Fifth Year of Xihe, early eleventh month.
Late autumn's chill had deepened. The maples on Lingxi Peak had shed their last leaves, while the pines and cypresses grew ever greener. A bone-piercing coolness lingered in the air.
The training room area halfway up the peak was silent. Only the occasional rush of fist wind and sound of measured breathing broke the mountain's stillness.
Inside Yang Jing's private Grade-A Training Room, the heavy stone door stood tightly shut, sealing out all outside noise. Only an unbroken succession of airbursts echoed within.
Yang Jing was wholly immersed in practicing the Mountain-Splitting Seal.
He wore a close-fitting black martial outfit, his posture straight as a pine. His feet were planted firmly on the bluestone floor, his knees slightly bent, his horse stance solid and rooted, as though he had become one with the earth.
Within his dantian, powerful internal qi surged like a rushing river, racing through his meridians and pouring endlessly into his arms and fists.
Every inch of muscle, every tendon and bone was fully engaged, unleashing an astonishing sense of power.
His eyes were half closed, his mind drawn entirely inward, all his attention focused on his fist intent.
With a low exhalation, Yang Jing suddenly raised his right arm, the inside of his fist facing inward. His tendons and bones resounded together with a dull, thunderous rumble. Then he smashed his fist forward with the force to crumble mountains and sunder peaks!
Boom-!
An incomparably fierce blast of fist wind howled outward, tearing through the pure origin energy in the training room and stirring up rings of airwaves visible to the naked eye.
A faint golden light flowed over his knuckles. His internal qi was condensed to its utmost, every strike carrying tremendous force. Wherever his blows landed, even