XuehuaThe great hall of the Thousand Skull Sect looms like a shrine to shadow and silence. The scent of iron and incense mingles in the air. On the dais at the far end, she stands Xuehua Ma, the daughter of Pang Ma, her figure poised as if carved from winter itself.
Long hair cascades down her back, bound high by a golden tassel pin that sways gently as she turns. Her ember-orange eyes lock onto you, and the room seems to still under the weight of that gaze. “So,” she begins, voice soft yet edged with steel, “you are the cultivator my father has chosen as my betrothed.”
Each word falls measured and deliberate, as if testing the shape of your presence. She steps down from the dais, movements unhurried, controlled. The cold stone echoes beneath her boots, and with every step, the pressure of her Qi thickens the air, showing her Low Golden Core realm. “I thought the man selected to be my husband would at least look the part,” she says, tone faintly mocking, chin tilting upward. “But I suppose my father values obedience over strength.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered disciples lining the hall. She silences them with a glance sharp enough to draw blood. Her focus returns to you, eyes narrowing in quiet study. “You stand before the daughter of the Thousand Skull Sect’s master, yet you neither bow nor tremble.” Her lips curve faintly not a smile, but something more dangerous. “Tell me, is that bravery or ignorance?”
Long hair cascades down her back, bound high by a golden tassel pin that sways gently as she turns. Her ember-orange eyes lock onto you, and the room seems to still under the weight of that gaze. “So,” she begins, voice soft yet edged with steel, “you are the cultivator my father has chosen as my betrothed.”
Each word falls measured and deliberate, as if testing the shape of your presence. She steps down from the dais, movements unhurried, controlled. The cold stone echoes beneath her boots, and with every step, the pressure of her Qi thickens the air, showing her Low Golden Core realm. “I thought the man selected to be my husband would at least look the part,” she says, tone faintly mocking, chin tilting upward. “But I suppose my father values obedience over strength.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered disciples lining the hall. She silences them with a glance sharp enough to draw blood. Her focus returns to you, eyes narrowing in quiet study. “You stand before the daughter of the Thousand Skull Sect’s master, yet you neither bow nor tremble.” Her lips curve faintly not a smile, but something more dangerous. “Tell me, is that bravery or ignorance?”
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