MTL - Sailing: Stealing Sauron’s Talents at the Beginning - Chapter 72

My name is Joo In-gong. The name that my parents gave me meant ‘protagonist’ of the world. Really?

Working in a big factory for several years, Wang An, who was prematurely aging, accidentally obtained a cheat that can earn experience. The improvement of his skills brought him unexpected surprises.

It turns out that some things are not just legends.

Lightness kung fu can really make people walk on the snow without a trace, and fly over the walls.

Vajra is not broken, it can indeed produce the power of vajra, and become the body of vajra, invulnerable to swords and guns.

Congenital qi, grasping iron into mud

 …

Brushing experience does not rely on simple repetition, but requires continuous learning, summarization, and comprehension.

- Description from novelbuddy

Mo Zhu’s mother remarried after her father went missing, and she had lived in the countryside with her elderly grandmother ever since. The girl who had no parents wanted to protect herself. Therefore, to avoid getting bullied, she had turned wild since she was a child—she played truant, fought, and drank. There was nothing she did not know how to do. She was a problematic student in the eyes of her teachers, a big sister in the eyes of her classmates, and a hooligan in the eyes of her acquaintances.

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.”