The battles in the Western Continent have raged for four years, and Ping'an has sealed himself away to forge weapons.
The afternoon sun cast a light that illuminated dust motes in the air.
Li Ping'an sat behind his desk, enveloped in a mystical state; he had been seated there for three days, and neither Wen Ling nor the Xing He brothers dared to disturb him.
"Huff—"
Li Ping'an exhaled softly, and the breath spiraled into tufts of cotton-like white clouds, slowly rising to the ceiling.
Before long, the top half of the study was enveloped in mist.
Li Ping'an opened his eyes, a smile of relaxation and pleasure on his lips. He swept his hand forward, and the clouds instantly condensed into strands of Spiritual Energy that Li Ping'an absorbed with a breath.
'With my current understanding of the Dao of Clouds, without the suppression of the Heavenly Dao, I should be able to touch the edge of the True Immortal Realm.'
He estimated conservatively.
