He still looked weak and tired at this time.

A sword cultivator like him, if he wants to truly survive the great catastrophe and become a holy-level monk, he can only rely on his own sword.

He disappeared for more than 130 years, just to cultivate a sword that can entrust all his spirit and surpass all the sword intent in the past.

However, after these years, he still failed. His sword intent and spirit have gradually weakened in the process of constantly refining the natal sword. It is obvious that there is no possibility of passing the tribulation and becoming a saint.

However, today's rain continued his hope of breaking off.

He has the possibility of a breakthrough.

But he didn't feel any joy, and at this moment his tired face was confused.

Just a trace of blood power is better than his hundreds of years of hard practice?

What kind of blood is this?

If, according to talent, a person with such bloodline is born to be the stars in the sky. Even a person like him can only be a clumsy stone looking up at the stars on the ground.
Chapter completed!