Cultivation: Start From Upgrading My Computer - Chapter 95 - : Mysterious Old Man

In the Canglan Continent, there existed a rule: only those who managed to awaken a Martial Spirit were able to pursue the path of cultivation, and a Martial Spirit’s rank was determined when it was awakened. Born in Linshui City, Qin Nan was a peerless genius who possessed great talents and was highly anticipated to become a great cultivator in the future. However, things changed when he ended up awakening the lowest-grade Martial Spirit, resulting in him being considered trash.

After being set up and killed by her half-sister whom her ex-boyfriend had cheated with, Mu Siyin woke up one day to discover that not only was she alive, but she had traveled back in time to 2 years before her death.

On the dawn of a fresh New Year, an ominous figure emerged, shrouded in a guise of an angel but harboring the malevolence of a devil. With a chilling voice, it proclaimed, [Every month, you humans will be thrust into a perilous quest. Your survival hinges on overcoming 20 grueling rounds.]Suddenly, I found myself ensnared in this dangerous survival game, a grotesque merry-go-round where every turn carried the stench of death. Yet, I was not without any defenses. I possessed an unusual power: the power to regress 100 times, a chance to rewrite my fate.I stand on the precipice of my final regression, and I swear, ‘This time, I will conquer it. I will emerge victorious.’I’m no longer the insignificant shuttle that I once was. Today, I shed my former self, the one who had reached the pinnacle of power. Today, I am reborn for the last time as Black Scythe, a rookie player, a novice that once again will be become the Grim Reaper!

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.”