Immortal of the Ages - Chapter 297: Dual Cultivator of Sword and Sigil

With peerless medical skills in one hand and unmatched Kung Fu in the other, bearing the memory of the Medical Divine, I dominate the city as the god it kneels to. I am here, so I decide your fate between life and death! I am here, so I am the heaven that dictates your destiny!

The only Paladin of the forgotten god, Nameless Chaos, and also the only Pope, Priest, and Worshipper.

“The lifespan of a butterfly is between three days and a month, and most butterflies only live for a week.”
“Like them, I have only a few months to live, maybe less.”

–

The first time Hu Die met Jing Yu, he thought she was a world-weary girl who committed suicide.
The second time they met, he told Hu Die indifferently: “If you jump down again today, I’m not saving you again.”
Later, she told him: “Jing Yu, don’t feel sorry for me.”

Later, Jing Yu returned to the arena and won the glory that belonged to him.
Under the flashing lights, he suddenly remembered the girl’s voice, and said a nonsensical remark in front of thousands of people.

——”I’m not sad, I just think that at such a moment, it would be better if you’re here.”

“He is a whale swimming in the ocean. One day, a butterfly inadvertently broke into his frequency. That was the most beautiful moment in his life.”

- 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.”