After that brief disruption, Lian Youming hurried back to his lodgings.
Before he knew it, dawn was almost upon him.
The others in the Old Western House seemed not to have been disturbed by the earlier incident. Everything was as usual.
He could even hear Lian Shuang laughing inside as she played with Little Stone.
Returning to his room, he looked at the fragments of the ancient painting scattered across the floor, a trace of helplessness appearing on his face.
He had been too conceited.
In all likelihood, some perfected master of the Daoist Sect had left this painting for later generations to forge a wisdom sword.
It certainly qualified as a rare, authentic Daoist transmission.
And something even the Junk King had collected had now been destroyed by him without his even knowing quite how.
But Lian Youming did not dwell on it. Gains and losses, successes and failures-how could everything go as one wished?
His wisdom sword had now taken shape.
But it still needed honing.
The vast mortal world was an excellent whetstone.
If he could meet joy without losing himself, anger without lashing out, beauty without becoming bewitched, and troubles without being disturbed, the wisdom sword he had forged would naturally develop an unsurpassed edge.
As for the painting, why not simply paint another?
Instead of sitting down, Lian Youming went to the balcony and performed a set of Military Boxing.
Though the moves were simple, they brimmed with spirit and intent. The two forces that had been colliding within his chest were more harmonious than ever, as though they had become one seamless whole. With every inhalation and exhalation, tension and relaxation found their proper measure. His internal qi completed its own circuit, and Inner Strength flowed throughout his body without the slightest obstruction.
He