Desolate Devouring Art - Chapter 9 - Bunch Of Scrubs

In a foreign country, a leisurely little farmer.

Beer, side dishes, beef and sheep barbecue, small pond, three or five fish and shrimp, a pot of soup.

There are hundreds of flowers in spring, the moon in autumn, cool breeze in summer, snow in winter, and a hut in the woods.

- Description from novelbuddy

Once upon a time, an Alchemist Grandmaster from the World of Immortals accidentally took possession of a playboy, who hailed from a rich and powerful family, and became a student in the middle of his midterms.

Rimu Dynasty, Kingdom of chaos. Demons were rampant, and it was difficult for people to live.

Gu Qing’an had not yet had the opportunity to appreciate his beauty upon transmigrating in this world, as he had to face the demon who targeted and devoured humans.

Fortunately, she had a system.

“I, Gu Qingan, have never been weaker than others. System, add it to me.”

……

Many years later, Gu Qing’an, standing on the frozen void, looked at the newly discovered strange world under her feet without any expression.

“Compared to human beings, alien existence is a demon,” she thought to herself.

“Then, are all creatures in this entire world considered demons?”

- 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.”