MTL - Joy of Life - v7 Chapter 128 Cloth single sword Chaotianzi (2)

The era of the great pirates.

The sea is surging, the strong are destroying the sky and the earth, and they are fighting each other. It really makes people——

Can’t get up!

I, Rusilu Cullo, twenty-four years old, my biggest dream:

Live this life safely!

- Description from novelbuddy

When I woke up, my father was a nouveau riche whom everyone despised, and I had five great brothers: a black actor in the entertainment industry, a useless lawyer in the field of law, a sickly quack in the medical field, a plagiarizing dog in the design industry, and a school bully.

When he was categorised as an Omega at the age of 13, Rong Yi made a tiny little wish. In the future, he wanted to fall in love with a tall, handsome and elegant Alpha whom he could share a romantic love with, then build a blissful family with him and give birth to many cute babies together.

A few years later, he grew into a tall, handsome and elegant Omega and was passionately pursued by countless admirers of the same gender, while all Alphas backed away from him in face of his superiority.

This was not the life he wanted.

- 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.”