The process was far more difficult than he had anticipated.
The Yuan Qi in the air was as elusive as sly fish, hard to catch. His thoughts were like a dulled tool covered in dust, difficult to precisely guide the weak circulation of blood and Qi, always finding it hard to channel Qi into the body.
Time passed little by little.
Sweat soaked through Chu Zheng's tattered clothes, mixed with dirt and grime, sticky and uncomfortable. The wound on the back of his head, under the sustained concentration of thought, seemed to begin to faintly ache again.
In the blink of an eye, nearly an hour had passed.
For Chu Zheng, who once could circulate thousands of circuits of Qi in just a finger snap, this hour felt as long as a century.
He could only grope like a blind man in the dark, slowly eliminating the interferences inside and outside his body, repeatedly adjusting his breathing.
