MTL - Rebirth: National Crown Prince - Chapter 702 mother's diary

Roan crossed over and became an FBI agent.

Several years later, when interviewing the world-renowned detective Roan Greenwood, the reporter asked:

“Excuse me, what made you persevere on the road of solving the case?”

Roan tilted his head and glanced at the sports car beside him, the villa behind him, and the beauties in the villa, and smiled slightly:

“Of course it’s the bonus after solving the case.”

“???”

- Description from novelbuddy

The person with the best martial art skill in the world, whose prestige is unparalleled. The head disciple of TianQing sect, the leading sect of all Six Great sects, and Jianghu’s number one, Ming ChangYan shaoxia.

During a decisive battle, he slipped and fell.

His ten years of cultivation was completely annihilated and reduced to a normal human.

Fortunately, he was lucky enough to have fate decide that his life shouldn’t end there, and he survived.

The doctor told him, “To gain back your cultivation, enter the palace as a concubine!”

In order to get the medical herb that was given to the emperor by the XiYu Region, the immortal’s grass, Ming shaoxia could only wear a skirt, apply makeup, endure the humiliation, suffer patiently, and join the palace drama.

Ming ChangYan: This shaoxia is shameless.

Unfortunately, just as he dressed up in drag and entered the palace, he meets the man he once picked up from under a mountain.

…..

Ming ChangYan: I was joking just now…..this is too shameless!

If I were to be found out by him, my (old) number one reputation would go down the drain!

- Description from Novelupdates

Life Mission – a game that has become reality.

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.”