I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!! - Chapter 88: Signs of Recovery

Important notice, The Prodigal Son of the Ming Dynasty, also known as “Ming Song”.

Hongzhi eleven years.

It’s a beautiful morning.

At this time, Zhu Houzhao was just an adult.

At this time, Wang Shouren and Tang Bohu were sharpening their swords and preparing for the imperial examination.

At this time, the Little Ice Age has come, and the long and severe cold is raging on the earth.

At this time in Nanhebo’s mansion, Fang Jifan, the idiot son of the landlord’s family and Nanhebo’s direct heir…began his shameless prodigal life.

- Description from novelbuddy

The strong are always lonely, only by defeating loneliness can one become invincible in the world!Huang Xiaolong, a Direct Disciple of the Shaolin family on Earth, inexplicably crossed over to the Martial Soul World carrying the supreme Martial Arts secret text, “Yijinjing”.In the Martial Soul World, one can only cultivate Fighting Energy and become a warrior if they possess a Martial Soul. However, Huang Xiaolong, who originally had a super heaven-defying Mutant Martial Soul, was mistaken by his family for an ordinary Mutant Martial Soul during the awakening of his Martial Soul.But Huang Xiaolong, who possessed an “ordinary” Mutant Martial Soul, time and again revealed his astonishing talent, time and again defeated so-called supreme geniuses, and time and again shocked his family and the entire Martial Soul World!

All she was doing was playing QQ Farm, how did she end up waking up somewhere foreign?

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.”