Within Nine-Headed Peak, Zhang Yan sat cross-legged atop the stone platform, a sphere of thick yellow mist rising behind him, hovering high above his head, slowly shifting and changing shape.
The mist was dense and heavy, like leaden clouds pressing down, boulders teetering on the brink, or mountains about to crumble, with a foreboding sense of imminent descent.
After circulating the light mist a few times, Zhang Yan seized a spell, slowly gathering it and drawing it back into his body, only then did he withdraw the spiritual mechanism and look up.
In what seemed like a flash, two years had passed. Due to various concerns, he had not ignited acupoints or refined apertures, focusing all his efforts on cultivating the Supreme Mysterious True Light.
