"Chen Chengshan, have you ever regretted the decisions you've made? Honestly, I've regretted plenty of mine."
"Have I ever regretted them?"
Leaning on the long spear wrapped in black cloth in his hand, Chen Chengshan thought it over carefully. Then he showed his pearly white teeth and smiled brightly, yet somehow that smile spoke of unbearable sorrow.
Watching his expression and the way he stood perfectly straight, like the pine tree in the old courtyard, with the same stubbornness he'd had for over a decade, Bai Changqing couldn't help but sigh. That's right. A man like him would never admit it, even if he did regret it.
Atop Jiulong Mountain, a man in green carried a worn white waxwood spear with faded cherry-red tassels. Its spearhead was jet-black. With a casual flick of his wrist, cold sparks danced like a soaring dragon, and in an instant, winds stirred and clouds rose.
The middle-aged man in white raised two battered nine-ring sabers. As he channeled his strength through both hands, blade light surged for thousands of yards, like a fierce tiger charging down the mountain, shaking the wilderness.
Today, there was no Chen Chengshan and no Bai Changqing, no prince who had failed in his rebellion, no foreign-born prince of the Great Long Dynasty. There were only two wandering knights who had devoted themselves to the study of martial arts.
Just as they had been fourteen years ago.
Nothing had ever changed.
And it was time for the storyteller's book, The Tale of Chen, the Righteous Knight, to reach its final chapter.
