I Have a Manor in the Post-apocalyptic Era - Chapter 237 – Corpse Demon

“President Li, it’s not good, someone smashed into your office.” Li Zhenting’s rosy lips approached Shen Ning’s red lips a little bit, and suddenly, the secretary rushed over in a hurry.

“Bastard, who dares to be so bold?”

“Li, Mr. Li, a four or five-year-old little milk bag, said that you bullied his mother.”

“Uh…” Li Zhenting immediately stood up straight with a serious face.

“Li, President Li, it’s not good, your project information has been stolen.” Li Zhenting was holding a senior management meeting nervously, when the secretary ran over in a panic.

“Presumptuous, who dares to be so bold?” Li Zhenting was furious.

“Li, Mr. Li, three little milk bags, they said, you are sorry for his mommy.”

A group of executives secretly laughed.

Li Zhenting shrank his neck and cleared his voice: “Cough, cough, continue the meeting…”

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- Description from novelbuddy

In the mobile game Arcane Seoul.The day after I pulled the SSR Heavenly Demon for the first time…I ended up becoming the N-rank character, Warrior Kim.[2023 Grand Prize at the World’s Largest Web Novel Contest]

Marauders shot Yuan in the head and buried him in a ditch. They thought it would be enough to put him down. They were wrong.Rising from the dead by the will of the Gun, demigod of revenge and firearms, Yuan only has one goal in mind: track down his murderers across the Unmade World and slaughter every last one of them. With the bullet-core stuck in his skull marking him as a Gunsoul, he can finally teach these arrogant cultivators a lesson they’ll never forget.But revenge isn’t so easy to claim. To carve out a path through the wasteland, Yuan will have to face power-hungry sects, nuclear cultivators, and weapon-gods. Let them come. No one will bury him again.He’ll give them all a taste of Bullet Hell.

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.