The Sword Emperor Transmigrates - Chapter 62

When she was rejected by her fiance, everyone laughed at her. Little did they know, she actually loved her fiance's uncle, a trillionaire tycoon, for a long time.Later, she had four doting brothers, numerous secret identities, and a husband who was madly doting on her.Fu Shiyan smirked, pulling her into his embrace, “Dear, when shall we have our third baby?”

Reminiscent of no mere illusion within a world of urban supernatural abilities, the art of magic herein is one of rigorous objectivity and precision!The Magician's Code:1. Unwavering belief in science2. Never perform magic in front of muggles3. Never break the magician personaRemember, if someone asks, tell them it's sleight of hand, that magic is surely a farce, a complete farce!One day, Jiang Shu discovers he can gain corresponding supernatural abilities through his magic performances. Thus, on stage, he believes in science, but off stage, he strikes with mighty blows.Simple magic tricks, solving minor mysteries, this is the ordinary day-to-day life of an average magician in a cyberpunk world.(This cyberpunk setting has no direct connection with any game and doesn't present any barriers to reading)(This story includes logical reasoning, magical detective work, magic analysis, and a light-hearted everyday routine, all of which will be featured.)

Han-Yeol worked as a Porter, and one day experienced an unforgettable awakening, turning into a Hunter!

But… What?

He had to hunt monsters to level up, and could only gain skills by repeating actions?

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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.”