Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye, half a month had passed. It was now mid-January.
The winter chill grew more piercing, and the snow on Lingxi Peak had thickened. A cold wind howled through the mountains, yet it could not dampen the disciples' fervor for their cultivation.
In the dead of night, the base of Lingxi Peak was exceptionally tranquil. The only sound was the mournful cry of the wind sweeping through the pines and cypresses.
In a remote clearing beside the frozen creek, a lone figure moved, endlessly rising and falling.
Yang Jing was dressed in simple training attire. As his fists and feet flew, his Mountain-Shattering Fist techniques grew more practiced and fluid. Each punch he threw carried a sharp gust of wind, and the sound of it tearing through the air was exceptionally clear in the silent night.
