MTL - As An Immortal, I Had To Pretend To Be A Vampire - Chapter 352 take advantage of

Back in 1998, an ordinary person who has been through, tired, cried, and fought, hopes to run down-to-earth and keep up with the trend of the times.

- Description from novelbuddy

Xie Yang has spent many years in the apocalypse and is tired and worn out. Then he transmigrated into a simple and superficial novel about the entertainment circle.

The protagonist of the novel was handsome, smart and reborn. The female protagonist of the novel was beautiful, inspirational and had a golden finger. Some male and female roles were also beautiful and had a deep background. If he casually transmigrated into one of them then he could close his eyes and enjoy himself. However, he didn’t transmigrate into any of them and instead became the hidden husband of the biggest villain in the novel, the male protagonist’s uncle.

He was called a husband but it was more similar to a babysitter. This was because the biggest villain in the novel was a terminally ill patient with a terrible personality and a sick brain (really sick). They got married for the sake of happiness.

Xie Yang: It doesn’t matter if you are the male lead, the female lead or the villain, whoever dares to stop me from living a comfortable life will die.

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.”