The next day when Wang Anfeng woke up, he felt pain in his muscles and bones everywhere, as if he were one of those shirtless laborers chiseling mountains, singing in unison while striking massive iron hammers on the chisels.
The chisels pried into his muscles and bone marrow, making his entire body ache and uncomfortable.
Time was tight, and he had no choice but to train a bit too harshly last night to learn the essentials of the palm technique, receiving quite a beating, which even Wu Changqing's medicinal decoction couldn't immediately remedy.
Wang Anfeng lay for a while, trying to prop himself up, but winced and inhaled sharply, giving up resistance and simply laying back on the bed with a thud, staring absentmindedly at the wooden patterns on the guest room ceiling.
The watchman outside had already shouted the last call.
It was the hours.
Wang Anfeng thought without much focus.
