King of succubus - Chapter 419 The invitation.

The Immortal Dao is ethereal, and Immortals are hard to find.

Li Nianfan had descended into the cultivation world as a mortal. After learning that he has no hope in cultivation, he only wants to live a peaceful life.

However…

The dog he adopts becomes a demon king of a generation when it sees his poems and paintings. It manages to suppress an entire world.

The tree he plants behind his house becomes a World Tree after listening to his zither music, forming a bridge between heaven and earth.

He meets a passerby who is enlightened by him and becomes an immortal sage who leads an entire generation.

When he looks back—

It turns out that the scholar who had been pestering him for his calligraphy and paintings despite having crappy chess skills, is a chess saint from the Immortal Realm. The beautiful woman who comes to listen to his music every night is the number one saintess of the Immortal Realm…

When Gao Ge is awake, he finds that he has returned to the earth before aura reappeared. The world will usher in an era of practitioners soon. Various schools of cultivation and families of ancient martial arts will spring up. As a man who is living a second life, Gao Ge will never let go of the chance to grasp the resources, cultivation methods and treasure places first.

In this era, there are many geniuses and I, Gao Ge, shall be the king of them.

When a person dies, they either die light as a feather (aka unimportant) or heavy as Mt. Tai (aka very important).

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.”