Cultivation! My Augmented Statuses Have Unlimited Duration - Chapter 82: Master

In an alternate world, a demon disrupts dynasties, harvests souls, and refines a banner of ten thousand souls.Under the heavenly tribulation, his body and soul are destroyed, but the Ten Thousand Souls Banner protects his undying spirit. Unable to possess a body, he's countered instead.A laid-back young man in society, wielding the Ten Thousand Souls Banner, roams the human world.With the Ten Thousand Souls Banner in hand, I refine a Golden Core with good deeds.A slice-of-life story with no ambition for conquest, helping the departed fulfill their wishes, gaining merit to repair the Ten Thousand Souls Banner, and enjoying a laid-back life.

Miracles don’t come walking your way by themselves.

Ever since He Mulan, a 28 year old forensic investigator, transmigrated into the post-army civilian Hua Mulan’s body, she’s been under a lot of pressure. Unlike the folktale ending, there are no flowers or applause to be found here. After leaving the army and returning to her hometown, word by the countryside has painted the now 32 year old Hua Mulan as a homicidal maniac, an old hag, and a freak of nature, among other nasty things. Between piecing together Hua Mulan’s scattered memories, grappling with her fellow villagers’ prejudice against her, and fending off Mrs Hua’s attempts to match make her, He Mulan has her hands full. All He Mulan wants to do is protect Hua Mulan’s body till her soul comes back, but fate has other plans…

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”