MTL - After Fishing For 10 Years, I Became A Saint Without Knowing How To Raise Beasts - Chapter 464 Interesting Patriarchs in Tiandu Division (Part 2)

I am Supreme

At the beginning, he became the most famous prodigal in America. Facing the danger of going bankrupt, how could Chen William turn the corner and become a big shot in the fame and fortune circle?

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Thirty Years East, Thirty Years West. Don’t you bully the young and poor!Split open the sky!Go against Heaven!Sick and tired of that kind of cultivation quote and troupe? The never-ending long grind that seemed to have one world after another once you supposedly reached the false apexes?Well, it’s time to broaden your horizons! You shall now be blessed with the perspective of someone who’s at the top of the top: Ye Ming.Someone who had foolishly decided to experience mortal life before realizing how crap it was. It was time to return to his real life.“I wasn’t born with a diamond spoon, but born with the endgame life.” Ye Ming laughed sinisterly. He was the sole Young Master of a family who dominated everything already.Trash cultivation? Trash spiritual roots? Trash background?Sorry, but that ain’t Ye Ming!However, he does have one great and relatable trait: procrastination.

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.”