The Lone Healer - Chapter 13: A Journalist in the New World

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…

Exile Ren?

The start is hell mode?

Fortunately, there are crossing benefits, and it is still a stitched monster sandbox game system!

Liver Emperor Ren? Hamster Ryan? Isn’t this basic operation?

- Description from novelbuddy

Ten thousand years later, ice has melted. The Soul Federation Scientific Exploration team found an egg with a golden and silver pattern on it in the far north of the land, and after examining it with an apparatus, they found out that there were vital signs inside. They hurriedly brought it back to the institute for hatching.

The egg hatched, but it was a baby, a baby exactly the same as a human – a baby born out of an egg.

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.”