MTL - Arrival of the Alternate World: My Identity as the Holy Emperor Got Exposed by My Daughter - Chapter 95 The rich spend more money playing!

Born with the fate of a slaughterer, but all he wanted to do was help.

You were taken to another world by a ghost ship.

You are uneasy.

There are ravings in your ears, accompanied by weird bgm, you sing and dance rap in pain.

You pick up a magic lamp, and after making a wish, it says it’s just a lamp.

You are impoverished, and you swear by your personality that you made a deal with the devil, and in the end the devil was sold by you.

You are walking on the road, and you meet a down-and-out princess who is begging for a child with a lot of money, and you yell “Mom~” in the street out of the principle of helping others

In the middle of the night, you flipped through the pages of “Ten Thousand and One Nights” in your hand, and your excitement became stronger and stronger…

- Description from novelbuddy

Sixty years after the global catastrophe, the Little Freeze Period ended, and the governments of the living regions began to collect land in the anarchic areas to be planned on a large scale, reorganized resources, and entered the recovery stage in an all-round way. These two decades are also called “golden Twenty years”.

This is a bright era in which new regions are rising one after another, politics is set up, capital is acting, careerists are everywhere, heroes are powerful, villains and grassroots are rising together! A young man rises up in troubled times with a full stomach of strategy, hides a tiger in his chest, and measures the world.

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”