Eighteen's Bed - Chapter 13.2: Go Yohan, Go Yohan (2)

It tells a poignant love story. He was the most heroic man in history, and before his death he sang a sad song about a woman; she was the most charming woman in history, and before her death she danced a story about steadfast love. The story of the two had no beginning, only an ending of parting in death. After his death, he became a demon for her, and fought fiercely with the immortals of the three realms. After he was killed, his unique seven souls were hidden in various places by the immortals; she became a ghost for him, and before she passed away, she smashed Meng Po's soup bowl, and her soul flew away. Even so, he still vowed to subvert the three realms, find her in the next reincarnation, and marry her, even if it took a thousand years.

Qin Yi was reborn half a month’s time before the apocalypse. In this life, having already seen the true colors of her scumbag sister and father, she swore to let them have a taste of their own medicine—an eye for an eye. She disguised herself as a man and kept improving, getting stronger day by day. Common people hailed her as «Prince», making countless people bow in homage.

In a morgue filled with the bodies of Uchiha clan members, he opened his eyes...A mysterious voice echoed in his ears...With a bewildered expression, he muttered, “Save the Shinobi world? What does that have to do with me, a mere Uchiha survivor?”

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.”