Happy Little Farmer - Chapter 15 - Is Sister-in-law’s Tea Tasty?

Igor had asked him to die for the world. She would ask him to die for her. Problem was, he didn't really like dying, not for a second time, at least.

Death, Depression, Poverty, Love issues – all things that a 27-year no-name writer faces.

It’s a trend to take your grandfather along with you when passing through to another world, but we have kind of been cheated—have you ever experienced buy one get eight free?

Hong Xiaobao: “This opponent is a bit formidable. All you old-timers, hurry up and save me please! If you don’t appear, then this prince is going to get angry!”

Demon Emperor Meng Xianji: “Mockers, kill! Those who defy me, kill! Strong people, eat! Valuable treasures and materials, eat! Good equipment, steal!”

Wine God Xiao Sanshao: “Why must you be so brutal? If there’s something wrong, can we not just all sit down and have a nice chat? I’ll teach you how to taste wine, youngster!”

Medicine Immortal Tian Can: “You guys chat first. My condition today isn’t very good, so I’ll go rest first…. If you want to concoct some medicine, tell me after I wake up….”

Godly Craftsman Xi Hong: “Didn’t I just upgrade your equipment yesterday? What are you afraid of? Attack, youngster! Isn’t that right, Chen Nan?”

Formation Spirit Chen Nan: “En…. How about you go ask Mao Yue.”

Beast Emperor Mao Yue: “Today’s sunshine is too bright. I’m recalling that cat of mine who died because of menstrual pain….”

Hong Xiaobao: “Can you guys not be so misleading?”

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”