At the peak of Mount Kunlun, snow lies year-round.
Lin Xiuyuan stood at the entrance to the Sword Grave, gazing at the countless sword marks before him. Each one was deeply carved into the mountain, as if meant to cleave the entire peak in two. Left behind by generations of Kunlun disciples, the marks varied in depth, but each carried a fierce sword intent.
He ran a hand over one of the marks, and a sharp pain pricked his fingertip. This was the mark his master had left. Ten years ago, that single strike split an entire slab of rock in two. His master was already the greatest sword cultivator in the world back then.
“Xiuyuan.”
A cool voice came from behind him. Lin Xiuyuan turned and saw a young woman in white standing in the snow. Her features were as lovely as a painting, yet her expression was somewhat aloof, as if she were one with the snow swirling all around. This was his junior sister, Su Qingyu.
