Instead of Checking In Regularly: I Hide And Cultivate In The Monster-quelling Tower And Become Invincible - Chapter 501: Forced to continue

This is a story of a captain of a secluded place and a gorgeous female celebrity—both who would hardly cross paths but a collision in Tibet sets an opening to their encounter.Upon their first encounter, Wenxian already has her eyes set on Captain Lu—her mouth drooling with desire.Wenxian, “Hmm? How can I win over your heart? In a plain sack or using sweet talk?”With a cigarette in his mouth, Lu Xiao scoffs. “You are an impressive and popular celebrity, I am only a captain at this secluded place. I am very poor, what is it in me that you like about?”Wenxian, “I like how you always snub back at me.”Lu Xiao choked and walked away heartlessly. “You are shameless, don’t even dream about it!”The next day, he said, “It’s all because you were carried away by a whim?”Wenxian, “No, hatching a scheme.”

Hiding in the Cold Palace and eventually becoming a Boss of Sorts. Li Mu was transported to a fantastical world and became a measly eunuch of the State of Xia. Despite having initially thought that his life would be a miserable one, he had unexpectedly acquired a check-in system.

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.”

Death, Depression, Poverty, Love issues – all things that a 27-year no-name writer faces.