Cultivating by picking up attributes, I accumulate my strength! - Chapter 223 - 140: Using the Primordial Spirit to

Noah Black, a young man with an abusive father who had no opportunities in life, condemned to live a substandard life because of his father's mistakes.

Noah Black from the parallel universe, a marginalized, obese young man with social problems and a somewhat problematic but loving family, but who couldn't live long because of the mistakes he made.

When Noah 1's mind enters Noah 2's body with a Gamer System, the path to becoming the biggest superstar in this new world begins.

Is that body fat? I work out with the system and in a few days I have the perfect body!

Is my family poor? With my knowledge of my other world, I can make easy money!

Is this face ugly? With System I can look beautiful without plastic surgery!

Do I sing badly? In a few days, the System will transform my voice into the voice of an angel.

Do I act badly? In a few days, the System will make me an Oscar-worthy actor.

I can learn anything I want!

“Rising to the top was like a game, and now I have become the Final Boss of the entire world!” -Noah Black.

The new book has been opened “After Rebirth, Your Majesty, She Was Slightly Irritable”

full level gangster reborn female honor

The dilapidated thatched hut is poor and destitute, plus the acrimonious and mischievous father who regards money as his life…

It’s really not an ordinary bad heart…

fortunately! The caring, gentle and virtuous little husband is not bad!

- Description from novelbuddy

“Young man… if you could go back in time, what period would you like to be in?”

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.”