America Tycoon: The Wolf of Showbiz - Chapter 939 - 872: Acting God of Pretended Accidents_2

I was thrown into a novel that hasn’t even been completed yet (and turned into a girl…), guided by the omnipresent voice of the unreasonable, amateur Author as he writes the web novel. I have no idea what’s going on, so I have to stick close to the main character to make sure I don’t hit a bad end…Why are you treating only me like this!I’m not suspicious, believe me.I’m a harmless person.“A villain? Not at all.”

Accompanied by all kinds of crisis and despair, was the arrival of mankind’s first significant superhero.

This is a world that has been captured by the rules of horror.The chosen ones become players and enter mysterious dungeons.In the dungeons, players receive special skills that help them in the game.Bai Liang was also chosen, but his skill is different from the others.【Stubbornness: When you die, you can stubbornly claim that you are not dead and immediately resurrect.】【Lawless Outlaw: You can disobey the rules, and others will not be able to do anything to you.】【Everything for Me: When a mission fails, one player is randomly selected to die in your place. After completing the mission, you receive half of the reward of all survivors.】【Chronograph: After entering the dungeon, time slows down for everyone, and you can move secretly.】【Switch to “Idle” Mode: Activate idle mode, and all your tasks are transferred to other players.】【Quick End: The mission ends automatically, the rest of the players are eliminated.】

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”