My Two-sided Cultivation: Starting From Collecting Experiences - Chapter 119 - An Accident! Destructive Fist!

This book is also known as “I Eat Soul Beasts Raw”, “I’m Really Not Twin Martial Souls”, “Suck! The Blue Silver Emperor smells so good” “Tang San, I’m really sorry! “” Tang San, this is how the blue silver grass is used! “…

Each soul master level can only absorb one soul ring?

Find an ultra-small soul beast, can it still run if it eats the soul ring directly?

Mo Bai, who has a modern mindset, never thought that he would become a foodie one day.

But… really fragrant, especially the blue silver grass guarded by Tang Hao, really fragrant!

There is no twin martial soul, and there is no need for a master to teach.

The hunting of soul rings does not depend on the age, let alone the accompanying soul skills, but only on what kind of evolution the absorbed soul ring can bring to the martial soul itself!

Mo Bai, who also awakened the blue silver grass spirit, told Tang San with the facts, the blue silver grass spirit is not what you use!

ps: There is already a finished copy of the boutique Douluo “The Douluo from Blowing Up the Soul Ring”

Friendly reminder: This book is not an opening flow, and it is not the beginning to eat the Blue Silver Emperor!

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”

As a virtuous wife, does it include tolerating his cousin, enduring his concubines, bearing his mother?