The Sword That Crushed Mountains
Shera stood upright on the ground and did not move in the violent wind. He coldly looked at the incoming saber and gently raised his right hand.
"Sword, come!"
The flying sword on the ground instantly returned to his hand.
The sword let out a clear cry.
A sharp metallic hum echoed through the battlefield and spread into the sky like ripples crossing still water. The sound was not loud, yet everyone felt it enter their ears and shake their hearts.
Countless eyes widened.
The wind became colder.
Even the surrounding Mana seemed to grow restless.
Shera stood there with one hand behind his back and the other holding the sword casually at his side. His black robes fluttered violently under the pressure from Ronan's attack, but his body did not move an inch.
Not one inch.
Across from him, Ronan's face looked extremely ugly.
Blood still trickled from the corner of his lips after being sent flying moments ago.
Humiliation.
Pure humiliation.
