With My System, I Can Even Tame Gods - Chapter 3 Starter Pack

Blessed by the heavens, Su Yang was born with an extraordinarily handsome appearance that could sway even the coldest beauties and innate sword talents that would make even the Sword Emperor green with envy.Su Yang thought for the longest that he would spend his life swinging a sword, but little did he know that fate had something entirely different in store for him.Instead of swinging a sword, he would be thrusting a different kind of ‘sword’. Rather than perfecting his sword techniques, he would be learning massage techniques.This is a story of how a sword prodigy ended up walking the path of dual cultivation and becoming the most powerful dual cultivator under heaven.--------------Note: This novel is the prequel to Dual Cultivation, but it doesn't require any knowledge from Dual Cultivation to understand so anyone can start reading without worry. Some terms/plots might differ from Dual Cultivation.

Important notice, The Prodigal Son of the Ming Dynasty, also known as “Ming Song”.

Hongzhi eleven years.

It’s a beautiful morning.

At this time, Zhu Houzhao was just an adult.

At this time, Wang Shouren and Tang Bohu were sharpening their swords and preparing for the imperial examination.

At this time, the Little Ice Age has come, and the long and severe cold is raging on the earth.

At this time in Nanhebo’s mansion, Fang Jifan, the idiot son of the landlord’s family and Nanhebo’s direct heir…began his shameless prodigal life.

- Description from novelbuddy

The young lord of a small and weak country saves a dragon beside the sea one day.

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.”