Sharing Talents with Countless Versions of Myself - Chapter 1 – I rely on myself to become stronger

I just woke up and the beautiful disciple was feeding me medicine. I drank it without any precautions. As a result, when the beautiful disciple came out, I scrolled through my memory and found out...Oh my god, I traveled to another world and became the Supreme Pontiff of the Qian Xunji Spirit Hall?!In the beginning, I encountered a situation where Tang Hao seriously injured me and Bibi Dong was going to kill me in revenge.Fortunately, I activated the Villain Douluo System. As long as I make the righteous miserable, I can continue to become stronger.Tang San, Yu Xiaogang, Tang Hao... your nightmare is approaching.

You might not believe it when I say this, but not all top students are the same!-------------------------------No system, high intelligence, character-driven slice-of-life book!

– The planet [Earth] has entered the abnormal state [Apocalypse].

– You have failed in saving the Earth. The Authority, [Vintage Clock (EX)] rewinds the world’s time.

For Yu Jitae, it was a message he had seen many times.

It was tiresome.

It would have been great had he died with everyone else.

But he couldn’t, for his authorities that made him the strongest existence, brought him back in time whenever he did.

And even with his strength, he couldn’t protect the broad earth against the maddened dragons.

– The world’s time will soon begin.

As the clock resumed ticking in the direction it should, his 7th iteration came to a start.

Fortunately, he finally had a gist.

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.”