I thought my life would be nothing but chasing debts, getting into fights, and drinking iced lemon tea.
Then one day, while collecting a corpse, I pulled the copper coin sword from a zombie’s chest. The hilt was carved with “Mao,” and the blade with “Ma.”
The Southern Mao and Northern Ma sects, locked in a five-hundred-year blood feud, both set their sights on him.
And as if that weren’t strange enough, half a talisman stuck itself to his cleaver. The blade lit up.
Others used peachwood swords, talismans, or Maoshan arts to exorcise evil.
Zheng Qi used a cleaver.
Talismans? He slapped them straight onto the blade.
Formation? He’d check after chopping his way through.
Ghosts? First, he’d ask: “Have you paid your protection fees?”
From owing money at a Hong Kong-style cafe to sealing a five-hundred-year-old remnant at the docks;
from being hunted by two sects to becoming the man whose say-so decided Hong Kong’s southern defense line.
Zheng Qi: “I’m no Daoist.”
The cleaver: “But I can glow.”
Iced lemon tea, less sweet.
Talismans on the cleaver.
From now on, every ghost in Hong Kong has to get past him first.
Pure AI, everyone can leave now.