MTL - The King of Special Warfare - v7 Chapter 584 : Sword Light of Dibing Mountain

Shu Wan, the most outstanding daughter of a high-status family from a feudal dynasty, travels a thousand years into the future, becoming the new lady of the Fu family in the capital.------Her husband in name has gone overseas to explore markets, leaving behind a rebellious son whose name resounds throughout the capital.------Upon first meeting, the rebellious son speeds past on a motorcycle with his silver-white hair flying, “Isn't that my stepmother who's 6 years older than me? Skinny arms and legs, but with grand ambitions.”Before he finishes, Shu Wan leaps up and plucks him off the motorcycle with one hand, “Watch your mouth.”------Fu Yang is consistently at the bottom of his grade, especially with his Chinese language scores never passing 50.Shocked by his atrociously written exam papers, Shu Wan asks, “Are you even Chinese?”Fu Yang is defiant, “Aren't you a dimwitted academic failure yourself, what right do you have to criticize me?”Yet the next second, as Shu Wan smoothly writes down 'Ancient Prose Paragon' with a brush, it's Fu Yang's turn to be astonished.Isn't she a walking dictionary?------Fu Siyu returns from his overseas expansion earlier than expected, thinking he would come home to chaos.However, upon entering the door, he sees the usually defiant Fu Yang sitting obediently practicing his calligraphy with a perfect score exam paper beside him.And his reputedly timid wife, in a sleek black high-slit dress, confidently struts to the music, drawing the attention of everyone.But none of that is the focal point. The focus is on Fu Siyu's gaze, sharp as a knife, directed toward the dance partner's hand resting on Shu Wan's lower back, “Let go.”Note: The son is not the biological child of the male lead.

Li Xuan found himself in a predicament after transmigrating without the luxury of a system or plug-ins. To evade notice, he took refuge in a small mountain village. However, one day, he was mistaken for a reclusive expert, he was forcefully adopted as a master by an eager disciple who refused to take no for an answer.

Struggling with his moral compass, Li Xuan initially rejected the disciple’s proposal due to his commitment to honesty. Yet, faced with persistent insistence and tempting offers, he reluctantly crafted fictional cultivation techniques. Much to his astonishment, the disciple not only embraced these fabricated teachings but successfully cultivated with remarkable prowess.

Witnessing his disciple’s thunderous muscles, resilient bones, and potent vital force, Li Xuan couldn’t fathom the inexplicable success. Bewildered, he exclaimed, “I fabricated it all! How did you manage to cultivate so successfully? What kind of monster are you?”

To add to the perplexity, a mysterious Golden Finger manifested: “Your disciple mastered the technique you invented from scratch. Your flawless completion of the technique has enhanced your strength a hundredfold compared to others at the same level!”

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Damian, a Centurion of the Punishment Unit of the Baroque Kingdom. “Damn it.” Just once. If I were given just one more chance… ‘I would have truly conquered the battlefield with these guys.’ At the age of 30, he closed his eyes on a nameless battlefield. But when he opened them, he found himself back 17 years in the past. And this time, he had a perfectly functioning mana core that could wield magic. ‘This time.’ I will rise higher than anyone else. I won’t be swept away by the turbulent times. ‘I will conquer.’ Damian, who has returned to the past, wields his spear toward the world.

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.”