The Savior is just a 3-Year-Old - Chapter 1487

I, Ning Daoran, have achieved what I have today step by step, relying solely on my own efforts!

A person carving out a path through life in a chaotic world.Zombies: Roar.Lin Fan: “We're all neighbors, why be so irritable?”Lin Fan: “I still need to go grocery shopping.”Lin Fan, looking at the zombified Xiao Qing: “Xiao Qing, I bought a few bottles of water, and I've already scanned the QR code.”Lin Fan: “Boss, I'd like to settle my wages.”Sunshine District, the community where Lin Fan lived, swarmed with countless refugees seeking shelter.We should learn from Lin Fan, adhere to the law, work for money, and strive to buy houses and cars, becoming outstanding citizens in a city overrun with zombies.

As a kind of punishment, the wings of a demon king were cut, and he eventually lost all of his power. To get back his power, he made a deal with the angel. He will go to the realm of humans to find a special girl with a special skill who is meant to be her queen. If the woman got pregnant, all of his sins would be forgiven, and he will regain all his powers. But he didn’t think that knowing her would be an adventure for him as the king of demons in the human realm.

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.”