MTL - Wanderer of Myriad Worlds - Chapter 64 Fight

‘I must entertain the masses.’ This was Jester’s lifelong goal.After leading 12 different lives as a Hero, King, Sage, Jester, and more, all he wanted was to mock the king and his court.Unfortunately for him, his majesty didn’t appreciate his vicious jokes.Jester died, trying to flee for his life. But death wasn’t the end for him.For his 13th and last life, he triggered the Archetype System and reincarnated in a world of magic and perils.[This is your last life. Don’t waste it!][Welcome to the world of Archetypes!]Oh, before I forget, soon, players from Earth would flood into his new world.But even players won't escape from his clutches! Even people from the Earth will be tamed!

Young Chen Xiang had a fateful encounter with a goddess & demoness and received their peerless heritage, divine pulses, ultimate martial arts, and transcendent alchemy techniques, which gave him an easy ride in his journey of cultivation.

In the rural northeastern mountainous regions stands a tiny Buddhist temple, named One Finger Temple. It isn’t a large one but it is extremely miraculous.

The temple has rice that emanates an aromatic fragrance.

The temple has sweet and refreshing water that rivals ambrosia.

The temple has Buddhas that grant wishes to the sincere.

The temple isn’t large but it has everything. The temple isn’t large but it has flourishing incense offerings that far exceed all temples. The temple isn’t large but it attracts both citizens and foreigners that line up overnight…

The temple has a bald but handsome monk. Every day, he would bawl, “I want to renounce asceticism! I want to marry a chick that’s not too pretty, have a cute baby, and lead a stable life!”

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.”