I Might Be A Fake Cultivator - Chapter 2342 - Paragon of the Ghost Tribe

It’s the beginning of the Apocalypse, and zombies are running rampant over the Earth.

My name is Chen Huai’an, and I have cancer. I’m dying. Lately, I’ve become obsessed with a virtual girlfriend game. I top up my account to buy her cultivation techniques and magical artifacts. Even though I’ve emptied my wallet, I laugh like a fool. I always thought it was just a game—until one day, my virtual girlfriend sent me a pill. The next moment, the pill appeared in my hand… Am I… not going to die?!My name is Li Qingran. My cultivation has been crippled, my spiritual roots dug out, and I’ve been expelled from my sect. I cower in a dilapidated hut, waiting to die. I thought my life was over—until I met a mysterious senior who never shows himself. This senior heals my wounds and helps me cultivate. I grow stronger and stronger, eventually becoming the most powerful sword cultivator in the Cangyun Realm. I’ve heard that the spiritual energy in Cangyun is depleting, the Dao is dim, and an immortal from another world plans to merge their soon-to-revive realm with ours. An age of chaos and opportunity is upon us. Even immortals may face death in this struggle. I scour the world for traces of this senior. I want to protect him—and become his Dao companion!!!

Just as nuclear weapons are only a byproduct of scientific exploration, immortality is merely a small gift along the path of seeking the Dao. The New Dao Master, Grand Wise Teacher, and the strongest cultivator in millennia, Real Person Zheng Fa, is recruiting a personal disciple. The reference materials for applicants are as follows:Topology in Talismans: Starting with the Little Rain TalismanResearch on Artificial Intelligence in Magical Tools: A Preliminary Exploration of Tool SpiritsElemental Decomposition of the Nine-turn Golden PillBasic Pathways of FormationNote: Priority will be given to those who have published papers in the Immortal Dao journal.

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.”