Nighttime, West Mountain Green Valley Sanatorium.
In a twenty-square-meter single dormitory, the ceiling light cast a slightly yellow glow.
Fang Cheng stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders relaxed, elbows dropped, standing alone in the space between the bed and the desk.
His eyelids slightly lowered, he regulated his breathing, and focused his mind into the Dantian.
After a moment, his hands slowly rose.
The right palm pushed forward evenly, the palm base exerting force, the five fingers slightly spread.
Pushing to the end of the arm's reach, he flipped his wrist, palm facing down, and followed through with a press.
The left palm followed closely, slashing diagonally from the waist, the edge of the palm cutting through the air, bringing a faint swooshing sound.
No dazzling techniques, just basic moves like push, lift, slash, and press.
Fang Cheng's breathing was deep and steady, his posture expanding along with the palm's movements.
