Marvel: Rise of the Ultimate AI - Chapter 12: Show Me Your Sincerity

(Immortal Cultivation+Meeting a Perfect Match+Shura Field+Invincible Flow+Upgrade Flow+Playing the Pig and Eating the Tiger)—What is cultivation? When I think back to the past, cultivation was, as a baby, kicking my legs over and over again—kicking on the bed, kicking on the ground, kicking every single day. Cultivation was, as I grew older, swinging my sword again and again—slashing here, cutting there. Cultivation became, as I matured, the repeated harmony of yin and yang—busy tonight, and busy again tomorrow night. … My name is Xu Ming. I have never cared about the stipends given to me by those sect masters, noble ladies, or princesses.I said to her, “Can you give me a room closer to yours? I need to report my work to you at any moment.” Even if I accomplish nothing every day, I just want to watch how she cultivates. I…

In times of war…What is a Battle Mecha engineer expected to do? Are they expected to do research and realize their imagination?How about a Battle Mecha pilot? Are they expected to enter battle with their mechas as they display their exquisite control through bizarre and bewildering techniques?What about a member of the special scouts? Are they expected to infiltrate deep into the enemy lines as they use stellar unarmed fighting skills to suppress the enemy with a single move? Or are they expected to make use of disguises and stealth techniques to take out the enemy?And what about a military officer? Are they expected to analyze the outcome of a battle? Or are they expected to create brilliant strategies to triumph over the enemy through a miraculous move?For someone who excels in human psychology, deceit, assassination, and disguise, what happens when that person is merged with all those professions?This is the story of a cowardly, wretched, and despicable fatty.

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.”