MTL - Chaotic Lightning Cultivation - ~ Section 917.

In Zhenhai City, the Chu Family receives an imperial decree that revives the hope of reclaiming their ancestral title, but only if a descendant places in the top three of the Martial Examination. For young Chu Yangxiang, who unexpectedly discovers he has Grade 1 Martial Dao Talent, this honor seems within reach. Yet, as he rises, envy and family rivalries emerge, with the privileged Chu Xiaoxiang demanding loyalty—or threatening to ruin him. Determined and battered, Chu Yangxiang faces a brutal choice: submit or fight for his family’s legacy. Will he overcome these powerful?

.In order to make up for the regrets of his past life, Ye Fan transfers to the high school Ning Xi attends after his rebirth, finding the beautiful figure from his memory. In his memories, Ning Xi lay on the operating table, using her last breath to say, “Brother, I... I like you...” In this life, watch how Ye Fan conquers the heart of the soft and genius school beauty step by step. ...

“Sect Master Uncle is just a mortal, who just happens to have his own ‘billion’ interpretations of various spells.”Atop Misty Peak, the sect’s senior disciple was educating the new beginners.At that moment, Sect Leader Ye Feng, holding a blade of grass, waved it gently, and a fierce Sword Qi split the sky in two, revealing a dark spatial rift that was difficult to heal, frightening the gods above.The new disciple pointed at the sky, shocked, “And you told me the Sect Leader is just a mortal?”

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.”