Tens of thousands of ant-like characters circulated above, with occasional lines of golden text flashing briefly, like flying fish leaping out of the water only to be submerged back into the sea of characters.
In particular, at the spot where a "purple streak" lingered, in front of a certain part of the third floor, an ancient Confucian Classic had suddenly appeared, as if blown over by a gentle breeze, rapidly flipping through its pages, pouring out countless ink characters like a stream of sesame seeds, filling and solidifying the point of collision.
The straight 'purple streak' had now abruptly stopped in front of the spontaneously flipping Confucian Classic.
Zhao Rong's eyes narrowed.
What he saw... was a purple Flying Sword.
On closer inspection, an extremely fine, incredibly thin purple Flying Sword.
Or perhaps, it was more appropriate to call it a tiny needle.
