There are three thousand stone steps in Qingyun Mountain, and the frost wind rolls down the red leaves all over the mountain.
Ling Qinghan stood on the cliff at the mountain gate. The Qingyun Qingfeng in his hand, which had been with him for more than ten years, broke off inch by inch, shattered into dozens of pieces of cold light, and fell into the sea of clouds.
Hundreds of sect disciples and elders stood behind him, and no one dared to step forward to stop him.
Master Xuanyang stood on the high platform and said with a voice as cold as ice: "Qinghan, when you realize your mistake, turn around and hand over the sword manual left by your master. I can forgive you for the crime of disrespect."
The young man was dressed in plain white clothes, not stained by the sect's luxurious brocade robe. He held a rusty iron dagger at his fingertips and raised his eyes lightly: "My master has been practicing swordsmanship all his life, only to be magnanimous and comfortable, and never use the sword to fight for power. You framed Zhongliang to seize the inheritance. I am not worthy to hold the sword of Qingyun Sect, and I do not want it."
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