Single Spell Sorcerer - Chapter 12: White Fur

My past life: Ordinary. Mediocre.

What I want in this life: Riches. Power. Influence.

My goal: To be a prodigal son. A waste youth with riches and power. Maybe even sidekicks.

My name is Ye Lang, I’m an alchemist, and I’m also here to squander as much money as I can.

- Description from novelupdates

Ye Feng was transported to a cultivation world, but unfortunately had no hope of cultivating immortality and could only live as an ordinary mortal. He only wished to live a peaceful life.Yet he didn’t know—The dog he adopted, because it ate his food, became a legendary demon king.The kitchen knife he casually forged became a peerless divine weapon, causing numerous experts to fight desperately for it.The young disciple he took in became an immortal lord that led an era, due to cultivating the techniques Ye Feng taught him.Even the skeletons he looked down on the most were ominous demon kings that suppressed countless worlds.Many years later, looking at the void shattered with a punch, Ye Feng murmured to himself: It turns out the peerless kings were myself all along…

Broken-hearted and drunk, Yoshida, a 26-years old salaryman, stumbled upon a runaway-from-home high-schooler on his way back from the bar.

“Hey, you. JK.”*

“What the heck are you doing out here. Go home already.”

“Uncle, let me stay at your place for the night.”

“You can do ‘that’ to me if you let me stay.”

“If you meant that as a joke, it’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. It’s fine by me.”

“Then allow me to tell you that I have no interest in brats.”

“Hmm?”

“Then, just let me stay.”

Notes:

[*] JK is slang for Joushikousei (high school girl)

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.”