Several hours later, dozens of black pills lay quietly on the refining table, arranged in neat rows. A faint medicinal residue still lingered in the air. Grey swept his hand across the table, and in an instant, the pills vanished into his storage bag.
Several days had passed since he began refining, but to Grey, no, to any cultivator, the concept of time was bland and nearly meaningless. Cultivators lived far longer than ordinary people; wasting several days on preparation was nothing worth mentioning.
To Grey, however, this small refinement could very well mean the difference between life and death.
One could never be too prepared, and one must never allow themselves to be caught unprepared.
