MTL - The White-Haired Imperial Concubine - Chapter 208 Finale (5)

After choking to death on a watermelon, Rong Jiahui thought that she would enter the netherworld and be reincarnated.

But when she opened her eyes, she discovered, to her very horror, that she had returned twelve years into the past…

Looking at the beautiful and awkward “little brother” that would be conferred the title of Marshal in the future for outstanding military service, she almost let out a snort of laughter.

She firmly decided to hug the thigh of this little brother, and climb to the top of her life!

The plan was beautiful, but it had just one problem.

Why had this little brother… suddenly turned into…

A little sister…

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“Beast Forge? What the hell is that?”He thought while walking out of the alley. The streets were almost empty, with only the homeless wandering around, picking up anything valuable that was dropped. He walked over to join them, still thinking he needed to do this to survive. But as he bent down, a black screen appeared in front of him, with white text displayed on it.[Beast Forge system activatedUser successfully registeredScanning user... doneUser has not awakened, cannot use Beast Forge.Analyzing for possible solutions.... doneMission: Run 10 km before 00:00Reward: Force awakeningFailure: Loss of the Beast Forge systemWill you accept this mission: YES/NO]

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.”

In the year 1368, at the end of July, deep crimson shall descend from the heavens.

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