The town of Qingyang was bustling with activity as Ling Feng and Ruyan made their way through the crowded streets. They had come seeking information about the Black Eagle Syndicate’s next move, but the atmosphere was tense. Rumors of a powerful swordsman hunting Black Eagle members had spread like wildfire.

As they entered a small tavern, a man in a green robe stood up from a corner table. His eyes locked onto Ling Feng, and he drew his sword—a sleek, elegant blade named Qingfrost. “You,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re the one with the Frostmoon Blade.”

Ling Feng’s hand went to his weapon. “Who are you?”

“Xiao Han,” the man replied. “And I’ve been tracking you. Hand over the blade, or face me.”

The tavern fell silent as the two swordsmen faced off. Xiao Han struck first, his blade a blur of motion. Ling Feng parried, the clash of steel ringing through the room. Their duel was a breathtaking display of skill, each move calculated and precise. But as the fight wore on, it became clear that neither could gain the upper hand.

Finally, Xiao Han stepped back, lowering his sword. “You’re not with them,” he said, his tone softening. “I misjudged you.”

Ling Feng nodded, sheathing the Frostmoon Blade. “We’re after the same enemy. Let’s work together.”