Arc of Fire - Chapter 8: Evil Spirits in the Smoke

Ye Qinghan, young master of the powerful Ye Family, gets ostracized when his peerless father meets an unfortunate end. Lacking strength and in a bid to live a Purposeful life, he suffers through the unending ridicule, bullying and torture dealt to him at each turn. However fate is a cruel mistress and offers only pain and misery with no end in sight. Broken, weak and distraught, Ye Qinghan embarks on a journey to usurp the hands of fate and attain strength to protect his own.

Follow Ye Qinghan on his journey fraught with perilous encounters, betrayals and fortune as he seeks to overturn the heavens, defy fate and grasps his destiny in his arms.

- Description from Novelupdates

The world is in an age of change between the old and the new society, and the collision of politics, economy, thought and culture is becoming more and more violent.

Moster Verak, a photographer from the slums of Zward City, was reborn two months ago, starting from impersonating the son of a consortium again, stirring everything and subverting the world in the turmoil of rapid industrial development and wild expansion of ambition.

[Overhead world, please do not compare reality]

- Description from novelbuddy

The world was consumed by a vile corruption brought from beyond – the sun dimmed, and life as we know it was almost extinguished.And yet it was not the end but merely the beginning.Long after the disaster, a lone survivor awakens with a newfound power to wield the divine flames and many questions about the past. He embarks on a long journey to burn the rot away, discover what's left of the old world and maybe, just maybe, ascend to divinity.

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.”