After converting and recruiting all the Elite Soldier Types, Qin Feng’s gaze locked onto the final step of his plan—participating in the Sword Saint Challenge Tournant.
He now had a wealth of talent under his command, each one a top-tier powerhouse. By all rights, he didn’t need another overpowered Sword Saint hero.
But as the saying goes, it was a waste not to take what was offered.
There was still ti before the Eight Realms Alliance Army’s official invasion. He might as well use this opportunity to take on the Sword Saint Challenge Tournant, see if he could recruit another powerhouse hero, and maybe snag a new skill in the process.
A man of action, Qin Feng didn’t hesitate. He imdiately opened his Arms Dealer Talent panel and registered for the Sword Saint Challenge Tournant on the spot.
After a brief, dizzying spell of vertigo, everything around Qin Feng was instantly warped.
The lingering scent of incense and the smooth feel of the silken rug vanished, replaced by a rough, cold texture.
When he ca to his senses,
he was standing in the center of an oval arena paved with dark gray basalt.
The arena was encircled by stone walls ten feet high, their surfaces covered in the mottled scars of countless sword strikes. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting a web of intersecting shadows on the ground. The wind howled through the empty stands, kicking up fine gravel with a low moan.
Ten paces directly across from him stood an imposing, solitary figure.
He was taller than the distant guardrails, his posture as straight as a pine yet possessing a battle-hardened flexibility. It wasn’t the tense fra of a youth, but rather that of tempered steel polished by the ages; every inch of his muscles held a power that could be unleashed or restrained at will.
The wind whipped sand against his body, yet it seed to be repelled by an invisible aura, managing only to stir a few salt-and-pepper strands of hair at his temples.
His most striking feature was the Seventh-Degree Insight Goggles he wore.
A dark gray tal fra rested on his brow, its seven small lenses arranged like a honeycomb. It obscured the upper half of his face, leaving only his right eye visible.
That eye was light brown, like frosted glass—calm, without a single ripple, yet it seed capable of piercing the dust-filled wind to see a blade of grass tremble a hundred feet away.
His hidden left face was lost in shadow, and none could say whether it concealed a scar or an even more ancient secret. All that remained visible was a firm jaw and lips pressed into a thin, emotionless line.
His robe was a simple, linen-colored garnt. It was faded from countless washings, its edges frayed, yet it was immaculately clean and gave off a soft sheen in the sunlight.
The robe’s front was open, revealing the form-fitting black garb beneath. The cuffs of his sleeves were bound with coarse hemp rope, tied in a neat knot at his forearms.
A wide, dark brown leather belt was cinched at his waist. It was unadorned, save for a short dagger and a few small cloth pouches containing herbs and rations tucked into it.
Most striking of all was the Infinite Blade slung across his back.
The archaic wooden hilt was wrapped in dark gray cloth strips, which were themselves covered in countless tiny cuts—the marks left by a perennial grip.
The scabbard was deep black, made of so unknown material. Its surface was carved with faded runes of the Path of the Infinite. Only when the sun struck it at an angle could one glimpse the golden powder that remained within the crevices of the symbols.
A small copper bell hung from the tip of the scabbard. It remained soundless in the wind, as if ti itself had stolen its voice, leaving only silence.
Grains of sand occasionally worked their way into his matching linen trousers, which were rolled up to his knees. This exposed his sturdy calves, across which ran three pale, old scars, as if from the claws of so great beast.
And yet, the man simply stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, like a stone statue from so ancient battlefield.
It was only when the wind lifted the hem of his robe, revealing a bronze token at his waist engraved with the na "Yi," that one was reminded he was no Stone. He was the man who had carved the word "Wuji" into his very being.
Yi.
The last Infinite Sword Saint.
A brief silence, like hardening ice, spread between the two.
The man opposite him, a near-perfect replica of the Infinite Sword Saint, Master Yi, slowly raised the long blade in his hand.
The blade remained sheathed, yet a cold glint seed to seep from the scabbard, making his exposed eye appear all the more indifferent.
His lips parted. His voice was low and hoarse, like sand grinding against ancient stone, as his words drifted one by one toward Qin Feng:
"The Path of the Infinite continues within ..."
As the words faded, a cold, chanical prompt suddenly blared in Qin Feng’s mind, filled with unquestionable authority.
[Warning! The first stage of the Sword Saint Challenge Tournant is about to begin! Challenger Qin Feng, you must defeat the First Sword Saint before you within the ti limit!]
"Highland Bloodline!"
"Infinite Swordsmanship!"
"Alpha Strike!"
Three deep shouts erupted like thunder. Three distinct skill auras instantly blood around the First Sword Saint. A pale golden energy enveloped his limbs, and silvery-white Sword Qi flowed along his blade before he dissolved into a blurry, cyan afterimage.
The instant he activated Alpha Strike, the Sword Saint’s form began to flicker at an untargetable speed. A rain of brilliant flashes from his blade shot toward Qin Feng.
In that hair’s breadth of a mont,
Qin Feng’s body, honed by countless life-or-death battles, acted before his mind could.
He tapped his toes on the ground and twisted his waist sharply. His entire body seed to float backward like a leaf caught in a gale, executing the Extre Evasion he had practiced so diligently.
In an instant, the blade’s edge scraped across Qin Feng’s pauldron, drawing blood.
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