On the top of Qingluan Peak, where the sea of clouds surges, a man in white clothes stands on the edge of the cliff with his hands behind his back. The mountain wind was biting, making his broad-sleeved robes rustle, as if he was about to ride the wind back in the next second.
He was not wearing a sword, but there was a frightening and sharp sword intent surrounding him.
Under the cliff, dozens of inner disciples of the Qingyun Sect sat cross-legged, each with his head raised, looking at the white-clothed figure feverishly, not even daring to blink.
"It has been three hours. Master Murong has not moved at all. He must be comprehending the supreme swordsmanship again!"
"Yes, every time Uncle Master stands on the top of Qingluan Peak, it means that his swordsmanship will reach a higher level. We are truly lucky to be able to observe here!"
"Silence! Don't disturb your uncle's enlightenment. Carefully comprehend the sword intent emanating from your body. It will be of great benefit to your practice." An older disciple scolded in a low voice.
Everyone immediately held their breath and concentrated, feeling the sword intent that was sometimes ethereal and sometimes sharp with more concentration.
