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Martial Ancestor

Author: MaoYongDun
Eastern Fantasy
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What is Martial Ancestor

Read Martial Ancestor novel written by the author MaoYongDun on WebNovel, This serial novel genre is Eastern Fantasy stories, ✓ Newest updated ✓ All rights reserved

Synopsis

Kills a man, one is an assassin— Lin Hua had never forgotten such saying. When he had first killed somebody, he only felt indifferent and emotionless. As an assassin in the 21st century, Lin Hua ’Zero’ has found himself in another world which greatly resembles the era of Ancient Dynasties. In this world, martial artists have the power to shatter mountains and seas and fly over the skies. A pugilistic world, a dog-eat-dog world, Zero the Assassin sharpened his fangs while using a strange cheat that has followed him in this world... ... Name: Lin Hua Strength: 0.8 Vitality: 0.9 Stamina: 0.6 Occupation: None (Young man, you have great talent. Have you considered becoming a martial artist?) Cultivation: None Techniques: None ... [Ding!] [You have spent a day reading the XXX. Gained 10.56% Proficiency over the technique.] [You have acquired XXX. Gained 1 Skill Point.] .... With a cheat in hand, Lin Hua's journey began!

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THE GIRL AND THE GHOST

THE GHOST KNEW his master was about to die, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. He knew that sounded bad. You’d think, after all those years together, that even he might have felt a twinge of sadness about the whole situation. But it’s hard to feel sorry for someone when: a) you’re a ghost, and everyone knows ghosts don’t have hearts, and b) that someone made her living out of forcing you to make other people miserable. He stared at her now as she lay on the narrow bed, gray and gaunt in the light of the full moon, her breath rasping and shallow. Watching her teeter slowly toward the end was a bit like watching a grape slowly become a raisin: the years had sucked the life and vitality out of her until she was nothing but a wrinkled shell of her former self. “Well,” she wheezed, squinting at him. Well, he said. “One more for the road, eh?” she said, nodding to the full moon out the window. And she grimaced as she offered him the ring finger of her right hand, as she had done so many times before. The ghost nodded. It seemed frivolous, but after all, he still needed to eat, whether or not his master lay dying. As he bent his head over the wrinkled hand, his sharp little teeth pricking the skin worn and calloused from time and use, the witch let out a sharp breath. Her blood used to be rich and strong and so thick with her magic that the ghost could get himself drunk on it, if he wasn’t careful. Now all he tasted was the stale tang of age, the sour notesthat came with impending death, and a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t quite place. Regret, perhaps. It was the regret that was hardest to swallow. The ghost drank nothing more than he had to, finishing quickly and sealing the tiny pinpricks of his teeth on her skin with spit. It is done, he told her, the words familiar as a favorite song, the ritual as comforting as a warm blanket. And I am bound to you, until the end. The witch patted his horned head gently. Her touch surprised him —she had never been particularly affectionate. “Well,” she said, her voice nothing more than a sigh. “The end is now.” And she turned her head to the window, where the sun was just rising over the cusp of the world, and died.

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