Time flew. Half a year later, at the Papal Palace's training grounds.
Dressed in a fitted black outfit, Bibi Dong looked striking and spirited. She shook her head, reached out a gloved hand, and took the arm of Yu Xiaogang, who had fallen to the ground before her, helping him up.
With a hint of helplessness, she said, "It seems you have no talent not only for fist techniques, but for sword techniques, footwork, or palm techniques either."
Yu Xiaogang stood up and brushed off his long black robe. His expression was rather ugly, but he forced a faint smile and said, "It seems these self-created soul skills and I simply aren't meant to be."
Over the past six months or so, Yu Xiaogang had repeatedly probed in roundabout ways, asking Bibi Dong how to practice these "self-created soul skills."
Feigning affection for Yu Xiaogang, Bibi Dong naturally presented herself as willing to teach him how to practice them.
But Bibi Dong, whose intelligence had not been dulled by love, had cunningly chosen to teach Yu Xiaogang the most advanced and obscure sword techniques, fist techniques, and so on.
It was like taking an elementary school student who could not even manage addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, then sending him straight into the heavens in a single leap by teaching him calculus. He might as well have been listening to a celestial scripture.
As a result, Yu Xiaogang had learned nothing over those six months. Instead, under Bibi Dong's exceedingly "kind" "guidance," he had come to realize even more deeply that he truly was useless and could only consider developing his theoretical knowledge.
Looking at Bibi Dong's gloved hand, Yu Xiaogang asked in confusion, "It's been a whole month. Has your hand still not healed from that accidental Rasengan injury?"