Becoming a Russian Oligarch After Rebirth - Chapter 1272 - 1036: A Period of Three Years

Tu Xiao'an dies due to an accident and he is luckily reborn as a snake with a system. As long as he gobbles down some preys, he could speed up his course of evolution and gain more power to protect his family.'Mom, Sis, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for making you grieve!''One day, I'll stand before you again, out in the open, and take care of you!'

The plague of insects descended overnight. As an ordinary person without invincible powers and extraordinary exercises, facing blood and death, what should we do at the critical moment of life and death?

(I am a reasonable party, but the novel needs appropriate YY, please do not excessively investigate the rationality of the background in a razor-sharp way.)

- Description from novelbuddy

Twenty years after the slow apocalypse that tore humanity apart, the world has adapted—turning it all into a Game. A Game where millions die each month, without fail.Amidst the ashes of the fallen, a mysterious young man named Adam emerges.In a world where Heroes, monsters, and warfare have become entertainment, Adam has kept to the shadows. That is, until he is summoned to fight.But Adam harbors a secret far greater than the Game itself.***MC is a kind, cute, wolverine honey badger bunny.

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.”