Max-Level Learning Ability: Facing The Cliff And Repenting For 80 Years - Chapter 421 - : Going to the Fox Race (1)

The world has changed, and so have the people.

Li Yi traveled to a parallel world and became a stall host.

He obtained a mysterious space where he can learn the inheritance of intangible cultural heritage skills, and through the space, he can master countless lost intangible cultural heritage skills.

The [Supreme Emperor Fried Rice] he made made the anchor of Tandian apprentice on the spot in one bite.

His bamboo weaving work “Havoc in Heaven” was collected by the Palace Museum at a price of tens of millions.

His handmade rouge [Four Beauties] series has driven the stars and female anchors all over the Internet into a frenzy!

The audience in the live broadcast room: “At first I thought he was just a fried rice anchor, but I didn’t expect him to be able to weave bamboo.”

Cooking skills, bamboo weaving, carving, female celebrity, forging knives… As Li Yi showed more and more intangible cultural heritage skills in the live broadcast, the audience in the live broadcast room were shocked!

“Anchor, how much hard work do you have?”

- Description from novelbuddy

An RPG gamer who played the realistic VRMMORPG ‘The Amber Sword’ for years, finds himself teleported to a parallel world that resembled the game greatly. He takes on the body of an NPC who was fated to die, and with the feelings of the dying NPC and his own heartrending events in the game, he sets out to change the fate of a kingdom that was doomed to tragedy.

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.”