"Then when will my little brother wake up?"
The young woman bit her lower lip with pearly teeth, looking pitifully vulnerable.
"At the earliest, in an hour or two; at the latest, in three to five hours. He'll wake eventually. The injury was probably caused by accidentally stirring up the literary energy still lingering in his body." Seeing the young woman's confusion, He Shu explained, "The literary energy is the light you saw coming from the bandits' hands."
Crystal-clear tears circled in her eyes, but refused to fall.
The young woman gazed affectionately at her idiot little brother, who remained fast asleep.
She sobbed, "As long as he wakes up, that's all that matters. Boohoohoo..."
Seeing how sad she was, He Shu didn't want to disturb her, so he asked the old man what had happened earlier and whether there had been anything unusual. Otherwise, how could the literary energy that had built up in his meridians have been stirred, causing such a severe backlash? For an ordinary person, an injury like this would be enough to take his life.
On the surface, the old man looked utterly miserable and dazed. He Shu had to call him "old sir" twice before he responded. In truth, he was gritting his teeth and cursing Qi Shan, that damned bastard. He wasn't like that scoundrel, who could put on an act at the drop of a hat. What if he let something slip by accident?
All he could do was cower and stammer.
He Shu asked about the sky; he answered about the earth.
He was making a point of talking nonsense.
Even He Shu's patience was tested, and he was left speechless. He had no choice but to place his hopes in the young woman, who was still sobbing. After a long