The blade of the Wind Cloud Sword was clear and bright, faintly tinged with blood-like red, barring the space between the two of them; its icy Sword Qi silently sliced through the congealed air.
The sword tip was less than an inch from the handsome bridge of the Prince of Annan Qin Qingluo's nose.
The astonishment on Qin Qingluo's face only lingered for an instant.
She did not retreat, did not even turn her head; only those deep, snake-like pupils slowly lifted, following the snow-bright blade inch by inch toward the wielder.
There was no fear in her gaze, only a sharp chill of having been offended. Her back was straight, her dark robe patterned with gold; under the light of the Warm Pavilion, it emanated an authority that brooked no profanation, like a perilous peak suddenly rising from the ground, its weight pressing down upon Min Ning.
Min Ning stood with sword in hand, red clothes like Fire, her figure as straight as a pine.
