Perfect Superstar - Chapter 95

A dungeon core novel. But with bees. A bee dungeon, if you will. Oh, and something about a young man finding his place in the world and maybe learning about the deadly calamity that threatens all of humanity. But mostly the bee thing.

Programmer Li Daochong desperately develops the game code, dying. After waking up, being born again in a ghost-invading future comprehension world, isn’t that a pothole?

However, Li Daochong brought his own ghost upgrade system, which made my green onion. Others are devilish and scared, and they rush to hell. Hey, isn’t this the tip of China? I want to eat, drool!

Eating is not the most important thing. The key can be upgraded. How many levels does it take to finish?
　　
“Li Daoyou please stay, people want to go to the edge of the magic field on the edge of the magic field, can you accompany others? People are afraid!” Hongyang fairy is dripping at Li Daochong.

“Li predecessor, can you please go with a younger generation to go to a ghost dragon?” A white-haired girl who is more than two hundred years old can look at Li Daochong helplessly.

- Description from uukanshu (translated)

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.”