Transmigrated as the Stepmother of a Rebellious Heir - Chapter 60 - 48 Ointment

In this world, there is the beautiful mutual and telepathy love.

Chen Miao transmigrated to a supernatural world, where everyone had their own profession, such as “Student”, “Fighter”, “Thief”, and so on.After much contemplation, he activated the “Gunslinger” profession.From then on!While the foreign races brandished their claws to invade, and others tirelessly trained their physical fitness and learned skills.Chen Miao silently ventured into secret realms to collect all sorts of materials, crafting Occupation Exclusive weapons like the “Thompson Submachine Gun,” “Falling Blossom Sniper Rifle,” “Inferno Gatling,” “Matrix Sky-Eye Cannon,” and so on....One day, people suddenly noticed that a very unfamiliar Supernatural Occupation had appeared on the city's Combat Power rankings.And in the crowd.Chen Miao, bare-chested under a black suit jacket with sunglasses on and a cigar in his mouth, held two Inferno Gatlings in his hands, looking up slightly at a group of scoundrels in front of him with the corners of his mouth turned up.“Don't wait for me to stuff the gun barrel in your mouth before you admit you were wrong.”

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.