Losing Money to Be a Tycoon - Chapter 1511 - The Villain Is Actually Myself?

Everyone in the City of Jing thinks that bestowment of marriage between Xian Junwang and the daughter of the Yi’an Marquis House is to insert a fresh flower into manure.

Xian Junwang was that fresh flower and the di daughter of Yi’an Marquis House was that manure that was not liked.

It is said that what is heard is false, seeing is believing. Who knows what the truth really is?

- Description from novelupdates

[Pre-Author's Note: MC develops as time passes, it starts out slow but surely]“The Apocalypse isn't just fit for anyone... Without Strength, you're just a tool waiting to be exploited, So hurry the fuck up and get some strength already,”The world ended in an instant.One moment, Simon, a 20-year-old game designer, was sitting at his desk, immersed in code.The next, the sky cracked open and monsters poured into the streets.Werewolves with claws sharp enough to slice through steel.Undead skeletons that marched with deadly purpose and Zombies that infected humans with the power of their bite.The gods had unleashed an apocalypse, and humanity was no longer at the top of the food chain.Simon ran, he survived... and then he was granted a power.|Congratulations You have been binded to the Vampire Overlord System|He was something else.A vampire overlord.Yet the Apocalpyse had only just begun...

Though it felt a little awkward to be my good brother’s aunt, it was really exciting to find out how handsome and rich his uncle was.

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”