The longsword is in the scabbard.
Though it is within the scabbard, the sharpness within makes all the swordsmen present feel a spine-chilling cold, as if pricked by thorns. Several swordsmen who have recently made a name in Jianghu feel uncomfortable and shift slightly, or reach up to loosen their collars.
Perspiration dampens their temples, yet their eyes remain fixed on the swordsman standing in the center of the martial arts arena.
The swordsman is dressed in white, a girl in her early twenties, at the height of her prime. Her gaze carries a quiet coldness, her hand holding the sword is fair and slender, her attire completely white, even the hairpin is of white jade.
Apart from that simple hairpin, there is no other decoration on her entirely white person.
She stands there, with her sword and the chill, just like wind-blown snow from the Heavenly Mountain.
