The sword finally moved.
It did not make a earth-shattering roar, only in the master's palm, drew a quietest and straightest line, pointing toward that indifferent, ancient-overlooking sky dome.
The tip of the sword had no thunder, only a very fine, faint ink mark, like a drop of tears about to dry, blown by the wind toward the clouds. The sky dome trembled slightly, not shattering, but revealing an extremely subtle crease, as if an ancient stone carving had been gently brushed by the passage of time, removing a trace of dust.
Light seeped out from the crease. It was not the light of the sun,
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