MTL - Legend of Swordsman - Chapter 135 Heavy Rain Strike (Part 1)

“Wait... Where am I and... who am i?”Just after he thought he was successfully betrayed and killed by his most favored surbodinate. Taylor finds himself on the floor of a remote alley“Don't tell me I got reincarnated?” Hutton muttered with a look of disbelief on his face.P.S; Join the novel discord server for any announcements or questions and answers sections

Business tycoon Ji Lingchen swore not to take a wife. He didn’t even have scandals to his name.

Until one day, when a wife was forced upon him, Young Master Ji began a new chapter in his life!

Assistant Jiang: Young Master Ji, Madam trashed Zhang Manor. Ji Lingchen: Get more people to help her out. Assistant Jiang: Uhm…

Ji Lingchen: Wait, has she calmed down? Assistant Jiang: No. Ji Lingchen: Inform the board to start the project of acquiring Zhang Group!

Assistant Jiang: Young Master Ji, Madam beat up Young Master Wei, and now he’s hospitalized. Ji Lingchen: Has she had enough?

Assistant Jiang: Doesn’t seem like it. Ji Lingchen: Let her continue. One day, Ji Lingchen learned that Fang Xiaonuan had gotten into another fight. He slammed the table and got up.

“Fang Xiaonuan, are you asking for a beating?” Fang Xiaonuan retorted, “Darling, you’ve changed. You didn’t use to be this way…”

Ji Lingchen pointed to her protruding belly and said, “You were alone before this!”

To be fighting when she was seven months pregnant not only frightened her opponent, but she also scared the wits out of Ji Lingchen.

Yet, Fang Xiaonuan was feeling pleased that she managed to win without a fight!

Fang Xiaonuan’s anger subsided and she stared at Ji Lingchen with puppy dog eyes as if she had been badly bullied. “

You win. You rascal, can you wait until the little rascal is safely born before you go fighting again?”

One day, Fang Jueyu was called into the study by his parents.Fang Father: “Son, you've turned 20 this year, and it's time to tell you some things!”Fang Jueyu: “What is it? You're not going to suddenly tell me you're a wealthy man, are you?”Fang Father is surprised: “You already know?”Fang Jueyu: “What? Really? I was just saying that.”Fang Father: “However, that's not the point. Today, I am going to pass on our family's heirloom that has been handed down from generation to generation to you!”From then on, Fang Jueyu's life underwent a dramatic change.What? You want to talk to me about antiques and calligraphy paintings? Do you want Wang Xizhi's calligraphy or Zheng Banqiao's paintings? Oh, right, Van Gogh even gifted my great-great-great-grandfather a painting!Why, you ask? Because it was my ancestors who funded their education!You want to talk to me about sports cars? Are you talking about Lamborghini, Ferrari, or the Bugatti Veyron? I hold shares in those companies, and I'm even the largest shareholder!What? Your family owns a mine? Sorry, but many of the gold and diamond mines in Africa are ours too!

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.”