My Muscles Adapt 10,000 Times Faster - Chapter 22: Tier-3 Muscle Strength

“Old Tang, you activated speed-related Genetic Base Points. What’s the direction of those Base Points?”

This question caused Tang Ting to have a melancholic expression.

“It’s… Hand speed…” “And the right hand at that!”

Xu Tui slipped onto a daze.

Hand speed and the right hand. This image…

Didn’t the teacher say that it was easier to activate the Base Points of the areas you use the most?

“Old Tang, just what do you use your hands for?”

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

From the end of the world to the ancient times, before Gu Yundong could breathe a sigh of relief, he found that he was on the way to escape from the famine.

And their family was being kicked out by their grandparents from the fleeing family team, and everyone else was watching from the sidelines.

The father is missing, the mother is stupid, the little radish-headed brother and sister have bony heads and huge heads, and the dying Gu Yundong only feels a toothache.

No way, just roll up your sleeves and do it.

Doing business, opening shops, and buying fertile farmland, Gu Yundong’s life is going well. If there is no one around who is staring at her and wants to marry her back home, she can go to heaven.

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”