MTL - Game Materialization: My Identity As The Immortal Emperor Is Exposed - Chapter 188 Game test, the official server is ready to go online! (2

The year is 407 AD and Rome is at the precipice. In the West, a usurper by the name of Flavius Claudius Constantinus has declared himself emperor. By doing this, he and his traitor legions have fractured the Western Roman Empire into two. At the same time, the north bleeds! Countless germans swarm across the borders of the Empire and pillage its lands in their ruthless raids. Alaric, King of the Goths, rises to a position of prominence and threatens the ancient capital of the dying Empire with his barbarian hordes. As if things weren't bad enough, rumors from the east state that a mysterious power rises within the fogs of war, threatening to drown the Empire in a river of blood.

As a response to these threats, the indolent emperor Honorius has given orders to his supreme commander Flavius Stilicho to reclaim the province of Gaul from the usurper. However, should he leave the heartland of the Empire undefended, undoubtedly Alaric would invade. Thus, under the threat of barbarians at the gates, Stilicho dispatches a young roman general by the name of Titus Claudius Marcellus to bring an end to the reign of the usurper. Will Rome fall to the tides of barbarians and traitors alike? Or can Marcellus restore a world collapsing around him? Find out in Heir of Aurelian!

Hello, everyone. My name is Shen JianGuo. I’m a night school teacher. I mainly teach the subjects of (Marxist) philosophy and ethics. I occasionally review new policies and measures for the students. I never see my colleagues and students during the day. The training institute classrooms are all abandoned schools, hospitals, or houses. The bus number is 444 and it always appears in front of my door at 12 midnight and disappears before 5am.

What? You say I met a ghost? Impossible. As a staunch scientific materialist, I don’t believe ghosts exist in this world.

But recently I’ve had an issue to raise. Can the training institute bring the class time up a little bit? Wouldn’t it be good to start around 8pm? Though I fear nothing on earth or in the heavens, I’m afraid of going bald.

- Description from Novelupdates

As a rising Formula One race car driver, Ye Ci had always been criticized.

“Aloof and indifferent, unable to be reasoned with.”

“Suspected to have a mental illness, is this person really suitable for the track?”

“He doesn’t really love the sport, racing is just his way of venting his violent emotions.”

Huo Tinglan’s demeanor was always elegant and protective in front of the media, and he said that his husband was just quiet and introverted. After five years of marriage, they respected each other and were quite harmonious.

It was not until Ye Ci died unexpectedly during a race that Huo Tinglan gradually realized . . . . . .

He wasn’t quiet and introverted, but instead lifeless. Before finding his refuge, Ye Ci had gone through too many dark and painful moments.

After enduring years of suffering and longing, Huo Tinglan was unexpectedly reborn. Ye Ci was only eighteen years old this year, and everything was within reach.

Huo Tinglan was cheeky and went directly to his door to ask for a kiss.

- 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.”