Jiang Wuqi's life was brief.
From that winter night in the thirty-eighth year of Yuan Feng, to this morning in the fifty-fifth year.
Dragging his sick body, he lived for seventeen years.
Emperor Qi invited renowned physicians from all over the world, offering great rewards, and no one believed Jiang Wuqi could live past ten.
Yet this year, he was already seventeen.
The extra seven years, he fought alone against death, reclaiming them day by day,
The cold poison entered his life from the womb, the higher the cultivation, the fiercer the cold poison.
Cultivation was a path to death. Not cultivating was merely waiting for it.
Jiang Wuqi knew early on that fate did not offer him more choices.
Both paths ahead and behind were dead ends.
Every day, every moment of his life, he endured immense pain. Every bowl of medicine he drank was bitter beyond words, and every treatment he received was a form of punishment.
Yet he stubbornly lived on.
