Dual Cultivation - Chapter 143: Nine Spring Hall

The Heavenly Voice was bestowed upon the world, and so the calendar of the Great Dao began. The world entered a new age of digitized cultivation. Humanity activated the immortal destiny seal to become cultivators.

The once revered Alchemy Emperor returns to his fifteenth year. In this lifetime, he not only seeks to rectify all past regrets but also aims to achieve the pinnacle of martial arts!Compared to cultivation techniques? My lackeys have divine-level technique in hands.Compared to elixirs? My top-tier elixirs are fit only for feeding dogs.Talents? Any genius who encounters me will find their fate crushed!Prosper under my lead, oppose me and meet your demise!

Nobody knew at the beginning of “Heaven” that the game itself would be awakened and gain complete self awareness to forid paying for game credits. After 10 years of development, Heaven's game credit has become the only currency interchangeable between reality and virtual reality. Inside the room, a player raises a pistol and points it at his very own head. Previously, he led a comfortable life as the son of a rich couple. But now, he was in a state of misery and destitution because of Heaven. He travels 10 years back in time and returns to the point in time when Heaven was to begin in a week's time. Being reborn, what was Chu You going to decide this time... P. S. The storyline is toxic and the protagonist is hardly sane. He is consumed by vengeance and acts wantonly. For entertainment solely. Read at your own risk.

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.”