MTL - First Evolution - v15 Chapter 59 weird memory

In the age of the Great Liang Dynasty, the lives of the people were made convenient with steam-powered machines that run on a fuel named Violetstream Gold. Chang Geng, who lived in a small countryside village, shared a distant relationship with his mother while his stepfather was away most of the year round, and the only people he was close to were two little kids, the village teacher, and his yi fu – adoptive father. But his life was flipped upside down one day following the barbaric Man tribes’ invasion, and it turned out that his entire identity had been an illusion – not only was Chang Geng himself not the country boy he thought he was, but also his mother, his teacher, and even his beloved yi fu…

Noah Brown had a gift for fighting. Unfortunately punching things didn't pay the bills, at least until he died and an Eldritch god found his soul. The encounter led him to a new world, summoned by bloody cultists, with nothing but the shirt on his back, and a strange item in his system menu.

[???] : A source of infinite potential.

Perhaps he'd finally get to put his gifts to good use.

The Heavenly Voice was bestowed upon the world, and so the calendar of the Great Dao began. The world entered a new age of digitized cultivation. Humanity activated the immortal destiny seal to become cultivators.

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.”