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... er, she is a vampire and cannot die.

The Holy King has always been calm and self-sustaining, but at this moment, all kinds of complicated emotions came to her heart, breaking down all her masks.

In her heart, it rained hard.

I don't know when it started, Song Nianying seemed to be connected with her emotions, she frowned, leaned back on the seat, and slowly closed her eyes.

She refuses to communicate with her.

I don't want to see her teary eyes.

Song Nia ...

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Gu Yang crossed over to a high-martial world, eked out a living in small village for two years, and finally saved up enough and activated the Life Simulator system.

With a certain amount of money, a simulation can be run.

After the simulation ends, one of the three can be retained: realm, martial arts skills, or life wisdom.

[For five years you were an accountant, saved up enough money to buy a cultivation manual, practiced hard for ten years and became a Ninth Realm martial artist, but then ran into an enemy and died!]

[Once you left the mountains, you were at the Ninth Rank, became a protector of a certain family, practiced intensely for twenty years, broke through to the Eighth Grade, and ultimately, died of old age in a small town.]

[Once you left the mountains, you were at Eighth Grade, received recognition from a noble clan, were taught profound martial arts, but due to slow progress, were marginalized, and after a dozen years, you finally broke through to the seventh grade, but then encountered powerful foes on a mission and were killed.]

After countless rounds of simulations: [You encounter people, but none are a match for you. You realize that you have become invincible.]

……………………………………………………………

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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.”