Turns Out, I’m from a Real Aristocratic Family! - Chapter 192 - : Money Always Trumps Love

A broken man who ended his own life finds himself reincarnated into the game he used to play. However, instead of becoming the protagonist or a powerful antagonist, fate places him in the role of a minor villain—a mere stepping stone for the protagonist in the game's first arc.

The mountain village boy accidentally got the fairy gourd, and he rose step by step to cultivate immortality and longevity.

Ripe elixir, mortal flow.

- Description from novelbuddy

Jiang Feng considered himself just an ordinary delivery guy.Until one day, a young man suddenly appeared, carefully grabbing his hand and saying, “Judge, Judge, I am the King of Hell.”“…” Jiang Feng replied, “King of Hell, King of Hell, I am also the King of Hell.”The King of Hell turned around, tearfully addressing the Black and White Impermanence, “I knew it, he’s been wanting to usurp my position for a long time!”—-“Those people all say that Heaven has the virtue of cherishing life, and tell me not to dwell on it anymore. Is it true that after people die, they don’t even have the right to appeal for justice?”“They look at life and death, I only judge right and wrong.”“Who are you?”—”The Judge.”

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.”