The Ancient Martial Arts Assassin Became a Pitiful Little Thing

My back was freezing.

It felt as if I were pressed against a river frozen in the dead of winter, the chill creeping up my spine and into my skull.

A strange smell hung around my nose, like cheap face powder mixed with some kind of chemical preservative, with the cloying sweetness of rotting lilies thrown in.

Liu Jinghong did not open her eyes.

Her breathing had to stay below four breaths per minute. It was an instinct honed by three days and nights lying in wait in the snow.

Her hearing reached out like a set of feelers.

Three steps to the front left, someone breathing heavily and raggedly: an old man, with the stale smell of tobacco about him.

Seven steps toward the door, someone breathing steadily and evenly, their heartbeat slightly quickened. They were on high alert.

The nearest one was to her right. A woman.