Cultivating for a hundred lifetimes to ascension - Chapter 423 - 293 Opening the Curtain

Using the ability to freely travel between Earth and the fantasy world so he can… become a porter of two worlds…?

Bai Yang’s objective was to establish a production line that would yield hundreds of millions of pills, pellets, and artifacts…

- Description from Novelupdates

In her last life, Fu Xi was blinded by love, feeling no regret even as she cut ties with her family to marry a scumbag. Eventually bedridden by illness, she could only watch as her husband hooked up with other women, even bringing them to her bedside just to humiliate her. He killed her family members to gain their riches.

Fu Xi swore that if she could have another life, she would exact her revenge!

After her rebirth, she headed straight to the Gong Family and demanded that their young master—Gong Hao, who was paraplegic and bound to a wheelchair—marry her. Everyone laughed at her stupidity, but Fu Xi knew that Gong Hao was the only one who had earnestly loved her. On top of that, he was a very capable man!

Six months after Fu Xi married him, Gong Hao miraculously rose to his feet, reclaiming his family’s property and revealing multiple bombshells: he was the owner of the largest property company, a minister of national intelligence and an anonymous god of war!

Linking arms with her husband in front of the cameras, Fu Xi smiled.

“Why did you keep such a low profile before this, Mister Gong?” A journalist asked.

Gong Hao leaned in and gave Fu Xi a gentle peck on the cheek. “I was waiting for her to find me and save me…”

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.”