The winter snow had just begun to fall, and the stone steps on the back mountain of Xuantian Sect were already covered with a thin layer of frost. The cold air climbed up along the soles of the shoes, but Yun Zhi walked very steadily.
She wrapped herself tightly in a thin gray robe, her fingertips turned red from the cold, and she still carefully held the clay pot - inside was a cup of warm warm soup that had just been boiled. The aroma of the medicine mixed with the moist breath of spiritual energy, condensed into a wisp of white mist in the cold wind, lingering.
It's been three months.
The master closed this matter, not even a drop of water came in, and signs of spiritual energy exhaustion appeared in the birth chart.
No one in the sect dared to disturb her Qing Xiu. She was the only one who spent every night grinding medicine at midnight, lighting a fire at midnight, and stayed in the small kitchen to adjust the heat over and over again.
