That spear thrust from the black-clad Devil Race member in the Ancient Demon Den, and the days spent recuperating at Moon-Washing Nunnery, had forcibly reined in his galloping horse.
Jiang Wang, who had never dared pause for a moment or linger for a breath, had no choice but to stop and loosen the taut string within him.
A bow needed time to rest its string; a sword needed time to hone its edge.
People were not tools; all the more, they needed moments of slack and ease. But just as Yuzhen had said, Jiang Wang was far too unwilling to let himself off.
He cut through brambles and thorns, never retreating, yet while breaking his enemies, he inevitably wounded himself as well.
When he was strong, he could cover everything up. When he was in the depths, the scars all over him could not help but show.
And were those days of lying stiffly beneath a solitary quilt not also a kind of relaxation?
It was as though he had slept for a very long time. Now that he had awakened, all things revived.
Walking freely across this boundless grassland, Jiang Wang leaned on a staff in his left hand and held a scroll in his right. Every so often, he would glance at it, then recite an entire page—the book had been bought from a roadside bookstore before he came to the grasslands.
Chongxuan Sheng had asked him to conceal his tracks and properly play the role of a missing prodigy, so as to benefit the Great Qi-Jing Kingdom negotiations. Having survived a great calamity, he had not intended to do anything major anyway. During the long journey that detoured toward Hanging Temple, he could pick up his old notion of "reading ten thousand volumes" again.
Tending his wounds