Chen Yi answered his question with his blade; beneath the cold moon, the light of the blade swept out like a streak of silk, impossibly sharp.
The knife and sword clashed heavily, forcing both figures to instinctively retreat. Tang Ze, whose sword momentum had weakened because of his giant shield, felt a tremor in his wrist, and blood seeped from the webbing of his hand.
Chen Yi had just retreated three steps when Zhao Yan seized the moment to act. His body lowered, moving like a hungry wyrm in the water, its tail unseen while its head hunted. When he reached three steps in front of Chen Yi, he finally struck fearsomely, stabbing upward from below.
The blade he wielded was tainted with poison—not to kill in one blow, but only to leave behind a wound.
