Zombie Apocalypse: Creation - Chapter 65 - : Winter and Mass Migration

The Scattered Arts, lost pages of manuals gathered from scattered archives from all across the world. Known also as the Old Arts, these are what remained from a vast collection of knowledge that was destroyed during the war that almost wiped out all of mankind. But we prevailed. Mankind rebuilt and reached for the stars.

Wang Xuan, a student of the Old Arts Research Department, had read about tales of individuals capable of inhuman feats, of practitioners ascending to the realm of immortality. But in an age of technological wonders, not many would believe in such tales. Only the truly desperate, and with the wealth and resources at their disposal, could even dream of unlocking the secrets behind these tales.

Corporate greed. This was how the research into the old arts started. But with new discoveries made in the New World, and the Old Arts declared obsolete in the way of the ‘New Arts’, the studies into the realm of the ancients is coming to an end.

Are the immortals real? Can mankind truly break its shackle of mortality and escape death? These are questions that Wang Xuan desperately sought to answer. He was determined to walk down the path of the Old Arts even as he reached for the stars beyond.

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One of the few self-cultivator who exist in this modern world; due to an unfortunate event, completely destroyed his body in an explosion. Using all his effort to save his primordial spirit, he ended up in an strange magical world and had to start all over again. From a fallen aristocrat to the Warlord of Chaos, this can no longer be summarise as legendary; this is the life of the God of War.

[Longevity + Discipleship + No Female Lead + Lighthearted Humor with No Tragic Moments]When his master picks food, he spins the table there;When his master chants spells, he chats without a care;When his master takes rest, he sings a lively song;When his master lies late, he bangs the pot along;His master lives on long, but his life is rather short;His master lays him down on the hillside, as a sort;His master lifts a cup, but he won’t take a drink;His master shares a tale, but he won’t stop to think;His master holds a feast, but he leaves the table wide;His master calls his soul, but he’s nowhere to abide.Spring returns to the hills, with blooms so bright and fair,Yet master and disciple are parted, one in heaven, one elsewhere.

[Please transform.] [The penalty for disobedience is death.] I am saying this because I have been wronged. Help me!