Longevity Begins with the Seven Injuries Fist - Chapter 87 - 86: Celestial Deformed Foot! Unstoppable Kill!

A lonely soul, which was placed under the care of the Lord Protector’s Manor, ended up having her lover stolen by the family’s eldest daughter and dying tragically the day before her wedding.

Somehow, she was reborn in the family as their 14-year-old first wife’s daughter, Ning Xueyan, with a startlingly familiar face.

Step by step, she will ruthlessly scheme to seek revenge as well as uncover the mystery of her tragic death.

Her former fiancee, the flirty crown prince and the bloodthirsty prince, will now bear witness to a vengeful Ning Xueyan becoming the peerless lady of her generation…

It is well known that while most Evil Skills can be mastered quickly, they are accompanied by immense side effects. A slight misstep and you could drive yourself insane or get yourself killed.But what if the side effects could be transferred to your enemies? How exhilarating would it be to cultivate Evil Skills then?In any case, Zou Feng, who transmigrated here, is already having the time of his life.The most evil, most venomous, and most morally corrupt Cultivation Skills? Bring them all on.This Poison Skill will make your entire body fester and become unrecognizable? Cultivate it!Cultivating this Skill will cause you to lose your sanity and become worse than a beast? Cultivate it!A Cultivation Skill that ensures you won't live for more than a year upon mastery? Cultivate it!

He was about to join the beta test on the newest VR games, Second World.

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.”