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[In the first year, I began to continue cultivating the Grim White Bone Observation, making slow progress.]
A moment earlier.
Beneath the trees.
The young man stood here, practicing the Tiger Roar Fist, the wind from his fists stirring dead branches and leaves, covering the ground.
He practiced his punches.
"Contract, give me some points!"
Zhang Fusheng understood that dodging bullets wasn't because his reflexes were extraordinary, but purely due to his powerful spirit, barely achieving 'the cicada senses the autumn wind before it moves.'
But it was too dangerous, each time narrowly perceiving, narrowly avoiding.
He needed a stronger spirit.
The sixty years of Contemplation from Zhong Mountain, pervading his soul like rain and mist, bit by bit, as if I had personally experienced it.
[In the second year, I continued to hone the Grim White Bone Observation, seeming to have some insights.]
[In the third year...]
