It seemed as though more life was being drained from Xiao Ming with each passing second. His consciousness was fading, slipping away like sand through an hourglass.
He was no longer attacking the hundredth meridian seal of his own volition; his will had taken over, acting independently, coordinating the assault as if it were a separate entity.
His body was a mere vessel now, a shell driven by sheer determination and the remnants of his indomitable spirit.
Xiao Ming was nearly unconscious, teetering on the edge of life and death. The only signs of life left in him were the faint, irregular thumps of his heartbeat and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
His aura, once vibrant and commanding, had diminished to a flicker, barely perceptible. The air around him was heavy, oppressive, as though the world itself mourned his impending demise.
