My Doomsday Territory - Chapter 862

Skyscraper's rooftop.Fang Cheng is sweating heavily, relentlessly training.1000 airborne clapping push-ups.1000 two-finger push-ups.1000 one-arm pull-ups.1000 one-arm handstand push-ups.1000 single-leg squats.Plus, holding a dragon flag and a Baki plank for one hour.Looking in the mirror, Fang Cheng shows a satisfied expression.“All six skills are maxed out, I can finally synthesize the mythic talent, Asura's body.”Neon-lit chaotic dark city, countless crimson eyes lurking around.Conglomerates, serial killers, cultists, gene-modified beings, rebel groups…Fang Cheng, with his panel, intrudes into this seemingly ordinary mysterious world.Gaining experience and cultivating through push-ups.Fitness, boxing, sanda, parkour, meditation, breathing, qigong…Each seemingly ordinary skill achieves unimaginable heights.Pushing human limits ever higher, crushing every so-called “monster.”Until — becoming the god of the new world!

Four years ago, the first-ever Armageddon Class Anima appeared on Earth, destroying everything that it touched and threatening the lives of the entire world's population! But along with it came Superhumans that had the blessing of mana. They rose up to fight against the Armageddon, and leading them was the strongest Superhuman, KING.After two days and three nights of nonstop battle, KING gave his life to stop the Armageddon and give the Superhumans a fighting chance against the invading Anima, and everyone in the world remembers his good deeds and sacrifice!...Mark was just an average Superhuman living in City A. His daily routine was skipping classes and hanging out with his only two friends while hunting for Anima in secret whenever he could. But this easy life was not going to last for long as the hidden power he sacrificed a long time ago began to awaken once more![Initializing Superhuman System...][Recognizing Host... Host Recognized.][Parsing Constitution. Host Fully Healed. No Traces Of Residual Damage.]“Hello once again, Mark Vanitas. Has it already been four years?”

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.”