Kiss Goodnight, Mr.Ji - Chapter 11

The tombs of the gods have appeared in the world!

Jacob Steve, an Old Man, died at 116 after living a whole life.

But Jacob always had a dark side, which he always suppressed and hid from others.
However, in the later years of his life, when death was inevitable, he understood there wasn't any point in having wealth, knowledge, or desires if you couldn't have a life to enjoy them.

He became obsessed with fabled immortality and devoted his reaming life to extending his fleeting lifespan, but just like any other failed.

However, he mysteriously got another chance at life and found a way that led to fabled immortality.
But he was also forewarned that the way led to it was filled with blood and darkness!

In the end, Jacob chose it anyway with no way of going back, and it was also the start of his suffering and his icky, brutal journey toward the 'Immortality' he wanted so badly!

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.”