MTL - Global Job Change: I Can Increase Blue Infinitely - Chapter 93 convincing to lose

Someone once saw me at the end of the world and respectfully called me the serpent that coils around the world—Jörmungandr.Someone once gazed upon my form at the edge of the Underworld and called me an ancient serpent—Satan.I was also feared by the gods and was called the hundred-headed dragon—Typhon.I have had many names—the serpent of creation, the serpent of sacrifice, the serpent of ceremony, the serpent of the world...But I have wandered through the chaos and arrived at the wilderness. There is only one divine name—the Primordial Ancient Serpent, the origin of everything.

After Chu Xia transmigrated, the villain forcefully grabbed onto his chin. With a gloomy expression and dark eyes, he coldly said, “Since you really enjoy hiring people to ruin others, why don’t you get a taste of your own medicine today.”

Chu Xia glanced at the goons standing behind the villain with eyes filled with a third of ridicule, a third of disgust, and a fourth of disappointment: That’s it? That’s all you got?

Gong before: He isn’t worthy of being compared to XXX. / Stay away from me, don’t touch me. / I’m straight, don’t get any ideas…

Gong after: So fragrant.

- 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.”