Yang Jing reached back and closed the stone door, shutting out every sound from outside the Training Room.
He drew a deep breath, the crisp fragrance of exotic beast musk lingering in his nostrils. Calming his mind, he began practicing the movement-type mid-grade true art, Crossing the River.
He set his feet slightly apart, shoulder-width, and slowly circulated the internal qi in his dantian. Following the mental formula of Crossing the River, he channeled it through his limbs and bones.
A moment later, his figure flickered and swept forward like a wisp of smoke. His toes lightly tapped the smooth bluestone slabs, and he glided several feet close to the ground, as graceful as a swallow.
Suddenly, he soared upward like a startled swan crossing the sky, his fluttering robes stirring a gust of wind.
At times, his feet crossed as though he were treading over waves. His figure darted left and right, forward and back through the spacious Training Room, moving so swiftly that it nearly blurred into a phantom.
His footprints fell in intricate patterns across the bluestone slabs, only to vanish in an instant. His constantly weaving figure reached every corner of the Training Room, as though he had woven all the fluidity and swiftness of a river in spring into this movement technique.
Time ticked away, and the figure within the Training Room never stopped.
Three two-hour periods passed in a flash. Only when the sunlight outside the window slanted westward did Yang Jing slowly come to a halt and release a long breath of stale air.
He stood still, closing his eyes and focusing as he carefully sensed the changes within himself.
Those six hours of diligent practice had made Crossing the River flow more smoothly, improving the harmony between his internal qi and his