The rotten smell penetrated into his nose, and Qin Mo opened his eyes suddenly.
His vision was blurred, and a low roar came from his ears. He instinctively touched his waist, touched the cold hilt of the sword, and felt relieved. The body's memory reacted faster than the brain, the wrist turned, the sword was unsheathed, and cold light flashed.
The blade split the air and struck something. The viscous liquid splashed onto his face, carrying a pungent stench.
Qin Mo blinked and his vision gradually became clearer.
He stood in the ruins. Cement fragments piled up into hills, and twisted steel bars poked out of the wall like dead branches. In the distance, a half-collapsed building was billowing with black smoke and its glass windows were all broken, staring at him like countless pairs of empty eyes.
In front of him, a corpse wearing a tattered suit fell to the ground, its head split in two. No, not a corpse.
The thing's fingers were still twitching.
Qin Mo lowered his head and looked at the sword in his hand. The bronze sword body was stained with black and red blood, and the hilt was wrapped with a faded red rope. This is his sword, the Tiangang Sword that has accompanied him in the war for ten years.
Wrong.
