting on courting death!"
Lu Ying stood calmly atop a jagged rock.
