At this moment, Zhao Rong stopped speaking, with most of his attention focused on the strange sword before him.
Suddenly, he stepped forward, walking to the middle of the street, taking advantage of the setting sun that was still not completely swallowed by the silhouette of the distant black mountains.
Under the golden afterglow, Zhao Rong twisted his wrist, placed the Three-foot Green Blade horizontally, level with his eyebrows, and stared intently.
The clear blade, tempered gold by the setting sun, reflected a rippling sword light that illuminated his sharp, sword-like features.
But at this time, his sword-like eyebrows gradually furrowed.
The more Zhao Rong looked, the more puzzled his heart became.
Had his constant suspicion been wrong all along?
Could it be that their side branch of the Great Chu Zhao Clan was really unrelated to the main branch of the Zhao Clan that perished seventeen years ago in the western Fu Yao Continent?
