Cinnamon Bun - Chapter Five Hundred and Twenty-Seven – Head-to-Head Search Algorithm Comparison

When we met for the first time in our first year of high school, he saw my contempt, but silently continued to clean;

She was the head of a powerful, medicine-orientated aristocratic family.

Crossing through a millennium, she ended up in the body of the General Household’s “trash” young miss, whose engagement with the Crown Prince was just broken as she suffered under everybody’s taunts!

In the drafting feast, she was re-engaged by the Emperor to marry the famous disabled prince!

Everybody laughed, a blind trash with a disabled wastrel. What a perfect match!

However, they didn’t know that in her hand, she grasped the long-lost primordial pill recipes! Her practice in medicine had reached the apex! Her contracted beasts were unique in the world!

What was the most frightening, was the disabled prince she was engaged to…….

A black-belly full of dirty tricks, with a heaven-opposing cultivation physique, he defeats all geniuses!

In his wheelchair during the day, yet entangling her in bed as he trained his waist muscles… MF! Is he really crippled!?

- Description from Novelupdates

Pick one of the 100 lord characters to be the final winner of the game “Territory Wars”.I became the first person in the world to complete the game using the world’s worst shitty character, Otto de Scuderia.I’m thrilled to see my name in the Hall of Fame, but I’ve been possessed into the game in the body of Otto de Scuderia, the worst of the worst.The memory of the experience is clouding my mind, but…If there’s no turning back, let’s just enjoy it.This time as the real Otto de Scuderia.

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.