THE FORGOTTEN MASTER
4.1M
Expand 
Publish：2025-07-16
You Might Like
I Kissed A CEO And He Liked It
Gabrielle Taylor, a bold young model, is publicly humiliated and fired after discovering her ex is marrying her best friend. A spontaneous kiss with powerful CEO Kyle Wright sets off a chain of events that pulls her into his world. Hired as his assistant, Gabrielle must navigate ambition, romance, and betrayal in a glamorous, high-stakes world.
His Lost Lycan Luna
Embers glowed red, like the grip of her mother’s hand in her final moments.
Ari stood barefoot on the scorched earth behind the manor, her dress flapping in the night wind like a tattered banner. The nobles formed a circle around her, their golden spectacles reflecting cold, glittering eyes. "Daughter of a traitor—unworthy of bearing the heirloom of the Wolfblood." They pointed at the silver chain around her neck, the one her mother had died to leave behind, engraved with forgotten moon-script: *Blood not cold, oath unbroken.*
Ivy screamed from behind iron bars, but her voice drowned beneath the crackling flames. A man who looked like a cook approached, a boning knife in hand, a scar cutting across his face, grinning like a madman. "Heard your sister preferred her feet burned raw rather than give it up?" He hurled a ladle of hot oil into the fire. The blaze roared skyward. "Well then, let's see how much pain the little sister can take tonight."
Ari didn’t turn. She only stared into the churning sparks within the coals—seeing again that night ten years past: her mother being dragged into the woods, pressing this very necklace into her palm with her last breath.
"You call me the child of a traitor?" she finally spoke, her voice ragged as tearing cloth. "But tell me—who among you remembers who took the hunters’ silver arrows so you could live?"
The crowd stirred. Doubt flickered.
Then—a shadow cut across the firelight.
A man in a tailored suit stepped from the darkness, his polished shoes treading over ash without a sound. His gaze swept over Ari—the trembling spine held unbent—and slowly, he removed his gloves. "Gentlemen," his voice low and heavy, "what you are burning is not a traitor’s bloodline. It is the last living descendant of the final Wolf Lord."
He lifted his eyes, their depths dark as an abyss: "And I have come to bring her home."
The wind stilled. The fire burned on.
A tear traced down Ari’s cheek—but she did not step back.
The game was set.
Survival has always been written by the victor.
A Blind Date with my Mr. Meant-to-Be
The chandelier in the ballroom glared harshly, casting sharp light over the scene. Red wine dripped down Alison's crimson dress, trailing like blood.
A blonde socialite sneered, "You actually brought a fake bag to my son’s engagement party? Aren’t you ashamed?"
Silence swallowed the room. Alison knelt on the floor, fingers clawing at the carpet until her nails nearly split. She looked up at her best friend—the one who once called her “sister”—only to see her quietly sipping wine, avoiding eye contact. She turned to the brand director she’d worked with for three years; he was already walking away. Even her cousin, whom she’d helped countless times, took a quiet half-step back, as if afraid of catching some contagion.
Her phone vibrated inside her purse. The butler’s trembling voice came through: “Miss… Mr. Li is boarding now. It’ll take at least forty minutes…”
She laughed, a broken sound, tears slipping into the corners of her mouth. “So… I really have no one after all.”
Then—**the ballroom doors burst open.**
The click of high heels stopped dead.
A figure stood in the doorway—gray suit perfectly tailored, tie slightly loosened, eyes so cold they froze the noise in the air.
He strode forward, his polished shoes silent on the carpet, yet each step pressed like weight on every heartbeat.
The entire room held its breath.
He dropped to one knee before her, shrugged off his coat, and draped it gently over her shoulders. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hall like a blade:
“Who gave you the right… to touch my fiancée?”
He lifted his gaze to the sneering woman, lips curling in disdain.
“And that bag? A one-of-a-kind piece I personally commissioned in Paris. You call it fake—so it must be?”
The air turned to ice.
Suddenly, the chat exploded:
【HOLY SHIT! That’s him—the elusive CEO of the Li Corporation!】
【OMG the female lead just activated her main storyline!!!】
【Don’t cry, girl—this is only the first step of your legendary comeback!!】
Alison stared up at him, stunned.
And he—gently wiping the wine stain from her cheek—whispered only for her to hear:
“I’ve waited five years… finally found you.”
The Billionaire Heir She Dumped
From the very moment genius scientist Emma fires up her groundbreaking time-machine, the biggest shock isn’t the invention—it’s her sister’s brutal betrayal, fueled by a hospital mix-up that shattered their family years ago. Samantha’s attack triggers a malfunction, and both sisters are violently thrown ten years into the past, straight into a rewritten timeline where Samantha has one goal: steal Emma’s identity, her family, and even her fiancé.
As Samantha claws her way toward becoming the Carter family’s heiress, Emma is left with nothing but her mind and grit, battling identity theft, dark family secrets, corporate sabotage, and the dangerous butterfly effects of time travel. When she meets Matthew, a quietly protective stranger masking his true status as a powerful chairman, Emma finds the first spark of hope—along with a love strong enough to challenge fate itself.
But with every choice Emma makes, the future she remembers grows more unstable. And just when she finally believes she’s breaking free from destiny’s grip, a chilling truth about Samantha’s real motives emerges, hinting that the deadliest twist isn’t buried in the past… but racing toward them from the future.
I Saved My Crime Lord Ex... Now What?
Six years ago, on a stormy night.
I carried him out of a pool of blood, bullets still lodged between his shoulder blades. He was battered and broken, breathing faintly, yet murmuring a code name—“Lord Ex.”
I didn’t call the police. I didn’t dare ask who he was. I hid him in the old house instead, nursing him back to life with spoonfuls of medicine and sips of water for three long months.
During that time, he leaned against my bed and said, “A Zhi, if one day I leave, don’t wait for me.”
I said okay.
But I lied.
I waited six years.
Now I lie in a hospital bed, my hands wrapped in bandages, nerves severed—never to hold a gun or knife again.
And there he stands at the door, dressed in a black suit, watch gleaming, eyes cold as if he’s never seen me before.
“I saved you,” my voice trembles, tears splashing onto the sheets. “Now what? You’ll just watch me die?”
Finally, he steps closer.
He leans down, lifts his hand, and gently brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“Don’t cry,” he says. “I’ll heal your hands.”
My heart softens—just halfway—when footsteps echo outside.
A line of men in black enters, bowing respectfully. “Sir, the madam and the children are waiting downstairs.”
The air freezes.
I go rigid. “…What wife?”
He pulls his hand away, adjusts his cufflinks, calm and detached. “Married three years. Three children. The mission’s over. Everyone returns to their place.”
I laugh—crying and laughing at once. “So who am I? A backup? A forgotten mistake? Or just a decoy to draw attention?”
No one answers.
Then my father bursts in and slaps me hard across the face. “Enough! Do you think you’re the chosen one? He has a family, a prearranged marriage. You were an unauthorized contact—an accident. Orders have already been issued to eliminate you!”
I clutch my cheek, staring at the man walking away.
His final whisper, barely audible—
“When interests are at stake, where does loyalty stand?”
The moment the door shuts, I rip off the heart monitor, throw aside the pillow—
A modified revolver lies silently beneath.
In the chamber: five empty slots, only the first round loaded.
I wipe my tears in the mirror, force a cold smirk.
“You say loyalty means nothing…”
“Then I’ll use everything you taught me—to tear this entire game apart.”
MY CROREPATI HUSBAND
The setting sun melted into gold, the swimming pool shimmering with specks of silver light.
My husband lay on a lounge chair, his suit unbuttoned, tie loose, a stack of cash in his hand that he casually tossed into the air—like silent snowflakes drifting down into the water, sinking,无人去捡.
"Money," he said, "is meant to be spent."
But I knew—he was waiting for someone to care.
The family reunion was held at the old estate, three generations gathered amidst laughter and chatter. But the moment I stepped through the door, my father hurled his teacup to the ground.
"How dare you come back?" He pointed at me, hand trembling like a dry branch in the wind. "Your mother’s last words were—‘Don’t let that woman into the funeral hall!’"
I looked down at the note in my hand—my mother’s handwriting, hidden for ten years, only uncovered today when my sister found it tucked deep within an old bookshelf.
It bore just one line:
**"Lin Wan is not my daughter."**
The air froze.
I looked up, meeting my husband’s gaze. His lips still curled in that easy smile, but his eyes had long turned cold.
Then the door opened.
Two children burst in—one waving a toy gun, the other lugging a bulging little backpack.
"Mom! We found the treasure!"
They dumped the bag onto the floor—gold coins, bars, deposit slips caked with dirt—and a yellowed photograph: a young woman holding a baby, standing before the doors of “Win Bank Vault,” smiling brightly.
But that woman—wasn't me.
It was my sister.
Silence swallowed the room.
My father lunged for the photo. My aunt screamed for the police. An uncle kicked over a chair, roaring, “That vault is registered under my name! You broke into it?!”
I knelt, gently stroking my son’s hair.
He tilted his face up, innocent and hopeful. “Mom, will the treasure make Dad stay?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I knew—
the true vault was never in a bank.
It lay deep within the human heart, locked shut with lies, bloodlines, and a two-decade-long game of substitution.
Who is the pawn?
Who holds the pieces?
The answer waits behind the next opening door.