Evil Emperor's Wild Consort - Chapter 1716: Qianbei Ye Returns 8

“You really want me to save people?”

Looking at the shivering victim in front of him,

Look at the [Owl’s Head Wire], [The Murderer’s Gift], [Universal Anesthetic], [Invisible Potion] in the item column…

Shiraishi touched the hideous mask on his face and fell into deep thought.

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“The Salary Thief in the Distillery”

“What does the vest do to me have anything to do with it?”

“There are limits to being a human being, I choose to be a cat…”

The magic version of Conan

- Description from novelbuddy

I found myself in a parallel universe, awakening as a male priest. Everything seemed perfect; after all, as a healer, specializing in aiding women should pose no issue, right? However, I couldn’t help but wonder about some peculiar spells in my repertoire.

Firstly, what in the world is the “Instantaneous Outbreak of Acute Gastroenteritis” spell? And don’t even get me started on the “Osteoporosis” spell. What purpose could these serve in my healing endeavors? The confusion only deepened with spells like “Blood Burn,” “Gradual Freeze,” and “Mental Chaos.” Can I still peacefully focus on healing women with such ominous abilities?

Comparing my spells to those of other professions, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast. Mages wield “Doomstorm” and “Ice Age,” swordsmen boast “Sword Rain: Homecoming” and “Wind-Cutter Slash,” while archers showcase “Arrow Rain: Shooting Stars” and “Storm Arrow.” Yet, my ultimate spells are disturbingly named “Cancer Cell Proliferation,” “T-Virus Infection,” and “Rabies Outbreak.”

In the midst of it all, a certain character, some crying girl, laments, “Noooo, I just took a bath, who would have thought that I would become infected!”

Meanwhile, a villain chillingly asks, “Do any of you know what it feels like to burst apart while spouting blood? No! You don’t know!”

Even a boss character confesses, “Dear family, who can understand? I just took a nap, and when I woke up, I suddenly found that I have no kidneys!”

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.”

In the City of Crime, one law stands above them all: Only the strongest can live.