Hearing the contempt for Fang Han in Ling Yue's tone, many people in the audience looked over, their interest piqued by the prospect of a good show.
Fang Han glanced at Ling Yue without a word, simply raising his right hand and slowly resting it on the hilt of his sword.
The white-haired Elder glanced at the two of them, his voice flat.
"Begin."
The instant his voice fell—
Fang Han moved.
He simply drew his sword and struck.
The moment the Cloud Splitting Sword left its sheath, a clear, crisp ring like a dragon's cry exploded through the venue.
The dark cyan blade shimmered with a restrained brilliance. Where its tip passed, the air silently split open. A thin, straight fissure hung in the air, refusing to dissipate, as distinct as a black slit in the morning light.
Below the stage, the few people who had just been whispering fell silent.
Everyone's gaze was involuntarily drawn to the flash of the sword, as if their eyes were seized by some invisible force.
