The disciples heard the sound and walked in from outside, only to see the Third Elder lying on the ground. They went over with composed faces, helped him up, and carefully placed him back on the bed.
From the moment he was back in bed, the Third Elder couldn't stop writhing in agony. It was hard to keep count of how many times he had fallen to the floor.
The disciples had gone from initial panic to a practiced calmness in their assistance, a skill they had now honed well.
At this moment, the Third Elder didn't even have the strength to speak, feeling as if millions of ants were nibbling all over his body, causing an itchiness, numbness, and discomfort he could hardly bear.
He had spit out countless mouthfuls of poisonous blood. When the disciples tried to feed him, not even a single grain could be swallowed, let alone medicine. Whatever he drank, he vomited.
And the disciples in his courtyard had little inclination to care for the Elder anymore.