Qin Ye

Minutes dragged on like hours, each second stretching into eternity as Xiao Ming finally halted his relentless extraction of toxins, severing the flow of dao qi with a sharp, decisive motion.

His hands, once glowing with an ethereal light that pulsed in rhythm with his spiritual energy, now dimmed, the radiance fading like the last embers of a dying fire.

He slumped slightly, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and let out a deep, shuddering breath.

He needed to rest—even if it was only for a fleeting moment—to recover some of the spiritual energy he had poured into the disciple's body.

The process had been far more taxing than he had anticipated, draining him to the point where his own energy reserves felt like a dried-up riverbed.

Sweat dripped from his furrowed brows, tracing lines down his face as he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, each one a conscious effort to steady himself.