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"Evil Suppressing Sword!?"
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Zhao Chongyin's pupils contracted sharply, and his mind couldn't help but conjure up the image of the man clad in black with his face covered.
In an instant, the image of the black-clad man in his mind merged with that of the white-garbed youth standing before him.
A look of shock and uncertainty also emerged on Zhao Mengtai's face, "An Jing is the Ghost Swordsman?!"
Zuo Linglong also remembered the black-clad man they had met in the Buddhist institution that day, her willow-like eyebrows raising slightly.
"Is it him!?"
For Princess Zhao Xuening, it felt like a bolt from the blue, as if she were dreaming.
The Ghost Swordsman had once saved her in the dilapidated temple on Xuanwang Mountain. Although his intentions weren't genuine, he had indeed saved her life.
In her heart, she had always imagined the Ghost Swordsman as a quirky old man in his sixties or seventies.