MTL - Immortals Are Evergreen, My Proficiency Becomes Immortal - Chapter 177 The eighth floor of the alchemy realm

When she woke up again, she found herself become a peasant’s wife…

On the dawn of a fresh New Year, an ominous figure emerged, shrouded in a guise of an angel but harboring the malevolence of a devil. With a chilling voice, it proclaimed, [Every month, you humans will be thrust into a perilous quest. Your survival hinges on overcoming 20 grueling rounds.]Suddenly, I found myself ensnared in this dangerous survival game, a grotesque merry-go-round where every turn carried the stench of death. Yet, I was not without any defenses. I possessed an unusual power: the power to regress 100 times, a chance to rewrite my fate.I stand on the precipice of my final regression, and I swear, ‘This time, I will conquer it. I will emerge victorious.’I’m no longer the insignificant shuttle that I once was. Today, I shed my former self, the one who had reached the pinnacle of power. Today, I am reborn for the last time as Black Scythe, a rookie player, a novice that once again will be become the Grim Reaper!

There is an ugly beast that violates women in prison.

A treacherous beast that is feared and called a “Butcher”.

That’s me.

I was once a human but now I can’t even remember my own name.

I can’t speak, and I don’t understand a word they say.

It is in this deep loneliness that I am pouring my essence into the women everyday.

I pour my burning rage into them.

Over and over again, until they conceive.

From morning till night. Until the women’s souls withered.

To show them that I’m an excellent stallion and an obedient domestic animal.

But my soul has not perished yet.

I will break free from this prison soon. And when I do, it will be your last.

Every human who betrayed me, every demon who altered me, I will trample down like an ant.

And it won’t stop until I’m satisfied.

The dawn of the beast is near.

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.”