MTL - The Five-year-old Milk of the Xuanmen Group’s Favorite Boss - Chapter 533 The small pillars of the Sanqing Taoist Temple need face!

Rimu Dynasty, Kingdom of chaos. Demons were rampant, and it was difficult for people to live.

Gu Qing’an had not yet had the opportunity to appreciate his beauty upon transmigrating in this world, as he had to face the demon who targeted and devoured humans.

Fortunately, she had a system.

“I, Gu Qingan, have never been weaker than others. System, add it to me.”

……

Many years later, Gu Qing’an, standing on the frozen void, looked at the newly discovered strange world under her feet without any expression.

“Compared to human beings, alien existence is a demon,” she thought to herself.

“Then, are all creatures in this entire world considered demons?”

- Description from Novelupdates

As the final dragon lay defeated, Aaran stared at the sky while the rest celebrated.[Awaiting the gods’ response...]He clenched his fists, his heart pounding. A shred of hope flickered in his eyes, only to be extinguished like always.[The attained outcome was deemed unsatisfactory.]Aaran had seen the message for the twentieth time. He had become the gods’ plaything in their desire to witness the “perfect ending”.He regressed once again, but this time as a toddler and charm being the only stat he had.But something was amiss. The world he remembered had changed. Powers that did not exist before had taken hold of the world.Tired of following the traditional route, Aaran chose to fight darkness with darkness… as the gods’ chosen necromancer!

There’s an ancient saying in Great Ruins, ‘Don’t go outside when it’s dark.’

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.”