The First Lich Lord - Chapter 122

The Descent of the Dragon Tower.A young man refines the nine Dragon Emperors, cultivates the invincible Dragon Body of eternal glory.Slays the emperors of myriad heavens, gods, and demons alike, defying gods and Buddhas.Invincible across nine thousand realms!

“….Krische-sama, are you not afraid of killing people?”

“……? No. After all, it doesn’t hurt Krische.”

Although gifted with the talent to do anything with ease, the girl lacked empathy.

In her world, there is only loss and profit. No goodwill, no love.

Inhumanly recognizing cold, mathematical logic as everything, she looks at everything in the world through calculating lens.

Return given profit with profit, loss with loss.

The girl was undoubtedly pure, yet undeniably abnormal—

Her favorite things are cooking, food, and being pampered.

Her specialty is mu*der.

—- This is the story of a slightly unhinged girl being surrounded by kind and loving people, and her journey to find happiness.

Coincidentally, indoorsy-guy Zhang Yang went to the cultivation world, being the lowest level of zombie. By using a manual book named: “ Tai Yin Refining Figures”, Zhang Yang find his own way to success and leaves a “If a zombie knows how to use a manual, nobody can stop it “ legend in the world.

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”