Time flew, and half a month slipped by in the blink of an eye. It was already mid-January.
The winter chill grew ever more biting, and the snow on Lingxi Peak had thickened. Cold winds howled through the mountains, but they could not dampen the disciples' zeal for cultivation.
Late at night, the foot of Lingxi Peak was especially quiet, save for the mournful whistle of cold wind through the pines and cypresses.
On a secluded patch of ground beside a frozen stream, a figure was moving ceaselessly.
Dressed in simple training clothes, Yang Jing sent his fists and feet flying. His Mountain Collapse Fist movements grew increasingly practiced and fluid, every punch carrying a fierce gust of force. The sound of his fists cleaving the air rang especially clearly in the silent night.
As his blows whipped up powerful winds, his transforming strength cultivation circulated without the slightest hindrance. Both his power and speed had improved considerably over the past half month.
After practicing for roughly another hour, Yang Jing finally drew back his fists and stood still. His chest rose and fell slightly, and his exhalations condensed into great clouds of white mist that quickly dispersed in the cold wind.
He was already drenched in sweat, the loose strands of hair across his forehead soaked and plastered against his cheeks.
The back of his training clothes was completely saturated, clinging to his tall, powerful body and outlining the smooth, firm contours of his muscles. Even his neck was covered in fine beads of sweat that kept trickling down along his jaw.
Yang Jing steadied his breathing and walked to the stream. The winter water had long since frozen into a thick sheet of ice, its surface dusted with snow and gleaming with a cold white light.
He raised