Corrupted Priest - Chapter 11

Monster! Internet writer Mo Fan is traveling through time!

Not dressed as a protagonist, not dressed as a villain, not dressed as an unrivaled powerhouse.

He actually became the ancestor of a miscellaneous fish villain in his book who only lived less than ten chapters, and became the grandfather in his ring.

Looking at his illusory soul body, he thought about the only resurrection material he had set.

Sorry, Lin Yang, I want to be resurrected.

Let my little great-great-grandson take your chance.

Grandpa in your ring, don’t live, let me live!

(Book friend group 839934306, welcome.)

- Description from novelbuddy

In her previous life, she had misjudged people, mistaking enemies for kin. It wasn't until her body sank to the ocean floor that she had a sudden realization.Reborn seven years earlier, she grasped the Water-Repelling Pearl in hand, navigating unimpeded through lakes and oceans, ready to gather endless treasures. She vowed to carve out her own realm in the marine and collectibles industries.Before the conspiracies could even begin, she strategized every move. She would settle all past grievances—what was being a wealthy heiress? She would be the wealthiest of them all!

Irene Pareira is a boy who sleeps to run away from reality.

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.”