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... specific car — the one that, if rear-ended, would light up their third magic note.

Everywhere their car had passed, flowers had bloomed.

Back when Rita used this skill in the food street as a black-market rogue, the flower colors didn't appear. But after using it repeatedly in the amusement park, she noticed the blooms changed hue each time.

When she fought the rabbits: red flowers.

In the claw machine: pink.

Now: purple — soft lavender, deep violet, paste ...

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Han Muye, who was full of comprehension, was reborn in the world of cultivation, entered the sect of kendo, and became a sword watcher guarding the sword pavilion.

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The swordsman who challenged back then entered the Dao with one step, and his sword qi shot up three thousand feet into the sky.

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In the sword pavilion, Han Muye slowly got up, followed by thousands of long swords behind him.

“Today, I, Han Muye, hold a sword across the sky, looking at the gods in the sky, who can enter this mortal world?”

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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.”