Follow the path of Dao from infancy - Chapter 97 - 87 So What?

I don’t know the length of Hydra, or the depth of S.H.I.E.L.D.

I don’t know that Ant-Man has an outfit, and I don’t know that the Winter Soldier has an iron fist.

I don’t know that there is chaos in the Bliss Space, and I don’t know that Miss Xiaoyu wants to get married.

I don’t know if the walking corpse is cheating, I don’t know whose fault the alien is.

I don’t know the legend of mutants, I don’t know that Kryptonians can’t afford to provoke them.

I don’t know that Black Panther’s family has a mine, and I don’t know that Iron Man is a mess.

I don’t know what happened to Lei Shen’s family, and I don’t know that Thanos is thinking about making troubles.

He doesn’t know the past or the way forward, he only knows that he stands firm at the critical moment and cannot be cowardly.

- Description from novelbuddy

The king of assassins was reborn, mastering both alchemy and poison. Sitting inside the space, there was a ghost that loved crying.

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.”