Start as a Spiritual Planter: I Have a Game Panel - Chapter 122: Mutant Hemophagic Murlocs

“Boss, Madam wants to play a role in a movie.”

“Invest in a movie and make her the lead role!”

“Boss, Madam wants to be a model…”

“Bring international models for her to use as a stepping stone!”

“Boss… Madam wants to be a singer…”

“Buy 1 million copies in advance!”

In her past life, Bai Qingyan hurt the man who loved her. He looked at her lovingly as he fell to his death and she realized she loved him all too late. To live a life once again, she vowed to grasp this happiness with him. No longer will she regret.

“Who calls my name? You aren’t worthy! Also, it’s time to pay off the debt and enmity incurred from the past. Are you ready?”

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Get the power of the steel chain fingers in “JOJO”, form your own family force, and completely subvert the world of pirates!

I am BIG.BOSS, Mafia Victor!

- Description from novelbuddy

This is a story of the flesh pushing everything.

In the Great Ye Dynasty, darkness descends, full of evil spirits and ghosts, killing invisible.

In the face of demons and evils, ordinary people can only shiver, curl up in the corner, and wait for their lives to come to an end.

Jiang Dao came through, carrying a martial arts modification system, and any martial arts can be modified infinitely as long as he glances at it.

The mad magic stick method, the eagle claw iron cloth shirt, the poisonous sand palm, the violent ape magic… are all revised to the realm of a thousand years later.

Facing the evil spirits, Jiang Dao had a burly body, muscles all over his body, and his eyes were like electricity.

“Evil spirits? Who said martial arts can’t kill evil spirits?”

- 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.”