Thinking of this, Zhao Ping pointed a finger, and sixteen strands of sword silk instantly pierced the ground beneath his feet, and he himself swiftly dove into the earth, disappearing from sight.
Following his disappearance, the cut-open hole was refilled by the stirring of the sword silk, turning into a mound of soil.
Over the past few days, Zhao Ping had been using the sharpness of the sword silk to escape through the ground, dodging his pursuers.
But as Zhao Ping was retreating underground, his gaze suddenly sharpened, and he reached for his palm with some confusion.
In the center of his palm, the word "time" was clearly etched.
"Time?"
"Could these marks be from the sword silk?"
"Did I carve it myself?"
"But why would I etch the word 'time' onto my palm?"
A strong wave of questions surged within Zhao Ping's heart, and he faintly felt that he had overlooked something, something very important.
...
On the other side, inside a trash site.
