MTL - I Was a Top Student In Conan, But I Was Actually An Onmyoji - Chapter 209

The 13th disciple of the Great Mount Hua Sect. One of the Greatest Third-Generation Swordsmen. The Plum Blossom Sword Master, Chungmyung.

After slicing the head of the peerless Heavenly Demon, who threw the world into chaos, he slept an eternal sleep on the peak of the Hundred Thousand Great Mountains. Jumping over a hundred years, he comes back in the body of a child.

But… what? Mount Hua declined? What the hell are you talking about!?

It’s only natural to want to live if you’re going broke.

“Decline? Even though I’m here? Who would dare!”

Plum blossoms eventually fall.

But when the cold winter passes and spring comes, plum blossoms shall bloom again.

“But I’m gonna die first before Mount Hua gets revived! If you’re gonna go bust, might as well do it right, you bastards!”

The beginning of the Plum Blossom Sword Master, Chungmyung’s solitary struggle to save the thoroughly declining Mount Hua Sect.

After facing her fiancé’s betrayal, things take an unexpected turn after Tang Mo’er inadvertently gets involved with the Capital’s preeminent magnate, Gu Mohan.

Fast-forwarding, Tang Mo’er clenches on a pregnancy test kit with two red lines—testing positive—and confronts him. “Young Master Gu, why did you make me pregnant?”

Gu Mohan hands a baby over into her arms. “My dearest wife, be good. That’s our second child.”

And so Tang Mo’er can only hustle and take care of her two children, but unbeknownst to her, Young Master Gu has also been coveting her love and affection…

This is a face-smacking, sweet-love novel set in the entertainment industry.

- 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.”

“Could you become my daughter?”