"This is..." Huo Yue stared at the knife resting in her palm.
Her fingers brushed against the cold, unadulterated metal, and though it looked like a common utensil a chef might use to chop vegetables in a mortal kitchen, her instincts as a peak Golden Core cultivator screamed in absolute terror.
The closer she looked, the more she realized that the edge of the blade didn't reflect the morning light; rather, it seemed to slice the ambient illumination itself into microscopic fractures.
There were no intricate runes, no heavy arrays, and no flashy inscriptions carved upon its surface—just a raw, dense density that made the space within the kiosk warp ever so slightly around the metal.
"A knife made from the compressed sword intent of a Supreme," said Haoran, his voice remaining as steady and detached as a frozen mountain lake.
