In a bustling corner of the city, there nestled a tavern, perpetually brimming with patrons. Renowned for its sumptuous beverages and a cozy ambiance, it drew a diverse crowd. Into this lively scene, a woman entered, her stride quiet yet determined. Clad in unassuming attire, she might have passed as just another local, save for the distinctive face covering that obscured all but her sharp, piercing eyes.Known in the martial underworld as the White Rat, she was a notorious member of the feared Hell Rats gang. This day, however, marked a departure from her usual guise; she had foregone her iconic white Rat head mask. Settling into a discreet corner, the White Rat strategically positioned herself for an unobstructed view of the entire tavern, while remaining largely unnoticed. Her keen gaze methodically swept over the patrons, intent on gleaning crucial information.Internally, she battled a sense of foreboding. "Why this unease?" she pondered. Despite the effort taken to reach Jkade Va
The night was quiet yet unnerving. In the midst of the suffocating stillness, a man burst forth, running with desperate, labored breaths. His fear was palpable, driven by the urgent need to escape. It was clear he was running for his life, his every step fuelled by sheer terror. Shadows flickered ominously around him, each one sending his heart racing. The distant sound of footsteps only heightened his adrenaline. He was acutely aware of the demon cultivator on his heels – a formidable adversary, not to be underestimated. Tragically, he found himself the target of this cultivator, a cruel twist of fate for someone who was merely a mortal. "You won't get away, hahaha!" The hoarse, mocking call echoed through the night, signaling the pursuer's confidence. This cultivator, seemingly amused, appeared to be prolonging the chase, much like a tiger toying with a rabbit before the kill. Exhausted and desperate, the man clung to a flicker of hope. "I must reach the Moon Lotus Sect before h
The leaves whispered softly in the bright sunlight, creating a serene atmosphere in the lush forest. Amidst this tranquility, Lucas stood alone, his focus unwavering as he diligently honed his fighting skills. For over a month, he had been practicing relentlessly, striving to seamlessly integrate the moves he had mastered into fluid combat techniques. Among these were two notable skills, known as "Mist Technique: Primordial Fire" and "Mist Technique: Heavenly Thunder.""Focus, Lucas, focus," he murmured to himself, channeling his concentration. As he did, his hand released a unique mist, laden with lethal potential. The mist, subtle in its manifestation, was so potent that a nearby dry leaf spontaneously combusted upon contact. This was the essence of Lucas's training—a technique designed to kill without leaving any trace. He endeavored to refine his control, minimizing the mist's presence to ensure maximum stealth and efficiency.However, the forest's calm was abruptly disrupted. A f
Amidst the rumbling crowd, the Arena itself seemed like a living entity in eager anticipation of the show. The fading sunlight struggled to illuminate the two central figures without the aid of the surrounding torches: Lucas, whose face bore a calm but sharp-eyed expression, and Tukak, a disciple of the Moon Lotus Sect who had earlier challenged Lucas, his face etched with a sardonic smile."Lucas, I've heard the rumors about you. A barren man who can't even impregnate his own wife!" Tukak jeered scornfully, his eyes glinting with mockery."Too bad, Lucas. Your wife is beautiful, but you're incapable of being intimate with her," Tukak scoffed again."Words are like the wind, Tukak. They pass without leaving a trace," Lucas replied calmly, unfazed."Or perhaps you're projecting your own shortcomings?" Lucas countered sharply, insinuating that it was Tukak who was barren.Tukak, with a cruel laugh, suddenly leaped forward, his hand glowing with a deadly aura, indicative of a lethal tech
That night, the sky was an inky black canvas above Grok, a devout disciple of the Moon Lotus sect. He was on patrol, searching for clues to unravel the mystery behind the increasing number of rotting corpses found recently. Grok's heavy, measured steps echoed his serious and cautious demeanor. Suddenly, a suspicious movement behind a grove of trees caught his attention.Grok, ever alert and vigilant, especially since the perpetrator behind the corpse incidents remained at large, abruptly changed his direction, heading towards the movement."Stop!" Grok commanded, his voice firm, his expression wary.In response to Grok's earlier admonition, a figure emerged from the shadows. This man had a peculiar appearance; his face was dotted with deep black spots, resembling ink stains, as if he had been skillfully camouflaging himself."Mr. Cultivator, do you have any business with me?" the man asked, his voice timid yet attempting to sound polite.Grok's brows furrowed, his steps momentarily pa
In the hazy twilight, the Demon Cultivator stood atop a secluded hilltop, his face pale and eyes deep-set. A cold wind blew through his flowing robes, carrying the scent of the recent battle. His body was wracked with exhaustion, pain permeating every muscle. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath. To an untrained observer, he might have appeared victorious in his earlier battle with Lucas. However, the condition of his body told a different story. "Damn it, what kind of move was that?" he cursed again, feeling each of Lucas' strikes reverberate through his body, causing his rudimentary cultivation to falter. This was why the First Demon was fleeing, but he refused to show his weakness, pretending to let Lucas survive. "Ughh," the man groaned, vomiting black blood, a sign his foundation had become completely unstable after the fight with Lucas. "I need to strengthen my foundation," he muttered. "I need more corpses," he said, contemplating his next move. The key to his cultivation
Deep within the heart of the dense forest, amongst ancient trees and whispering grasses, resided the unique Wolf Riders Clan, known for their remarkable practice of using wolves as mounts. Boge, the Chief of this clan, sat pensively by a secluded pond, his figure casting a somber shadow on the still water. This reflection mirrored the deep pain that had haunted him for the past year, a result of a mysterious illness ravaging both his body and soul.Beside him lay his faithful wolf, Gara, her thick fur shimmering in the moonlight and her sharp eyes vigilantly observing her master. Boge, feeling a profound bond with Gara, the sole confidant of his struggles, gazed into her eyes. He whispered softly about his desire to have offspring, a wish burdened by the weight of his illness which threatened not just his well-being but the future of his clan.In response, Gara could only offer a lick, a simple gesture yet filled with concern, as if she understood the depth of her master's turmoil.Th
The forest, with its whispering leaves and sunlight filtering through the canopy, stood as a silent witness to the escalating tension between Lucas and Serina, and an arrogant man from a wolf-riding clan. The crisp air and the earthy scent of damp soil hung heavily around them as the man suddenly emerged, his gaze burning with undisguised hatred.Though Lucas had done nothing to provoke such animosity, his mere presence in their clan's territory seemed reason enough for this unwarranted ambush. Appearing nonchalant, Lucas assessed the situation with a lazy gaze. Serina could see the hostility in the eyes of their encircling kin, and she knew any attempt at dialogue would be futile.In her desperation, Serina attempted to intervene, "He's my friend, there's no reason to—"Her plea was abruptly silenced as the man, with no hesitation, launched a ferocious attack on Lucas.Despite Serina's affiliation with the clan, it was evident that the attackers were driven by a sinister desire for v