The night was thick as ink, and the cold wind swept through the dead branches with a sound like mournful sobbing.
Fang Yuan sat cross-legged on the icy kang bed and placed the last shriveled Snow Ginseng rootlet, still containing a trace of essence, into his mouth. He slowly chewed and swallowed it.
A familiar warm current—more intense than ever before—suddenly exploded from his abdomen and surged through his limbs and bones!
His qi and blood roared, and his sense of strength swelled beyond anything he had ever felt, as though every muscle fiber were giving off a faint hum.
He gently clenched his fist, his knuckles crackling softly as he felt the surging power within him, ready to burst forth.
This Snow Ginseng, obtained by chance, had finally been fully absorbed.
He glanced toward the inner room. Liu Wanwan and Little Bean Sprout were already fast asleep, their breathing even.
He did not wake them. He did not even leave through the door.
Light as a civet cat, he flipped out through the window. He landed without a sound, like a feather drifting to the ground.
Only the Purple Sable curled up in Little Bean Sprout's arms pricked up its ears alertly, its dark, gleaming eyes turning toward the window.
Its nose twitched slightly, as if it had caught a familiar scent. Then it relaxed again and curled itself into an even tighter ball.
At the eastern end of the village, a faint oil lamp still glowed in San Zhuang's relatively tidy mud-brick house.
San Zhuang was pacing restlessly around the room, his face so gloomy it seemed capable of dripping water. The more he thought about it, the angrier and more unwilling he became!
"Why?! Why was Fang Yuan fine?!" he growled in a low voice like a