The Way of a Demon Lord - Chapter 165: Breakthroughs

Both mortals and cultivators are afraid of death, yet Jiang Cheng isn't. With the Undefeated System, he could benefit from each of his deaths and comes back to life every time.“Ding, detected that the host is dead, the Undefeated System is officially activated.”“The host gains a hundred million lives, and once killed in the future, will be resurrected in full health within 30 seconds.”“In the midst of life and death, there is great opportunity, after resurrection, the host will surely defeat the opponent...”

What if your life was never your own?What if every choice, every breath, was ink on a page, and you were made to lose?Eris was written to fall.To burn. To become the villain everyone needed to hate.But she remembers everything now.The death. The second chance. The truth.And she’s done playing along.The world wants its villain back.It’s unraveling without her.But Eris is tired. So very tired.And if she must die again, this time, she’ll choose the ending.support me on PATREON: https://www.patreon.com/cw/Rosesarepink

To the one who has never owned, obtained, or enjoyed anything throughout their entire life.“You have been chosen.”Thus, I shall bestow this power on you, for you are ’empty.’The power of the Void.Be my apostle and carry out my will.

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.”