Ghost Shovel's pupils suddenly dilated. His body trembled, his divine soul shuddered, and his hair stood on end. Every limb and bone in his body was screaming: Run!
Regardless of whether Ghost Shovel liked the experience, he had once been a member of the border army of the Protectorate. He had long fought against elite Turkic Scouts, bandits from Jing Country, Demon Cultivators, and demons. From the still bushes, a volley of cold arrows would suddenly shoot out. A tripwire would unexpectedly rise on a normally tranquil forest path. A huge rock might mysteriously fall from the sky onto a deserted valley trail. Lying in his army camp bed, he would abruptly hear the urgent sound of enemy hooves and the clang of steel. Gradually, Ghost Shovel seemed to have developed an intuition—the intuition of knowing how he would die.
