Around noon, Yang Jing grew tired from his training and walked to the courtyard wall to catch his breath. His gaze swept across the front courtyard, where he saw many new faces practicing their forms, and he couldn't help but feel a little wistful.
Over the past six months, many familiar faces had left. Most were disciples who had trained for a long time without any sign of progress. Feeling it was hopeless to break through to Mingjin, they packed their bags and departed.
The path of the Martial Dao was like that; very few could persevere to the end.
Sometimes, giving up in time to cut one's losses was the wiser choice. But for a martial artist, such an act of surrender was undoubtedly a devastating blow to their spirit.
Yang Jing clearly had poor aptitude, yet he trained with such fanaticism. In the eyes of many, his diligence was either admirable or just plain foolish.