I was the rare swordsmanship prodigy the sect had not seen in a thousand years, born with a ninth-grade jade marrow sword bone, yet envied by others.
The Grand Elder's son personally cut open my back and stole my sword bone, sneering, “A good-looking face like yours deserves better bones than a useless wretch's.”
For three whole years, I wished I were dead. Then I bound myself to a hundredfold-reflection System: anyone who hurt me would suffer a hundred times the backlash.
On the sect tournament stage, my old enemy thrust his sword straight at my chest.
The next moment, his whole body was charred and convulsing. The referee cried out, “Strange! Every meridian is shattered, yet there isn't a wound in sight!”
Stepping over the charred remains, I murmured, “You took my sword bone that day. Today, I'm collecting the interest.”
As I turned, my robes stirred, and an even more terrifying sword intent radiated faintly from my back.
In the deathly silence, the Grand Elder suddenly knocked over his teacup and screamed, “A tenth-grade demonic bone?!”
