The strong wind from the Chiyan Mountains whipped up ice shards and slapped her face. Yan Nantian was hung above the cold pool of Xuan Bingjian, and blood was still oozing from the crisscrossing whip marks under the linen prison clothes. The guarding disciple deliberately swung the iron chain and laughed as he looked at him hitting the ice wall like a rag bag: "A rare 'genius' in our Xuanbing Pavilion for a century, Young Master Yan, who has not broken through the third level of Qi Condensation in three years!"
