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Yang Fei took three steps back, gasping for breath, his left shoulder blade already broken.
He switched the sword to his right hand, a fierce intent across his face.
"Quit the nonsense and come at me if you dare."
The elegant and scholarly youngster let out a long howl, and his soft sword whistled as he launched another critical hit.
A rain of swords enveloped Yang Fei from the sky.
Yang Fei held his sword in his right hand, moving with an extremely slow sword momentum.
It was as if his sword tip was lifting a heavy weight, pointing east and then sweeping west.
His movements were disordered, the sword edge humming as it moved.
Strangely, the scholarly youngster's sword momentum could no longer advance an inch and was actually blocked by Yang Fei on the outside.
Three Swords watched, utterly captivated.
He, too, was a skilled swordsman, yet he could not see through the mysteries of Yang Fei's sword technique.