MTL - My Cold and Beautiful Wife - Chapter 4291 true emperor

Through an array of coincidences, Alex comes to learn that making pills is one of the best ways to earn money in the game, 'Eternal Cultivation.'

Zhu Tong was born in a wealthy family, but the pampered young master suffered from a serious cleanliness addiction, and there were so many things that even God can’t stand it, so he was given a sickness and even coughed three mouthfuls of blood.

The day before his death, he was inexplicably bound to a system.

The system told him that he was actually a cannon fodder villain in a danmei novel who humiliated the heartthrob protagonist and suffered the consequences. If he wanted to survive, he had to find the only one in the novel, the white moonlight, who was not attracted to the protagonist and get full favorability from him.

In order to find him, Zhu Tong changed schools.

The new school was located in a remote small county with eight-person dormitories, a canteen for big pot meals, and only one public toilet in a teaching building.

Zhu Tong: In order to survive, he will endure!

- Description from Novelupdates

Yang Yang starved to death once, so after rebirth, he had only one wish: food and clothing.

However, in the blink of an eye, Yang Yang heard his uncle say that he had to cut open his stomach to take out the eggs.

Yang Yang: … I advise you to be kind.

In order to protect himself, Yang Yang found out the identity of the father from the birth center, and he embarked on a road of no return.

Yang Yang: Duke, your family is in my hand.

A young unmarried duke: ? ? ?

- 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.”