Li Qingmu staggered out of the celebration pavilion like a newborn foal trying to stand on ice.
His left foot caught the first wooden plank wrong.
He lurched sideways and his shoulder slammed into the railing with a dull thunk.
A low, gravelly groan-cough rattled out of his chest.
"Keh… what in the nine hells was in that wine Huo Batian kept pouring?"
He pushed off the rail, took three heroic steps—then his knee buckled like cheap bamboo.
Palm slapped wood again.
Another miserable left his mouth.
"Dammit… legs, cooperate…"
He dragged himself another few paces, using the railing like an old man's walking staff. The bridge seemed to sway under him even though it was carved from ten-thousand-year spirit cedar and hadn't moved in centuries. Every few steps he had to stop, blink hard against the spinning lanterns in his vision, and breathe through his mouth like he'd just run up nine peaks without a movement technique.
Halfway across, he nearly ate grass.
