My Beautiful Disciples, I'm really not the Main Character! - Chapter 116 - : Family

Chu Feng was transmigrated to a world of tamers, where everyone would gain their unique tamer talent at the age of 16. With the tamer talent, one could create a tamer space and form a contract with a beast.

After four years, He Yiming finally became a Sect Master, activated the sect system, and received sign-in rewards!

The system summoned the souls of humans from Earth, reshaped their bodies, and  made them disciples of the sect!

With that, the sect’s style of operation drastically changed!

Even though they couldn’t even kill the monsters in the novice village head, they just had to do a suicide attack to defeat it. That, and a whole lot of shenanigans as they innovate the world of cultivation!

A cauldron, a secret forging method, and his blood created an ultimate weapon. The youngest Sword Crafting Master on Earth had been reborn from another world. With the Nine Yang Divine Furnace and a scroll of Divine Equipment, he was like a fish in water, standing at the pinnacle of the martial way. There were tens of thousands of clans, billions of cities, and countless experts. He was the master of ups and downs!

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.”