Peerless God of Cultivation - Chapter 98

Hunter woke beneath two moons with a System that wanted a hero and built a bandit instead.At first, it rewarded raids, recruits, and “efficient acquisitions.” His small crew became legends: raiders, thieves, and accidental conquerors who couldn’t stop winning.Every fight made him stronger. Every victory pulled him further from the hero he never wanted to be.Now, feared by sects and hunted by saints, the Bandit King laughs beneath the same two moons that started it all because when the System wants a hero, sometimes it gets a villain instead.Content Warning: slavery, graphic violence, and a protagonist whose system messages will hurt your sides.Join the official Discord: https://discord.gg/GRcKN8YV

He was supposed to die in the academy dungeon.Instead, Earth’s greatest war hero opens his eyes as Velorum’s most hated student—the “villain” everyone expects to be executed by midterms.Swordsmen duel, mages burn, saints bless, tamers command beasts. He, unfortunately, practices the one art people fear most: necromancy. He doesn’t want a throne or revenge; after a lifetime of medals and funerals, he wants something scandalous for a villain—to live well. To laugh after curfew, to taste street food, to keep the friends who chose him alive.But the church wants a heretic, the crown wants a scapegoat, and the academy’s golden hero can’t explain why the “villain” keeps winning.Call him monster, call him traitor—he’ll carve out a life worth living, and smile while he does it.

Stands in front of you,The overseer and protector of darkness,The disruptor and reinventor of order,The creator and persecutor of sycophants,The hidden actress queen, the goddess of the night, the nightmare of Gods and their gravedigger,The True Ancestor of Blood—Charlotte de Castell.Accompanied by madness, born from blood, hand in hand with curses, walking alongside destruction.This is a tale belonging to the Bloodborne…

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.”