I, Night Owl, the sharpest claws of the falcon in Southwest China, my last memory is the deafening explosion in the tropical rain forest. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the biting cold wind, the thick blood, and the damn barbed arrowhead in his chest.
Twenty degrees below zero, in the wilderness, the sound of the pursuing horses' hooves sounded like the drum of death.
Very good. Soul penetration? Prince Helianbobo of the Huns? The "Tiefu" tyrant in the history books who killed many people? He is still the unlucky version who is being hunted by his uncle and betrayed by his family.
I licked my chapped lips and tasted rust. My lungs are burning, my body is too weak.
But my brain is still that of the special forces king who is proficient in twenty-seven killing techniques and familiar with ancient and modern battle cases.
