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Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Martin was a succubus who perished at the hands of the Sun God, struck down by a single divine arrow during the epic war between gods and demons. Meanwhile, Martin, a Ph.D. in literature and a seasoned movie enthusiast, lost his life in a car accident in August 2023. By some cosmic twist of fate, the souls of the two Martins converged within the chaotic currents of time and space, merging and eventually settling in the body of an eleven-year-old boy named Martin Myers, living in Los Angeles in 1996. A world without spiritual energy? Fortunately, as a succubus, I donโ€™t need spiritual energy to cultivate; all I need is the essence of desire. Emotionsโ€”joy, anger, sorrow, and excitementโ€”are all desires. As long as these emotions are directed at me, they can become fuel for my growth. Alright, letโ€™s see what reliable ways exist in this world to stir peopleโ€™s emotions en masse. Hmm, becoming a writerโ€”sounds promising; and music, that could work too; but wow, Hollywood movies! They have a global reach; this is perfect! Whatโ€™s that term again? Rightโ€”"Idea Recycler.โ€ Iโ€™ll start with writing, but the ultimate goal is to become an international movie star. Acting skills, you say? Donโ€™t worryโ€”Iโ€™m a succubus, after all! Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to this novel. All characters, settings, and plot elements belong to the original author and copyright holder. This work is shared purely for entertainment purposes, with no intent to infringe on the original creatorโ€™s rights. Note: This is not a BL. --- +70 Chapters Patreon.com/GodOfReader --- 5 Chapters a day.

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Chapter 3: The Budding Author's Surprise

Chapter 2: The Budding Author's Surprise

---

"I'm home!"

Martin, feeling relaxed after a day at school, pushed open the front door only to find his dad, Grant, and mom, Linda, both sitting at the dining table. As they heard his voice, they looked up in unison.

What's going on?

Martin glanced over at Aranda, the housekeeper, who mouthed a word at him.

"Random House?"

Martin instantly felt at ease, realizing what it was about. Looking back at Grant and Linda, he noticed the serious expressions on their faces, but beneath them lay unmistakable hints of joy, excitement, and a touch of disbelief.

"Ahem, Martin, care to tell us what you've been up to lately?"

"Hey, Mom, are you trying to get me to confess?"

"That depends on whether you've done anything wrong!"

"Of course not. Every day I go to school, come home on time, do my homework, read a bit, and sometimes write things myselfโ€”"

"Wait, write things yourself?" Grant interrupted, choosing his words carefully. "Besides that, have you, um, done anything else?"

"Uh, well, I sent a few stories I wrote to a publisher. It might be a bit of a pipe dream, but I'd love for more people to read them! For example, I sent them toโ€ฆ"

"To Random House, perhaps?"

Grant pulled a thick envelope out of his bag and waved it, a smile spreading on both his and Linda's faces.

"Whoa, Random House replied?" Martin put on an excited expression.

"Take a look; I haven't opened it yet. Let's hope it's not a rejection," Grant joked, but he got a light smack on the arm from Linda, who gave him a look that reminded him to stay positive. He made a zipping motion across his lips, signaling, "I'll keep quiet."

Martin, without a hint of worry, opened the envelope and started reading aloud.

"Dear Mr. Martin Myers: This is Benjamin Georgia, an editor from Random House... We were very impressed by your story, Kung Fu Panda... We'd like to discuss publication details with you in person on September 25thโ€ฆ"

"Oh my, our little Martin is about to be a published author! I'm so proud of you," Linda hugged him tightly, her eyes gleaming with happy tears.

Grant was just as excited. An 11-year-old author, he thought. Looks like the Myers family has produced a prodigy. He couldn't wait to call his father and share the good news.

---

September 25th

A black Cadillac slowly pulled up along the curb.

A man and a woman stepped out. The man appeared to be in his early forties, dressed in a smart gray business suit that highlighted his slim build and sharp demeanor.

The woman, in her early thirties, also wore a gray professional outfit, holding a small bag and following closely behind, clearly his assistant or secretary.

They were Benjamin Georgia, the editor from Random House, and his assistant, Miss Sheena. As Benjamin shaded his eyes and looked around, he spotted the Myers family's grand villa not far off.

"222 Trumbull Avenue, upscale residential area?" he murmured, then turned to Sheena. "Sheena, is this the address of the author?"

"Yes, Benjamin. I confirmed it myself," Sheena replied with a smile.

"Affluent family, good education... I'd bet the author is a well-read person with a deep love for literature. No wonder he could write such an engaging story," Benjamin mused as he adjusted his suit.

"And likely not too young either. Even though it's a children's story, younger writers rarely have the knowledge to create such a richly detailed ancient Chinese setting. The landscapes, the clothing, the martial arts, even the foodโ€ฆ all so vividly described," Sheena added.

Their conversation continued as they reached the villa's entrance and pressed the doorbell. Soon, a warm voice came over the intercom, "Hello, this is the Myers residence. Who's calling, please?"

"Hello, we're from Random House. Is Mr. Martin Myers home?" Benjamin replied.

There was a slight pause before the voice responded, "Could you hold on for a moment, please?"

They heard footsteps hurriedly running away, followed by a faint exclamation. Benjamin and Sheena exchanged a puzzled glance, each shrugging in mutual confusion.

A moment later, the woman's voice returned over the intercom. "Please come in. Mr. and Mrs. Myers are waiting for you at the door."

Mr. and Mrs. Myers? Benjamin thought, his mind racing. So, the author of Kung Fu Panda must be Mr. Martin Myers himself. He began mentally rehearsing what he would say.

The grand iron gate slowly swung open, revealing a stunning garden. Lush palms lined the perimeter, ensuring privacy, while evergreen shrubs like firethorn, golden privet, variegated juniper, and boxwood filled the space, accented with summer azaleas in pink, fuchsia, and purple hues.

In the center of the lawn was a marble fountain with water streaming from the mouths of two sculpted fish, sparkling under the sunlight.

Beyond the fountain stood an impressive Baroque-style villa, with elegant marble columns and intricate statues, a testament to the owner's refined taste.

As Benjamin and Sheena approached, two gracefully poised middle-aged people stood waiting. The man stepped forward first and extended his hand.

"Welcome! I've been eagerly awaiting your visit!"

"You must be Mr. Martin Myers! Your work is simply outstanding. I'm certain children all over the world will cherish this new classic."

Grant froze, realizing the misunderstanding, then chuckled. "Actually, Kung Fu Panda isn't my creation. Let me introduce myself. I'm Grant Myers, Chief Investment Officer and Head of the Investment Office at J.P. Morgan. The story was written by my sonโ€”Martin."

Benjamin blinked, momentarily flustered as he turned to shake hands with Linda, just catching himself in time to avoid a misstep.

Once everyone was seated in the villa's drawing room, Benjamin finally understood his error. Kung Fu Panda's actual author was none other than Grant and Linda's young sonโ€”Martin Myers.

"If you don't mind me asking, how old is your son?"

"He's eleven!" Grant beamed with pride.

Benjamin and Sheena stared in amazement.

"Is he home right now? I'd love to meet him."

"He should be on his way back from school, so he should arrive in about fifteen minutes. Would you both care for something to drink? Tea, coffee, or perhaps some whiskey?"

"Coffee, please."

"And for you, ma'am?"

"I'll have tea, thank you."

Linda gave the housekeeper, Aranda, a quick signal, and she hurried away. Soon she returned with a tray, bearing two tall and short pots with four cups.

The tall pot held coffee, and the short, stout one was for tea.

"Please, have a taste. This is authentic Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and traditional Chinese red tea."

Each took a cup, and the four of them engaged in light conversation.

A little over ten minutes later, they heard a familiar voice at the door.

"I'm home!"

[๏ปฟโ€ขโ€”โ€”โ€”โ€ขโ€”โ€”โ€”โ€ขโ€”โ€”โ€”โ€ข]

๐™„ ๐™ฌ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™ฉ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ ๐™š ๐™– ๐™ข๐™ค๐™ข๐™š๐™ฃ๐™ฉ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™š๐™ญ๐™ฅ๐™ง๐™š๐™จ๐™จ ๐™ข๐™ฎ ๐™œ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ช๐™™๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™ฉ๐™๐™ค๐™จ๐™š ๐™ฌ๐™๐™ค ๐™จ๐™ช๐™ฅ๐™ฅ๐™ค๐™ง๐™ฉ ๐™ข๐™š ๐™ค๐™ฃ ๐™ฉ๐™๐™ž๐™จ ๐™Ÿ๐™ค๐™ช๐™ง๐™ฃ๐™š๐™ฎ. ๐™”๐™ค๐™ช๐™ง ๐™˜๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™ž๐™—๐™ช๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™จ ๐™ข๐™–๐™ ๐™š ๐™– ๐™ง๐™š๐™–๐™ก ๐™™๐™ž๐™›๐™›๐™š๐™ง๐™š๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š!

๐—ฆ๐—ฝ๐—ฒ๐—ฐ๐—ถ๐—ฎ๐—น ๐˜๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ป๐—ธ๐˜€ ๐˜๐—ผ:

โ€ข ๐™…๐™˜๐Ÿญ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿฎ

โ€ข ๐˜ผ๐™๐™ข๐™–๐™ง๐™ž๐™Ÿ๐™–๐™

โ€ข ๐—๐—ฎ๐—ฐ๐—ผ๐—ฏ ๐— ๐—ผ๐—ฒ๐—ฒ

๐—”๐˜€ ๐—ฎ ๐—ฝ๐—ฎ๐˜๐—ฟ๐—ผ๐—ป, ๐˜†๐—ผ๐˜‚ ๐˜‚๐—ป๐—น๐—ผ๐—ฐ๐—ธ:

โ€ข ๐—˜๐˜…๐—ฐ๐—น๐˜‚๐˜€๐—ถ๐˜ƒ๐—ฒ ๐—”๐—ฐ๐—ฐ๐—ฒ๐˜€๐˜€: ๐™‚๐™š๐™ฉ ๐Ÿญ๐Ÿด๐Ÿฑ+ ๐™–๐™™๐™ซ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š๐™™ ๐™˜๐™๐™–๐™ฅ๐™ฉ๐™š๐™ง๐™จ ๐™–๐™๐™š๐™–๐™™ ๐™ค๐™› ๐™š๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™š ๐™š๐™ก๐™จ๐™š.

โ€ข ๐—˜๐˜…๐—ฐ๐—น๐˜‚๐˜€๐—ถ๐˜ƒ๐—ฒ ๐—ฆ๐—ต๐—ผ๐˜‚๐˜-๐—ข๐˜‚๐˜: ๐™๐™š๐™˜๐™š๐™ž๐™ซ๐™š ๐™– ๐™จ๐™ฅ๐™š๐™˜๐™ž๐™–๐™ก ๐™จ๐™๐™ค๐™ช๐™ฉ ๐™š๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง๐™ฎ ๐™˜๐™๐™–๐™ฅ๐™ฉ๐™š๐™ง ๐™–๐™จ ๐™– ๐™ฉ๐™๐™–๐™ฃ๐™  ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช ๐™›๐™ค๐™ง ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช๐™ง ๐™จ๐™ช๐™ฅ๐™ฅ๐™ค๐™ง๐™ฉ!

๐—ฌ๐—ผ๐˜‚๐—ฟ ๐˜€๐˜‚๐—ฝ๐—ฝ๐—ผ๐—ฟ๐˜ ๐—ป๐—ผ๐˜ ๐—ผ๐—ป๐—น๐˜† ๐—ณ๐˜‚๐—ฒ๐—น๐˜€ ๐—บ๐˜† ๐—ฐ๐—ฟ๐—ฒ๐—ฎ๐˜๐—ถ๐˜ƒ๐—ถ๐˜๐˜† ๐—ฏ๐˜‚๐˜ ๐—ฎ๐—น๐˜€๐—ผ ๐—ต๐—ฒ๐—น๐—ฝ๐˜€ ๐—บ๐—ฒ ๐—ด๐—ฟ๐—ผ๐˜„ ๐˜๐—ต๐—ถ๐˜€ ๐—ฐ๐—ผ๐—บ๐—บ๐˜‚๐—ป๐—ถ๐˜๐˜†. ๐—œ๐—ณ ๐˜†๐—ผ๐˜‚'๐—ฟ๐—ฒ ๐—ป๐—ผ๐˜ ๐—ฎ ๐—ฝ๐—ฎ๐˜๐—ฟ๐—ผ๐—ป ๐˜†๐—ฒ๐˜, ๐—ฐ๐—ผ๐—ป๐˜€๐—ถ๐—ฑ๐—ฒ๐—ฟ ๐—ท๐—ผ๐—ถ๐—ป๐—ถ๐—ป๐—ด ๐˜‚๐˜€!

๐Ÿ‘‰ ๐™…๐™ค๐™ž๐™ฃ ๐™ฃ๐™ค๐™ฌ: ๐™ฅ๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™š๐™ค๐™ฃ.๐™˜๐™ค๐™ข/๐™‚๐™ค๐™™๐™Š๐™›๐™๐™š๐™–๐™™๐™š๐™ง

๐Ÿ’ฌ ๐˜ผ๐™ก๐™จ๐™ค ๐˜ผ๐™ซ๐™–๐™ž๐™ก๐™–๐™—๐™ก๐™š: ๐™ˆ๐™ฎ ๐˜ผ๐™™๐™ซ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š๐™™ ๐™๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ก๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ ๐™‹๐™ง๐™ค๐™ข๐™ฅ๐™ฉ! ๐™๐™ฃ๐™ก๐™ค๐™˜๐™  ๐™ฉ๐™๐™ž๐™จ ๐™š๐™ญ๐™˜๐™ก๐™ช๐™จ๐™ž๐™ซ๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ค๐™ค๐™ก ๐™›๐™ค๐™ง $30โ€”๐™ฃ๐™ค๐™ฌ ๐™ฌ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™– 10% ๐™™๐™ž๐™จ๐™˜๐™ค๐™ช๐™ฃ๐™ฉ! ๐™…๐™ช๐™จ๐™ฉ ๐™ช๐™จ๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™๐™š ๐™˜๐™ค๐™™๐™š: ๐—š๐—ข๐——๐—ข๐—™๐—ฅ๐—˜๐—”๐——๐—˜๐—ฅ.

๐™’๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™ฉ๐™๐™š ๐™ฅ๐™ค๐™ฌ๐™š๐™ง ๐™ค๐™› ๐˜พ๐™๐™–๐™ฉ๐™‚๐™‹๐™ ๐™˜๐™ค๐™ข๐™—๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™š๐™™ ๐™ฌ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™ข๐™ฎ ๐˜ผ๐™™๐™ซ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š๐™™ ๐™๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ก๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ ๐™‹๐™ง๐™ค๐™ข๐™ฅ๐™ฉ, ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช ๐™˜๐™–๐™ฃ ๐™š๐™›๐™›๐™ค๐™ง๐™ฉ๐™ก๐™š๐™จ๐™จ๐™ก๐™ฎ ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ก๐™–๐™ฉ๐™š ๐˜พ๐™๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™š๐™จ๐™š ๐™ฃ๐™ค๐™ซ๐™š๐™ก๐™จ ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™€๐™ฃ๐™œ๐™ก๐™ž๐™จ๐™ ๐™ฌ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™๐™ช๐™ข๐™–๐™ฃ-๐™ก๐™ž๐™ ๐™š ๐™–๐™˜๐™˜๐™ช๐™ง๐™–๐™˜๐™ฎ, ๐™˜๐™–๐™ฅ๐™ฉ๐™ช๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™š๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง๐™ฎ ๐™ฃ๐™ช๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™ ๐™™๐™š๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ž๐™ก. ๐™๐™๐™ž๐™จ ๐™ช๐™ฃ๐™ž๐™ฆ๐™ช๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ค๐™ค๐™ก ๐™™๐™š๐™ก๐™ž๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง๐™จ ๐™ง๐™š๐™จ๐™ช๐™ก๐™ฉ๐™จ ๐™ฉ๐™๐™–๐™ฉ ๐™ง๐™ž๐™ซ๐™–๐™ก ๐™ฅ๐™ง๐™ค๐™›๐™š๐™จ๐™จ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™–๐™ก ๐™๐™ช๐™ข๐™–๐™ฃ ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ก๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ค๐™ง๐™จ, ๐™—๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช ๐™š๐™ญ๐™ฅ๐™ง๐™š๐™จ๐™จ๐™ž๐™ซ๐™š ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™ ๐™–๐™˜๐™˜๐™ช๐™ง๐™–๐™ฉ๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™จ๐™ก๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™จ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™š๐™ฃ๐™๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช๐™ง ๐™ง๐™š๐™–๐™™๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™š๐™ญ๐™ฅ๐™š๐™ง๐™ž๐™š๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š!

๐Ÿ‘‰๐—ฆ๐—ต๐—ผ๐—ฝ: ๐™‹๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™š๐™ค๐™ฃ.๐™˜๐™ค๐™ข/๐™‚๐™ค๐™™๐™Š๐™›๐™๐™š๐™–๐™™๐™š๐™ง/๐™Ž๐™๐™ค๐™ฅ

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