Fellow Daoist! That scoundrel has written a new book again.

Chapter 529 Tens of thousands of times

Shen Anzhi stood by the river.

The downpour lasted only a moment; before the river could become turbulent, dark clouds pressed down, and the water, like ink, surged and pushed across the bridge, which had been built over a decade ago.

This place is some distance from Changxiao Town.

There are houses a short walk away on the other side of the bridge, but no one comes here on rainy days.

Zhu Wuyao flew over and landed not far behind Shen Anzhi. He slowly raised his sword, the tip pointing at the person standing by the water, and heard his voice in his ear:

You're lacking in everything.

"The final move of the Sky-Gazing Technique was barely passable, the final level of the Falling Leaf Sword Technique was not yet perfected, his cultivation had not progressed in ten years, and he had not found the life-granting item for the divination cultivator..."

"Why would you fight me for her?"

The fog spread in the rain, like rising water vapor drifting away, while the raindrops remained still in mid-air, like transparent crystals.

Shen Anzhi's mental cultivation methods, techniques, and weapons are like a thick fog that blots out the sky, a divine eye that hangs high, and a tattered spirit banner.

Zhu Wuyao gripped the hilt of her sword tightly. The rain soaked the corners of her clothes, but the blindfold fluttered backward in the wind as she charged forward.

The raindrops, suspended in mid-air, became increasingly overwhelmed by the two pressures.

As the sword shadows darted through, they shattered and scattered.

"Over the course of ten years, she moved two hundred and three stones that were blocking my way."

In the instant they were close, the bladeless sword suddenly transformed into a thousand sword shadows, shooting towards Shen Anzhi from all directions and tearing through the frozen rain curtain.

Zhu Wuyao's bladeless sword slashed straight at Shen Anzhi, instantly gathering a chilling and desolate sword intent as it cleaved down.

Shen Anzhi gently closed his eyes, then opened his high-hanging divine gaze.

Everything within the fog resembled a videotape that could be freely cut and spliced ​​along a timeline, with cause and effect completely chaotic, as if it had lost its own definition and fallen into a vast expanse of gray.

Then, in Zhu Wuyao's consciousness, Shen Anzhi suddenly disappeared.

A light touch of fingertips on my shoulder.

She instinctively turned and stepped back, slashing out with her sword.

Just as Zhu Wuyao stepped back and stood at the center of the sword energy where Shen Anzhi had just been, the thousand sword shadows that had disappeared reappeared in the rain.

Her breath hitched slightly, and she turned her sword back, withdrawing the thousand sword energies in the rain.

The voice of the spirit pen rang in my consciousness at that moment:

"Slash towards the center of the sword energy!"

Without hesitation, Zhu Wuyao gathered his sword energy and slashed down. The next instant, Shen Anzhi appeared there as expected. His figure flickered twice in the instant the sword fell before disappearing completely.

"One of the times it disappeared was when it circled behind you and touched your shoulder; this scene has already appeared!"

The speed of communication through divine sense is extremely fast. Zhu Wuyao understood the meaning of the message the moment the spiritual pen delivered it.

One person, one pen, once atop the mountain, deduced countless times how Shen Anzhi's Divine Eye Technique could piece together cause and effect, and how it should be used in combat.

The next moment, the bladeless sword slashed through the air.

Shen Anzhi's figure appeared in the air. He suddenly looked up and gazed into the distance, towards the outskirts of Changxiao Town.

Something seemed to have caught his attention.

"Perhaps this is the second disappearance, slash forward!"

As Shen Anzhi's figure reappeared before him, Zhu Wuyao raised his sword, the Wufeng Sword, which was wielding the sword that had been used to cut through the air, and Shen Anzhi suddenly smiled.

Zhu Wuyao is falling backward.

She realized that cause and effect had been pieced together again.

He braced himself against the ground with his blunt sword, stopping his retreat, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Shen Anzhi's figure disappeared and reappeared to the right of where she had just stood, raising her hand to unleash a powerful burst of spiritual energy.

Then, he reappeared in the same spot, his smile faded, and he disappeared again.

The still rain began to fall and pound, large droplets smashing into puddles on the muddy ground, splashing mud everywhere. The incessant patter of rain was irritating, but Shen Anzhi's voice pierced through the buzzing in his consciousness and reached his ears:

"The ending is already predetermined. Every time you resist and struggle, you are only heading towards defeat."

Zhu Wuyao wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and, together with Shen Anzhi who suddenly appeared in mid-air, looked up at the outskirts of Changxiao Town.

Something unusual was happening there that caught his attention.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Amidst the lightning and thunder, he wielded a sharp sword, his body smeared with mud, resembling a vengeful ghost seeking revenge.

The appearance of the bright candle startled these people for a moment, then they burst into laughter, their eyes filled with contempt, and said disdainfully:

"You think you can take my life? Hahahaha!"

"I haven't had enough fun yet, and now someone's come to my doorstep, trying to kill me? You're just a mortal, trying to kill me? Hahahaha!"

He threw Cui Heng, whom he was carrying, back into the mud and walked forward with a sinister grin.

Mingzhu stared intently at the burly man who stepped forward. Anger, resentment, and hatred compelled her to stand there, knowing that everything she did would come at a price.

She will definitely die.

Ning Ming died.

“Go…” Cui Heng struggled to lift her head from the mud, her voice hoarse and desperate, as if she wanted to raise her hand to grab the perpetrator’s trouser leg and stop him from moving forward.

But her hand had already been broken.

Mingzhu gripped the sword even tighter.

"Oh ho, you know this stinking writer? No wonder you, a mere ant, dare to offend us immortals. You're asking for death...!"

As he spoke, the burly man gathered Qi Refining stage spiritual power in his palm, his face full of ferocity, and raised his arm to slap Mingzhu on the head.

Mingzhu saw the veins bulging on his arms, his muscles twitching, and the big man's contemptuous smile.

The surrounding monks were laughing, waiting for her to be splattered with blood.

Mingzhu heard Cui Heng's sobbing.

In the noisy rain, this is an abandoned, mundane corner where no miracles will occur; what is happening here are the same old stories.

Sinister laughter came from all directions.

The sound of weeping came from all directions.

In obscurity, countless stories like this unfold and repeat themselves.

Mingzhu raised his sword, as if he had done this action thousands of times before, raising the sword in his hand with such skill, the trajectory of the blade clearly displayed before him.

For countless days and nights, in the small courtyard where poems were suspended, the paper rustled in the wind, like the sound of falling leaves.

She picked up the brush and placed it on the paper.

She raised her sword and slashed at the enemy before her.

When the wind blew, the inkstone fell to the ground, and ink splattered onto her dress.

As the rain fell, her head rolled to the ground, and blood splattered on her face.

It was washed clean by the rain.

The sound finally stopped.

This is—the Falling Leaf Sword Technique, hidden within Zhu Wuyao's calligraphy.

He could no longer laugh, the crying stopped, and Mingzhu heard her own heartbeat. She breathed, and a power flowed through her limbs. Mingzhu slowly raised her head to look up.

I know perfectly well what to do next.

"How did she reach the third level of Qi Refining?!"

"Just like Old Tao, he was at the third level of Qi Refining. Impossible, impossible! She...she stole Old Tao's cultivation?! This is an evil technique!"

“BOOM!”

A thunderclap exploded, as if it were divine punishment.