Genius of a Performing Arts High - Chapter 9.7 - Act 9: Whimsically 7

The Immortal Dao is ethereal, and Immortals are hard to find.

Li Nianfan had descended into the cultivation world as a mortal. After learning that he has no hope in cultivation, he only wants to live a peaceful life.

However…

The dog he adopts becomes a demon king of a generation when it sees his poems and paintings. It manages to suppress an entire world.

The tree he plants behind his house becomes a World Tree after listening to his zither music, forming a bridge between heaven and earth.

He meets a passerby who is enlightened by him and becomes an immortal sage who leads an entire generation.

When he looks back—

It turns out that the scholar who had been pestering him for his calligraphy and paintings despite having crappy chess skills, is a chess saint from the Immortal Realm. The beautiful woman who comes to listen to his music every night is the number one saintess of the Immortal Realm…

“I shouldn't have used illegal downloads in the first place.”

Ian woke up in the middle of a strange swamp as his own terrible character.

In a dark era on the verge of destruction, the hopeless character struggles to safely return to reality.

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.”