One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

Sato Ittosai slowly rose to his feet.

His movements were slow, even deliberate—first he braced his hands on his knees, then straightened his back segment by segment, and finally stood upright. The process was like an old tree raising its head from the snow, slow, steady, and carrying a composure that could only be honed over many years.

But as he stood up, an indescribable aura suddenly filled the entire hall!

The aura wasn't violent or scorching, but rather a sharp, cold, and murderous intent, like a drawn blade. It didn't seem to emanate from a person, but rather from a freshly sharpened knife, still trembling slightly. The air seemed to thicken and become heavy, each breath feeling like inhaling a blade into your lungs.

He gripped the hilt of the long, narrow katana at his waist with his left hand. With a gentle push of his thumb, a soft "click" sounded as the hilt moved about two-tenths of an inch from the scabbard. The small section of the blade exposed flashed a dark, ominous light in the stark white of the emergency light, like something slumbering opening its eyes.

His hawk-like, sharp gaze, like a tangible blade, slowly swept over Zhang Chulan. Zhang Chulan felt as if someone had slashed his face with a knife as he was met with that gaze, and instinctively shrank back.

Finally, that gaze settled on Nie Lingfeng.

"The second match."

He spoke.

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against a rough iron plate. Every word seemed to be dug out from the depths of his throat, carrying a resolute and unquestionable determination to cut off everything.

"I've come myself. Whom will you send?"

The pressure came crashing down like a mountain.

The pressure wasn't in terms of imposing presence—Nie Lingfeng still appeared as calm as a stagnant pool—but rather a psychological oppression. Wherever Sato Ittosai's gaze fell, you felt as if a knife were held to your throat, your hair standing on end, your scalp tingling.

Zhang Chulan, Wang Zhenqiu, and the others all felt a stinging sensation on their skin, as if countless invisible knives were moving through the air, cutting into their skin. It wasn't an illusion—Wang Zhenqiu looked down at his arm, and several hairs were indeed broken off, the cuts as clean as if they had been shaved with a razor.

Even Daoist Wang Ye's expression turned serious. He subconsciously began to calculate, his fingers moving rapidly within his sleeve, but he stopped halfway through—not because he couldn't calculate, but because the result made his heart sink. This old man's "momentum" had condensed to a terrifying degree; he was the blade, and the blade was the man, its sharpness fully revealed, capable of cutting through anything. Standing there, he was a blade drawn from its sheath.

"I'll do it."

A calm voice broke the silence.

Nie Lingfeng gently handed Xiaoyun back to Chen Duo. His movements were very light, as if afraid of disturbing a baby who was dreaming. Xiaoyun's little hands gripped his collar, unwilling to let go, so Nie Lingfeng held her for a moment longer, then gently pried open her little fingers one by one with his index finger.

He also gently rubbed the little girl's head, the warmth of his palm seeping through her hair to her scalp.

"Duoduo, take good care of Xiaoyun and stay away from her."

Chen Duo nodded. Holding Xiao Yun, she silently retreated behind a pillar at the edge of the hall, shielding Xiao Yun with her body. Xiao Yun seemed to sense the heavy atmosphere as well, and stopped speaking, only staring with wide eyes at Nie Lingfeng over Chen Duo's shoulder with worry. Her little mouth was pursed tightly, and her two little hands were clenched into fists.

Nie Lingfeng strode towards the limestone circle.

His steps were neither fast nor heavy; he walked along in a normal, unhurried manner, his shoes making a soft "rustling" sound as he stepped on the gravel, like he was taking a walk in the neighborhood after dinner.

But as he drew closer—

Sato Ittosai's powerful and unparalleled swordplay, as imposing as a mountain, seemed to encounter an invisible barrier.

The barrier was invisible and intangible, but Sato Ittosai could sense it. His sword intent seemed to have struck an invisible wall, silently separated, and bypassed Nie Lingfeng's body. The sensation of Zhang Chulan and the others' skin being cut also disappeared.

Sato Ittosai's pupils contracted slightly.

He could sense that the man holding the child didn't exude any powerful aura—he couldn't even detect any particularly sharp or fierce energy. He stood there like an ordinary stone, an ordinary tree, posing no threat, showing no killing intent, existing as nothing at all.

But it was precisely this feeling that made him uneasy.

His sword intent—the "momentum" he had painstakingly cultivated for sixty years, the culmination of his life's work—seemed to be swallowed up by something as he approached the man. Not blocked, but devoured, vanishing silently without a trace, without even a splash.

He felt like he wasn't facing a single person.

It is an unchanging iceberg.

It is also like a bottomless ocean.

No matter how his sword strikes, it remains unmoved and unfathomable.

"You are very good."

Sato Ittōsai slowly drew the katana from his waist.

The process of drawing the blade was slow, so slow that those behind him thought it was stuck. But no one urged him on, no one dared to. Because with each inch of the blade being revealed, the sharp, chilling killing intent was gradually rising.

The moment the blade is fully drawn from its sheath—

There was no blinding cold light.

Instead, it was a somber, dull, dark light, as if it could absorb all the surrounding light. The stark white light of the emergency light shone on the blade, but it seemed to be swallowed up, leaving only a thin layer of gray reflection.

The blade is long and narrow, with a beautiful curve, like a flattened crescent moon. A very fine, blood-like line runs along the edge, extending from the hilt to the tip, standing out starkly against the dull surface. That blood-like line faintly exudes a bloody scent—not the smell of rust, but the real, aged, dried and permeated scent of blood, as if the knife itself were a living thing, breathing its own life.

This is a demonic sword that has drunk countless lives.

"This sword is named 'Blood Cherry'."

Sato Ittosai ran his fingers over the blade, his fingertips sliding from the hilt down the back of the blade to the tip, a movement as gentle as caressing a lover's face.

"Two feet three inches and three-tenths inches long, weighing seven pounds and thirteen ounces. It has been with me for forty-seven years—"

His finger stopped at the tip of the knife, and with a slight pressure, the tip of the knife trembled slightly, emitting a clear hum, a sound like a sigh.

"Slayed 999 enemies."

He announced the name of the sword and his battle record.

His voice wasn't loud, but everyone could hear the weight in it. It wasn't boasting—his tone was as calm as reciting a menu. It was a ritual, a form of "respect" for his opponent, and also an expression of ultimate confidence in his own swordsmanship. He wanted his opponent to know that he wasn't facing an ordinary person, but a swordsman who had slain nine hundred and ninety-nine people.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine enemies were killed.

Today, I will use the person before me to complete the ritual!

He earned the title of "Slayer of a Thousand Men"!

Nie Lingfeng listened to the other person's words without showing any expression.

No, there's an expression—the kind of expression you have after someone has read out a long menu, and you don't know how to respond. It's like someone who's not very social, being pulled into a long, rambling account of their glorious past, and then, after a long pause, not knowing what to say.

At last.

He said it casually:

"oh."

One word.

Just one word.

Then, to Sato Ittosai's slightly surprised look, he reached out and gently clenched his fist in the air.

The movement was casual, like picking up a glass of water from the table, or catching a butterfly flitting through the air. But the instant he gripped it—

A long sword, entirely azure blue, crystal clear, and seemingly forged from millennia-old ice, appeared out of thin air in his hand!

The blade is about four feet long, more than half a foot longer than ordinary swords. Its design is simple and grand, without any superfluous decoration. The back of the blade is as straight as a foot, and the curvature of the blade is just right, as if it were carefully calculated according to the golden ratio.

A faint, icy blue aura swirled around the blade. This aura didn't emanate from the blade itself, but rather seemed to be drawn to it, slowly rotating and swirling around the body, forming a thin halo.

Inside the blade, it seemed as if snowflakes were dancing—upon closer inspection, it wasn't just "as if," there were real snowflakes. Countless tiny, hexagonal ice crystals drifted slowly down inside the blade, as if a miniature winter was hidden within it.

The surrounding temperature dropped a few degrees.

The hilt was deep blue, wrapped with unknown white animal sinew, each coil even and neat, as if machine-woven. In Nie Lingfeng's hand, it perfectly matched his profound and unyielding temperament, as if the knife was born to be in his grasp.

It is indeed—the Snow Drinking Blade!

"Holy crap! That's awesome!"

Zhang Chulan's eyes widened, and his mouth opened into an "O" shape, unable to close it for a long time.

"This sword is for drinking snow."

Nie Lingfeng held the knife in one hand. In his right hand, the blade faced downwards, the tip pointing diagonally at the ground. His stance was casual, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and his center of gravity low, like the starting position anyone who had studied knife skills for a few days would adopt.

But it's precisely this "casualness" that makes people feel uneasy.

His tone remained flat, so flat it was as if he were reading a product manual.

"The sword is four feet long, its weight is unknown. What has it slashed—"

He paused for a moment, as if trying to recall.

"I forgot."

"puff--!"

Zhang Chulan almost burst out laughing, and quickly covered his mouth.

Brother Nie's answer was brilliant!