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Madara Calls Guy The Strongest

THE STRONGEST WARRIOR

The Strongest Warrior A novel of pain, purpose, and the power that awakens when a people remember who they are. In a forgotten corner of the land, nestled beneath the shadow of mountains and veiled by dense forest, lies a village once filled with songs, celebration, and sacred tradition. This village, now called Bakoto, has become a memory of itself—its fields bare, its elders weary, and its people fractured by years of raids, injustice, and an unshakable silence that hovers like a curse. There was a time when Bakoto was feared for its warriors, respected for its wisdom, and revered for its spirit. But time, misfortune, and the schemes of rival territories have reduced its strength to whispers and prayers. No one dares to stand. No one dares to dream. Until one does. Born in the midst of this suffering, a child watches the world crumble around them—not with passive despair, but with a burning awareness that something greater lies beyond the pain. Marked by vision and an unwavering sense of purpose, this child learns in secret what the elders no longer teach: the old songs, the sacred rhythms, the lost forms of combat and communion. Every wound, every loss becomes a lesson. Every injustice, a call to action. Leaving behind the safety of obscurity, this soul journeys far from home—learning, growing, and facing tests meant for warriors twice their age. Across enemy lines, through foreign cultures, and amid sacred mountains, they gather not just strength of body, but clarity of mind and depth of heart. The world is vast and often cruel, but the wisdom they gain becomes a map—a spiritual compass pointing back to where the true battle waits. When they return, the village barely recognizes them. Strong. Focused. Unshaken. But what matters most is not what they’ve become, but what they’ve come to do. This is not just a return. It’s a reckoning. One by one, the villagers are stirred from their slumber. The warrior does not demand worship, nor bow before the weight of history—they listen, they serve, they lead. Fields begin to flourish again, drums echo in the night, and eyes that once stared into the dust now gleam with fire. But change awakens enemies, and Bakoto's revival draws attention from those who once benefitted from its silence. A storm begins to gather. The warriors of old had passed, but now, a new storm-bearer rises—a leader who does not rule by fear but moves with the soul of the land. As armies approach and betrayal threatens from within, the people must choose: to fall once more into fear or rise beside the one who reminded them of their strength. What follows is not merely a war for land. It is a war for identity, for memory, and for the sacred bond between people and purpose. Lives will be lost, secrets unearthed, and destinies rewritten. And in the heart of it all, the warrior will face their truest test—not against enemies, but against doubt, grief, and the weight of being more than human in the eyes of the people. The Strongest Warrior is not a tale of a hero saving a village. It is the story of a village remembering its own heartbeat. It is about what happens when one person dares to believe that change is possible—and when others dare to believe with them. It is about the sacred cost of leadership, the beauty of collective healing, and the truth that even the strongest warrior cannot rise without the people standing behind them. This is a novel where spiritual forces weave through everyday life, where the physical and the divine meet on battlegrounds and in kitchen huts, and where the scars of the past are both painful and prophetic. This is Bakoto’s story. This is the story of the fire that refused to go out. This is The Strongest Warrior.
Adewunmi_Abiodun · 15K Views

The Mafia Boss Calls Me His Little Ancestor

The monsoon season of Nanyang carried a humid sensuality as Liao Qiao pushed open the hotel’s carved wooden doors, only to overhear Shang Lu’s mocking sneer: “Are you following me? Still not over me?” A sharp reprimand cut through the drama. “Show some respect to your sister-in-law!” The shadow of a black shirt swept over Liao Qiao’s shoulder. Shang Yu exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze dropping to the crumpled figure on the floor. “Take him to the Dark Hall,” he ordered, his voice like glacial steel. Liao Qiao studied the man’s chiseled profile. This was Shang Yu, the ruthless tycoon of Nanyang. He stood at the rain-soaked veranda, cigarette smoke curling around him, the faint scent of snow pine lingering in the air—a blade sheathed in elegance. Their next meeting unfolded in the underground lounge of a nightclub. Liao Qiao sipped a Mojito, watching Shang Yu stub out his cigar with a snap. “Mr. Yan requests your presence.” Before the bodyguard could finish, she sauntered into the private room. Under crystal chandeliers, Shang Lu retched into a toilet bowl while Shang Yu tapped his fingers on the marble table. “Explain the annulment yourself.” Before the words echoed, Liao Qiao leaned against the doorframe, spinning a car key between her fingers. “I heard Mr. Shang owns a Maybach. Care to lend it for a spin?” On the manicured lawns of Nan Yang Manor, Shang Yu knelt to tend to a cut on her ankle. Liao Qiao traced the mole near his eye, laughter bubbling. “So anxious, Mr. Shang? Could it be…” His hands yanked her into an embrace, his palm pressing against her wounded back. “If it hurts, bite me.” The night Shang Lu’s yacht exploded, Liao Qiao stood by the manor’s floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Shang Yu’s silhouette rigid against the lightning-flashed horizon. Thunder cracked. For the first time, she understood why her father called her “Nanyang’s curse”—she had a knack for shattering and reshaping the trajectories of those around her without rhyme or reason. When Shang Yu returned from Palma, he pressed a platinum card into her palm. “Want to see where you were born?” Liao Qiao traced the intricate engravings, finally deciphering the truth in her father’s indulgent eyes—she was never just a heiress. She was the wildfire he’d always kept burning in his palm.
Js_Hs_0149 · 56.6K Views
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