Even Jiang Fushen himself could not understand, let alone anyone else.
In the span of one day and one night, he had exhausted every conceivable method, pouring enough life energy to ensure the reincarnation of a singular divine herb thirty million times over.
Yet this immense reservoir of life energy still failed to make the delicate peony before him bloom anew.
Some sorrows arise not from victory or defeat but from losing what once seemed commonplace.
On the Dao stage, the man sitting cross-legged raised his head and gazed at the sky about to break into dawn, murmuring softly, "Daylight is near."
"The flower is fading."
The Hundred Herbs Immortal King, his face marked by deep wrinkles, wore a sorrowful expression, his tone tinged with weariness.
"Is there no solution left, elder?"
The question lacked mockery; it was simple small talk, akin to asking an old friend if they had eaten.
"There is indeed one last method."
