Zhao Rong maintained the unadorned Fist Stance, silently still for a moment.
The next second,
the corners of his mouth hooked up, and he abruptly withdrew his fists.
In the darkness.
The young man smiled silently.
At this moment, Zhao Rong only felt an all-over comfort and agility in his limbs.
He extinguished the incense, opening the window.
A gentle breeze blew in.
Refreshed and clear-headed.
Zhao Rong suddenly looked down at his body, his nostrils moving slightly.
There was none of the filth and congealed blood on his body as described in the storybooks after completing a Washing Marrow.
It was just the strong smell of sweat that had soaked through his white undershirt.
Indeed, all of that was just deceitful.
Zhao Rong shook his head.
He went to fetch water, cleaning the sweat and grime from his body, and changed into a clean set of clothes.
Afterwards, he couldn't help but go to the center of the room and practice a few more Fist Stances.