webnovel

My Wife Is A Sword Immortal

Upon opening his eyes, there before him was a bridal chamber adorned with red candles and windows. A bride dressed in a phoenix coronet and robes of rank sat upright on the nuptial bed, her face covered by a red bridal veil. Zhao Rong rubbed his sleepy eyes, "Have I become a groom? Oh, and a junior one at that." Understood. His facial expression brewed for a moment before he twisted his mouth into a smile, "Wait a second..." Huh, something's amiss. The bride is my childhood sweetheart who also harbored a crush on me? Oh, then that's alright. This is very fitting. Zhao Rong stepped forward, happily lifting the red bridal veil, "Hey hey, my lady, where are you running off to?" ------------- In the great era of contention, the tide of the times surged forth, and Confucian Scholar Zhao Rong bravely faced it head-on. Not only did he seek to catch up to the footsteps of his childhood sweetheart turned Sword Immortal Lady, but he also wished to witness firsthand the dispute that engulfed more than half of the Cultivation World, the strife among the various schools of thought... ————— [Slow-burn], [Non-cliché], [Non-level-up], [Romance plot], [Sweet without the angst] This book is also known as "I Have a Fox Fairy Wife", "Rebirth: I Deliver Parcels in the Otherworld", "Zhao Ziyu, The Smirking Scholar" "I Really Don't Want to Be a Kept Man"...

Yang Xiaorong · Ost
Zu wenig Bewertungen
245 Chs

Chapter 63: Female Sword Emperor

That night.

In the Lanxi Lin family estate, the lights were bright everywhere, but a quiet courtyard in the northeast corner was enveloped in darkness, with no lights at all.

The courtyard was elegant, with the gatehouse tightly closed, but looking inside through the open window, one person sat alone at the desk, propping his head with one hand and casually twirling a pen with the other. Utilizing the faint moonlight, he tilted his head to examine an ancient furnace on the desk.

The furnace was nine inches tall and thirteen inches wide.

Its appearance was simple and primitive, with no decoration, shaped like a tripod with two handles and three legs, and it was purplish-black in color.

Zhao Rong was waiting for the moon to rise higher, brewing a richer hue of blue and white moonlight.

His gaze rested on the upper part of a tripod leg, one inch from it.

At that moment, it appeared pitch black, but Zhao Rong knew there was a handprint there.