Master, This Poor Disciple Died Again Today - Chapter 690: Futile Struggle

A regular senior high school student accidentally obtained a Supernatural Ability System from three thousand years in the future. Lin Tian could exchange for all kinds of superpowers within the Supernatural Ability System. Exams? I have a photographic memory! You’re amazing? I transform into a Saiyan! An awesome life doesn’t need explanations!

I was playing a boring game where you don’t level up no matter what you do, there’s no event happening and it was even FREE on *** store. I had an argument on relationship stuff, was angry and decided to destroy the village in a game, then a notification pop-up…

-Your karma has increased by 10.

-You are now at level 2.

Graphics of the game changed. Acquired magic. Saved a village girl that was chased by bandits. Gained a cultist.

It seems the events are starting to take place. Lets see what happens…

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.”