MTL - Strongest Abandoned Son - v2 Chapter 147 Each has a calculation

Ling Lang is thirty-two years old and an A list movie star. He is also the youngest to become the king of the silver screen. Known for having a cold and aloof disposition, people nicknamed him king iceberg of the silver screen. His biggest secret? He is a masochist down to his very bones.

- Description from Novelupdates

Ji Qingzhou was anthropophobic and foolish. She had no redeeming qualities, except for her face.

Once she transmigrated, she was bound to a Guide System to save the world. She was tasked with capturing Shen Rongyu, the sinister, beautiful, mighty, gloomy villain and Great Shixiong of Xuanyun Sect, and to prevent him from destroying the immortal cultivation world in the future.

Can Ji Qingzhou, who had been single for 20 years, learn how to capture a villain?

Of course not.

She started off terribly, and muddled through the tasks that the system issued.

- Description from Novelupdates

Lu Jiangxian died after staying up late one night. Yet, he finds his soul trapped in a fractured, bluish-gray bronze mirror. He falls into a boundless world of immortal cultivation and finds himself in the perilous landscape of Mount Dali. There, a small family from a small village by Meiche River picked the mirror up and is bestowed with the ancient teachings of the immortal ways, heralding the dawn of a splendid new era.

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.”