The sky was gray that afternoon.
The wind carried the damp smell of the forest, mixed with the faint rotten odor of dead leaves piled on the ground.
Kyrian was sitting in front of a wooden house, motionless, watching the mist rise between the trees. He wasn't cultivating, he wasn't thinking about anything specific.
He was only breathing, waiting for something.
Five years ago, when Kyrian turned ten, he had broken through to the peak of the first realm with ease.
Wei Feng then gave him his cultivation technique. The same one he used. But from that time until now, Kyrian had been unable to cultivate.
His eyes, for some reason, had stopped absorbing Qi, as if they had reached their limit, as if an invisible barrier had closed inside them.
During this time, his routine was always the same, training and more training. Lessons from Wei Feng, reading books he had long since memorized. Accidental hunts, and much, much silence.
