Solo Farming In The Tower - Chapter 3: Sprouting

As a new anchor of StarTV, Yu Yan’s ruthless trash-talk, natural rifle-shooting skills, and character of never searching houses earned him a big crowd of fans.

He felt like he was a good anchor who treated all fans of his stream equally—you can suck at the game, you can get knocked down, but if you want the gun in my hand, sorry, no way man.

Until he heard the voice of the streaming platform’s Big Boss.

Yu · ultimate voice-con · Yan: I’m not familiar with this game, swap my Kar98k for your Mini-14.

Yi · brand new noob · Chen: En.

Friend: Daddy, I want to snipe too!

Yu Yan: I think this frying pan suits you very well.

Not-a-very good gamer but dripping with money and looks Big Boss vs Cute, super good trash-talking gunslinger voice-con Anchor.

- Description from Novelupdates

In her previous lifetime, they had married for five years. He meant everything to her, but she was thrown away like an old shoe.

After her rebirth, she gave him a divorce contract preemptively—

“Divorce after one year, the terms of the contract are as follows: husband and wife shall not share a room or bed. Intimacy forbidden?”

He raised his eyebrow.

Who knew that after she got drunk one day, leaning on the headboard, he rested his deep-set eyes on her. “You broke the contract, Mrs, Li.”

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”