Chen Wuya's hand still gripped Bai Zhi's wrist, his knuckles white as if he meant to crush that trace of warmth into his bones. A muffled groan rolled from his throat. Cold sweat seeped from his temples, and his brow twisted into a dead knot.
But in the next instant, his breathing suddenly sank. His chest caved in half an inch, then swelled sharply. A mouthful of turbid air surged from his dantian to his throat. He clenched his teeth and forced it down, letting out only a long, hoarse sound through his nostrils.
Bai Zhi did not move, nor did she let go. She watched the ashen cast on his face gradually fade, like snow melting beneath the spring sun. His fingertips no longer twitched. His palm began to grow hot, and his pulse changed from broken and intermittent to strong, thudding against the inside of her wrist again and again.
Mo Feng leaned against a stone pillar. He opened his eyes and watched for a moment before slowly closing them again. He knew something was happening—not merely the dispelling of poison, but something deeper reconnecting within Chen Wuya's body.
Chen Wuya finally released her hand.
Eyes closed, he braced his left hand on the ground, bent his right knee, and slowly pushed himself upright. His movements were slow, but steady. Every time his muscles tightened, a faint blue-green glow flowed beneath his skin, like dark currents stirring beneath a riverbed awakened from sleep.
Bai Zhi stepped back half a pace, her sword tip hanging to the ground. She did not go forward to support him again.
He knew she would do that. He also knew that he could not rely on anyone now.
The instant his palm pressed against the ground, he guided the Misaligned Force backward through