I am a swordsman prodigy that is rare in the sect for thousands of years. I was born with a ninth-grade jade marrow sword bone, but I am hated by others.
The son of the great elder cut open my back with his own hands and took away the sword bone. He taunted me coldly: "The bones of trash are not worthy of your face."
For three whole years, I felt worse than death, until I was bound to a hundredfold return system: Those who hurt me would suffer a hundredfold backlash.
In the sect competition arena, the sword of my former enemy pierced my chest.
The next second, his whole body was black and twitching, and the referee exclaimed: "It's strange, all the meridians in his body are broken but there are no wounds!"
I stepped on the charred ground and whispered: "That day you took my sword bone, today I get the interest back."
When he turned around, his robe moved slightly, and his back faintly exuded a more terrifying sword intent.
In the dead silence of the entire audience, the great elder suddenly knocked over the tea cup and screamed: "Tenth-grade demon bone?!"
