It was late at night.
Ye Ping sat alone in the middle of the rear cliff.
There was a piece of rice paper in front of him.
Ye Ping gazed at the starry sky, deep in thought about how he could "guide Qi into the body".
At this moment, Ye Ping also knew how lousy his aptitude was.
He didn't know how to conduct the simplest process of guiding spiritual energy into his body at all, how could he practice immortal cultivation?
Actually, it was not Ye Ping's fault. It was mostly because he had read too many immortal cultivation novels online, in which the protagonists would be able to easily guide Qi into their bodies even if they had poor aptitude.
The sky was as dark as ink.
Staring into the dark night, Ye Ping couldn't help but think of a poem.
"The sound of falling leaves is like rain, and the moon is as white as snow."
"I'm alone in my room late at night, who will clean my dusty bed?"
