MTL - Apocalypse: Infinite Evolution Starts from Attribute Allocation - Chapter 633 My conscience doesn't hurt at all

In his past life, as the countdown in his mind reached zero, people discovered they could enter and exit a virtual game at will. Inside, they could fight monsters and level up. Like most, Ye Qiu didn’t pay much attention to it and became a casual player, only logging in occasionally.But ten days later, the game suddenly shut down. And then, it merged with the real world!Monsters began to rampage, demons started to roam freely! Along with them came levels, equipment, skills, pets…And Ye Qiu, at the moment the server closed, was only level 5!From then on, he could only struggle to survive, hiding and fleeing, even enduring humiliation and ab*se!Until his final breath, he remained unknown, weak, and pitiful!In this life, Ye Qiu has returned to twenty years ago. And the game has just launched…

– Question: “What is scarier than the personal experience of transmigrating into a horror movie?”

Anonymous: “Transmigrating into a movie you’ve never seen before.”

– “Poor comment! There’s nothing scary about that!”

Anonymous reply: “You sure? Can you be sure your dad isn’t a murderer? Can you be certain your spouse isn’t out to kill you for insurance money? Can you even be certain there isn’t any hidden lethal weapon in your son’s lunchbox? The scariest thing is that you have never seen this movie before so, you have absolutely no idea of any ‘surprise’ that awaits you ahead!”

Hence, this novel is also called .

A line to sum it up: The female lead transmigrates into various movie adaptations of real stories, and conquers the audience.

- 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.”