How To Live As A Writer In A Fantasy World - Chapter 213: 16th Book (3)

Living on the streets of Orchard's Reach, Sen never dreamed about becoming a cultivator. He barely even knew what cultivation was, let alone wanted to do it. When fate intervenes, though, he finds himself the disciple of a cultivator. Like all who find themselves on the path to defying the heavens, Sen will have to decide what kind of person he wants to be and what kind of mark he wants to leave on the world.

The gold mine silver mine diamond mine is almost weak, and the mysterious miners system is in hand.

Although there is no manual and no elf, every day I am trying to find out, but my brother can dig it out.

From the practice of meditation, alchemy materials, spaceships, and mechs, life is different.

There is no level that can’t be upgraded, there is no task that can’t get rid of it, but what is the system doing? Come ~ come! Still don’t say it, give me the first girl! Brother will plan again.

- Description from Uukanshu translation

After an unexpected accident, An Luo was reborn as the young master of a business family. Even as his grandfather’s favored grandson, he seems to only be a cannon fodder in the brothers’ struggle to seize power. However, the most frightening thing is… the strange emotions that flicker in his little brother’s eyes as he looks at him. At that moment, overwhelmed by his brother, An Luo angrily thought: Could it be that he is doomed to never escape this vicious cycle of “brotherly love”?

An Luo(frowning): After rebirth, I don’t want to be together with some strange person.

Someone(suddenly appearing in the back, smiling): What did older brother just say?

An Luo: …Nothing.

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”