Transmigrating To Ancient Times With A Kitchen - Chapter 357 - : The Quality of a Profiteer

I returned to Earth as the invincible Knight King. But the Gods came with me.

Listen here, because I've seen it with my very own eyes.William Oh was born on the hundredth floor of The Tower, to the greatest Climbers of the ancient world, steeped in the Tower's lethal miasma from the moment he drew breath, giving him strange and unnatural powers.They say he is an immortal being who circles the dreams of mortal men, resurfacing wherever the need is greatest. Those who disparage him will fall into despair, but if you're a Climber in a tight scrape, look to the sky and say a little prayer.Maybe he will appear?Odds are probably better if you pay for my drink.- Rumor overheard on a 1st Floor Tavern. Originator did not pay his tab.

Ace had always harbored feelings for his childhood friend, only to have his heart shattered when he learned she was secretly in love with Duke. The betrayal left him disheartened, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.That night, instead of waking up to another ordinary day, he opened his eyes in a completely different world—inside another man's body. Worse still, the first thing he heard upon waking was yet another rejection.Thrown into an unfamiliar land with a past he doesn't remember and a future he never planned for, Ace faces a choice: chase after love once more or embrace a new passion—one that comes in the form of an unexpected farming system. As he cultivates spirit crops and reaps rewards beyond imagination, he begins to wonder: perhaps love isn't found in a person, but in the soil, the growth, and the endless possibilities of the land.Will Ace sow the seeds of a new destiny, or will the echoes of rejection root him in the past?

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.”