Just Because I Have Narrow Eyes Doesn't Make Me a Villain! - Chapter 62: All-Out War

What is luck? Walk to pick up money? Buying a lottery ticket will win the jackpot?

Qin Yun picked up a copper coin and activated the wealth luck system.

“The balance has reached 10,000, and you can open a first-level fortune-gathering array every month. To open a second-level wealth-gathering array, you need a balance of 1 million…”

(The group has been established, group number: 614799090, interested book friends can join and discuss the plot together.)

Wang Sheng is a fortunate soul who was granted a second chance by the heavens.After he died in his previous life, Wang Sheng finds himself waking up in his younger-self’s body while retaining all the memories of his past life. He remembers that he died in a gang fight due to his lack of cultivation level. He had wasted a lot of time in his past life on internet cafés and idling.In this life, Wang Sheng decides to change his fate once and for all by cultivating properly instead of relying on random cultivation methods from the internet. As he seeks guidance from masters of different sects, he is introduced to the world of cultivation, as well as the dangers and evils that lie within. Now that he is involved in the world of cultivation, will Wang Sheng be able to navigate through the dangers of the cultivation world while redeeming himself with the help of his past-life memories?

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.”