MTL - You Look Like You’re Made of Money - Chapter 62

[Urban Martial Arts, Passionate Martial World.] He was a super expert who, due to accepting an inheritance, underwent a physical transformation that put his life at risk. To extend his life, the king returned...

Fu Qian gracefully removed his skull, as if a gentleman were taking off his hat to pay respects.…Everything began with a transcended-dimension invitation.It’s a story of a high-quality Thug turning the impossible into the possible.Of course, on that day, the great being behind the invitation was still unaware of what it had done.

The Great Thousand World. It is a place where numerous planes intersect, a place where many clans live and a place where a group of lords assemble. The Heavenly Sovereigns appear one by one from the Lower Planes and they will all display a legend that others would desire as they pursue the road of being a ruler in this boundless world.

In the Endless Fire Territory that the Flame Emperor controls, thousands of fire blazes through the heavens.

Inside the Martial Realm, the power of the Martial Ancestor frightens the heaven and the earth.

At the West Heaven Temple, the might of the Emperor of a Hundred Battles is absolute.

In the Northern Desolate Hill, a place filled with thousands of graves, the Immortal Owner rules the world.

A boy from the Northern Spiritual Realm comes out, riding on a Nine Netherworld Bird, as he charges into the brilliant and diverse world. Just who can rule over their destiny of their path on becoming a Great Ruler? In the Great Thousand World, many strive to become a Great Ruler.

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.”