The southward-migrating convoy...
Zhou Ti was still training with his head down. He was no longer young and harbored many secrets, so he had no choice but to avoid Madam Qi and ride alone.
Besides practicing the Zhou Family's all-offense fist art every day, he would study the prayer script after midnight, when no one was around, along with the memories imparted by his "master," ensuring neither pursuit was neglected.
He also knew that although the mysterious master's profound art was immensely powerful, it could not serve as his foundation.
After all, he was Zhou Daqian's son. He still had to distinguish himself upon the foundation of Zhou Family Fist.
It was deep into the night. His ten fingers tapped and traced through the air, sketching the paths of script characters. The essential meanings of two scripts echoed in his heart, and he could not help feeling pleased with himself.
His "master" still did not know that the script "Qi" originated from ancestral bloodline reversion. Though no one had guided him, his efforts had already raised it to a level on par with the script "Prayer."
A voice suddenly echoed by Zhou Ti's ear. "Listen, listen, listen..."
When he focused and tried to hear it, however, everything was empty and silent, without the slightest sound.
Thinking it had been an auditory hallucination, he continued studying the scripts, only for that faint, flickering voice to emerge again.
"Listen, listen, listen..."
Zhou Ti stopped, then continued. After repeating this more than ten times, he finally could no longer suppress the anger in his heart. "What the hell are you screeching for? I'm right here. If you have something to say, say it plainly!"
A maid shouted from outside the carriage, "Young Master, shall I bring you some hot soup?"
Zhou Ti snapped,