MTL - My Artist Is Reborn - Chapter 170 170th

‘Less than a month old… I became the the great empire’s treasured princess…!’

«Abbot Xinzi, by decree of the Celestial Grandmaster, hunt down the protagonists, snatch their women and destroy their destiny!»

In a world where demons walk among men and mystical beasts run amok, Xinzi, outer disciple of the White Immortal sect, must compete against his peerless senior brother to become the Sword Fairy’s dual cultivation partner. Failure isn’t an option.

But when the truth of his mysterious past resurfaces, and his identity clashes with the succeeding protagonists, will our monk hold on to the last embers of his humanity or sink…into utter depravity?

Follow Xinzi as he subdues the succeeding protagonists, corrupts their beauties, and bestows green hats on the path to attain Sainthood and establish a Paradise of Faith in Debauchery.

After three years of marriage, he never showed affection, so she decided to let go of herself and fulfill him and his white moonlight, fully devoting herself to her career.“Mr. Wen, please be self-possessed, we are already divorced.” Looking at the man in front of her, her expression was indifferent.The man's eyes were burning as he looked at the woman, deeply regretting his decision.He thought she was an ordinary woman, but she was actually an awe-inspiring genius doctor, the king of hackers who could bankrupt people overnight, and the fearsome Ghost-faced Flower.“After the divorce, you've repeatedly sought my attention, haven't you just wanted to reconcile with me? I'll be generous and give you a chance to pursue me,” the man said with a doting smile.

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.”