I’m Really Not Targeting the Mages - Chapter 40

When Xia Qingyi wakes up and finds herself in a hospital without any memories of her past, what else can she do other than to approach the person who had saved her?

Below the nine setting suns lies the remains of the Golden Crows.By chance, a young man arrives in the world of Journey to the West, attaining enlightenment using the bodies of nine Golden Crows, leading to a different journey.Summary for this book: “Living in the Journey to the West, I started off by roasting nine Golden Crows.”Yet another summary is, “My days of collecting bodies in the Journey to the West. When it comes to body collection, no one's better than me. Three hundred years of professional body collection experience, skilled at cooking braised meat, and never adds sugar in it.”

Wang Sheng is a fortunate soul who was granted a second chance by the heavens.After he died in his previous life, Wang Sheng finds himself waking up in his younger-self’s body while retaining all the memories of his past life. He remembers that he died in a gang fight due to his lack of cultivation level. He had wasted a lot of time in his past life on internet cafés and idling.In this life, Wang Sheng decides to change his fate once and for all by cultivating properly instead of relying on random cultivation methods from the internet. As he seeks guidance from masters of different sects, he is introduced to the world of cultivation, as well as the dangers and evils that lie within. Now that he is involved in the world of cultivation, will Wang Sheng be able to navigate through the dangers of the cultivation world while redeeming himself with the help of his past-life memories?

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.”