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The next day, it was already the fourth day since the Chen Residence had been attacked.
The autumn sun pierced through the window lattice and slanted across the low table by the window, illuminating every speck of dust in the air, like tiny things drifting through a river of light.
Chen Xiaojun's lashes trembled, and he slowly opened his eyes.
His vision gradually cleared from its blur. The room was empty and silent.
He tried to prop himself up, but every bone and muscle in his body felt as if countless blunt needles had been repeatedly pressed and twisted into them. Numb soreness and stabbing pain mixed with a deeper weakness that seemed to rise from the marrow of his bones.
His head hurt on and off, throbbing in pulses, forcing him to stop and wedge the soft pillow behind his back so he could recline against it.
Warm sunlight fell on the back of his hand. It was nearly noon.
He closed his eyes, sinking his consciousness into his body.
His meridians ached faintly, carrying a withered sensation like cracked earth after a long drought. His muscles were even worse; every breath tugged at the lingering pain like a tear.
His perception continued deeper, touching the Upper Soul Nest—that deep, vicious crack had almost cut across three-fifths of the formation wall.
The nearly half a year of careful nurturing and repair had all been undone by the near soul-burning overdraw that night.
A faint sigh escaped the corner of his mouth, tinged with bitterness and helplessness.
After a moment of silence, he raised his hand and tugged the thin cord hanging at the head of the bed.
The clear ring of a copper