Transmigrating into the Reborn Male Lead's Ex-Boyfriend - Chapter 92: Salute and Hold Hands

Mira is determined to be a botanist—no matter how dangerous or violent it may become. Mira made two requests upon entering the multiverse: a botany class to further her research and to be dropped off in an isolated forest far from the violent god-rearing system BS going on. She was granted both—but not in the way she expected. The system abandoned her in a hellishly dangerous forest—where she earned a rare class that excelled at killing things.

To reward Meng Fan for his bravery before his heroic death, the cosmos rewarded him with a ‘system’, sending him back in time to three months ago, alive.

Sui Yan was a villain, at least that’s what everyone thought.

Her childhood friend and brother said: “Sui Yan, you’ve changed and become more and more disgusting.”

Her best friend said: “Sui Yan, stay away from me. I don’t want to see you again.”

Her stepsister said: “Sui Yan, I hate you.”

Her two biological brothers said: “Sui Yan, we don’t have a sister like you.”

The one she loved the most said: “Sui Yan, I could never like someone like you.”

Sui Yan died. Even though it should have made everyone happy, it made them so heartbroken they could barely breathe.

In the blink of an eye, everyone mysteriously returned to the year Sui Yan was four years old. From then on…

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.”