Gacha Kingdom Building - Chapter 192: Wave After Wave

Time Sin is distinct, Numerical Sin is crafty, and Fate Sin is undefinable; when Sinners become calamities, all living things suffer!......Wondering about the population dividend in the Cultivation World?This book will tell you the answer!......Wang Zijia has transmigrated, obtaining the Golden Finger at the same time, which allows him to exchange his own body at will.But when he discovers what he can exchange with it, he is utterly speechless.Weights: Collection of Miscellaneous Literary WorksValue: 6Description: A treasure trove of knowledge for an adolescent, cultivated intensively for over a decade; it's a precious gem from a Foreign World with immense value!Wang Zijia: “... ...”Looking at one of the biggest Weights, Wang Zijia is momentarily speechless. Reading novels is actually one of his most substantial life experiences!......As he uses the Golden Finger to rewrite his futile life, he unwittingly forces his Spiritual Roots to produce an offspring, making the world start to seem different.All kinds of audacious schemes began to surface. Exploiting junior brothers, deceiving baby demonic beings, convincing the worthless ones that they are geniuses. Constructing his own channels and factions, inching his way towards survival on the road of immortality!

My girlfriend is too beautiful.

And, she treats me so nicely.

I didn’t even confess, I was confessed to.

So…

Why me…?

You Liangxing would never open the speech function in game.

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.”