Tribulation of Myriad Races - Chapter 612: Buying A Research Center (3)

Su Xiaoxiu failed the college entrance exam and was admitted to a private university instead. Looking at the expensive tuition bill, her whole family was worried about how to pay for it. Should she take a gap year and retake the exam?

Just then, she suddenly got a progress system that gave her money every time she walked somewhere?! Looking at the large amount of money in the system, she was determined to improve herself and contribute something useful to society.

David travels to a month before the apocalypse, where countless zombies and mutant beasts have emerged.

At the brink of global catastrophe, he unexpectedly obtains a storage space of 50 million cubic meters, where any stored items receive a 100,000 times boost in effectiveness.

“Your stored Dongpo pork has received a 100,000 times boost!”

“Your stored fried chicken has received a 100,000 times boost!”

“You have discovered a portion of petroleum, receiving a 100,000 times boost!”

Before the apocalypse arrives, he stockpiles billions of supplies.

While others suffer from hunger and fight for a single pack of instant noodles, David leisurely enjoys red wine and steak within the safety of his fortress.

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Eight hundred years ago, Xie Lian was the Crown Prince of the Xian Le kingdom. He was loved by his citizens and was considered the darling of the world. He ascended to the Heavens at a young age; however, due to unfortunate circumstances, was quickly banished back to the mortal realm. Years later, he ascends again–only to be banished again a few minutes after his ascension.

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.”