No one expected that Xiahou Zhang, who had been heavily injured, would suddenly draw from his waist a slender black soft sword. The sword was just over a meter long and barely half an inch wide, and compared to normal weapons, it was no exaggeration to call it a thin needle.
As soon as the soft sword was drawn out, it instantly straightened. Xiahou Zhang propelled himself off the ground, his body directly piercing through the ice surface, his right arm sharply raised and thrust forward, and this was the origin of that streak of black cold edge.
It was already nighttime, and the term black cold edge sounded strange, but the cold edge Xiahou Zhang sliced out at this moment was indeed black—a black that was even more pure and absolute than the night's darkness.
"If I can't break through your whole body, can't I still break your weak spot? Die!"
This strike from Xiahou Zhang was clearly premeditated.
