MTL - Fast Wear: on the Correct Posture of Counterattack - Chapter 206 Princess of the Fallen Country Twenty-Four

When a person dies, they either die light as a feather (aka unimportant) or heavy as Mt. Tai (aka very important).

Travel through the Naruto world and be reborn as a dried persimmon ghost shark.

“As a dam maintainer, I carry two hundred catties of lime with me, which is very reasonable and reasonable, right?”

“The so-called unlimited physique means that you are in charge of physique, and I am in charge of unlimited.”

I kidnapped and robbed, didn’t pay my debts, beat up the elderly, bullied children, attacked others without telling the truth, and often killed my superiors and employers…

But I know that I am a good ninja.

I have the heart of a bodhisattva, the face of a vajra, and the means of demons. I walk in the darkness of the ninja world, but I pursue a bright future where everyone is like a dragon.

I, the dried persimmon shark, was born a miscellaneous fish, and swore that one day, I would smash this boring world dominated by blood theory.

- Description from novelbuddy

What does it feel like to be a cannon fodder in your novel?

After ruining countless of his novels with sh*t endings,

Gu Yan who finally received his retribution understood.

Heaven spared no one.

In order to protect his small life, Gu Yan has been sent to diligently clean up his own mess.

However, never did he expect that his ‘clean up’ would be too thorough.

Seeing that the man who was suppose to have killed him kneel down on one knee and take out a ring while saying to him, “Marry me.”

Gu Yan: “…”

- 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.”