From Nun to Real Heiress: Expert at Turning the Tables - Chapter 695 - : 357 Relics (15 more updates)_2

In America in 1995, the flame of the Internet had just been ignited, mobile phones were still bricks, and Hollywood movies had not yet entered the era of special effects. All these will enter another era due to the appearance of Song Yang.

Some media exclaimed that he is a new generation of Howard Hughes, just like what Hughes did back then, leading the trend and making countless people crazy, and Song Yang was worse than the original Hughes, he changed. an era.

But for the media’s comments, Song Yang just left a sentence, “I’m just me, history will give the answer!”

- Description from novelbuddy

Born naturally defective but possessed by the spirit of a divine dragon. Inheriting the divine dragon’s will and power, growing scales and magical claws, imperial waters containing the breath of the dragon, travelling through clouds and summoning rain, an invincible physical body. In this world and era, countless men dream of slaying dragons. Li Mu Yang has always lived a hard life.

Losing his parent early on, he had to survive in a world he couldn´t even see… Blind and left alone, he was seen as a parasite by the social hierarchy of the new ages filled with martial arts and soulbonds

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.”