Hiding a House in the Apocalypse - Chapter 99.3: The Four Axes (3)

“You raise your weapon as if it had meaning. My blade had severed meaning itself—you fool.” - Jinn BLADEThrough flames of chaos and the storms of war, Jinn’s story is not for the faint of heart. Fueled by the warmth that surged him forward and born by the catalyst that awoken his true potential and destiny.Through his blades alone shall he cut through destiny.Through his blades alone shall he cut through despair and torment.Through his blades alone shall he cut through his way to stand at the pinnacle of strength.Through his blades alone shall his enemies know fear. Fear of his strength and fear of his name.Jinn Blade is his name.This Novel falls into the Science Fantasy Genre and involves a lot of medieval fantasy elements while mixing together sci-fi elements.[Warning: This novel contains sensitive scenarios]

Through a chaotic world rife with war, where demons roamed freely, he found himself in the body of the patriarch of the Luo family, whose life was nearing its end, with one foot already in the grave.Just after arriving, he was about to die?What kind of mortal suffering was this?Just as Luo Changfeng felt bewildered and on the brink of despair, he discovered that he could actually consume the vital energy of the Luo Family members to increase his attributes.A little tap, and his lifespan grew.A little tap, and his cultivation soared.A little tap, and his cultivation technique reached perfection.Thus, Luo Changfeng embarked on a path of empowering his family, continually drawing upon their vitality to strengthen himself.

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.”