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The eloquent Little Tao Immortal found himself at a loss for words to comfort his disciple.

He was somewhat flustered, while Rong Zheng took a deep breath, her lips curving upwards, her eyes squeezed into two lively crescent moons by her cheeks.

An unnatural smile.

She crouched down, one knee on the ground, unbothered by the dirt, and dug the Snow-Embroidered Sword out from the thick dust.

She stood the sword upright, carefully wiping away the remaining ash with her sleeve. The grooves on the hilt were hard to clean, so Rong Zheng blew on them and scraped with her nails.@@novelbin@@

She was familiar with every pattern on the sword, where there were scratches, where it was worn, where it dulled easily, where it was swift—these details flowed in her heart like blood, so when she parted with the sword, it hurt so much.

Back then, she naively thought that even if it left her side, the Snow-Embroidered Sword would find a good place, perhaps with one of the other eleven assassins.

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