Simultaneous Transmigration: We Share a Role-Playing System

The burning pain from the laser hadn't subsided when Wu Ling collapsed to the ground. As his consciousness sank, warm yellow light and the aroma of potatoes wafted in. His mother called him "Little Tommy," and his father smiled as he carried a paper bag. Dust motes floated in the sunlight.

Wu Ling felt a sudden pang in his heart; he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that name.

It's as if his name, along with his childhood, was shattered into dust the day Godotkin forcibly abducted him.

But the moment the thought touched the words "Godogin," my parents' smiles instantly melted into blurry patches of color, and the warm aroma of potatoes was suddenly shattered by the pungent smell of disinfectant.

The warm yellow light instantly collapsed into the stark white light of the laboratory, freezing him to the bone, leaving him powerless to resist.

John Gododkin's sickeningly sweet voice whispered in his ear, uttering the words that would haunt him for the rest of his life:

"Your mother gave you to me."

Just as Wu Ling's pupils contracted rapidly, Godotkin's filthy hands reached between his legs. Wu Ling trembled and turned around, crashing straight into those eyes that were etched with endless fear in his childhood.

"From now on, let's... get along well~"

The lingering, sticky echo of Godotkin's voice still echoed in his ears when Wu Ling abruptly sat bolt upright, letting out a heart-wrenching scream: "Ahhh—!"

Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, his chest heaved violently, and his hazy consciousness slowly returned: that nightmarish past should have been over long ago.

Now he has become a superhero with both fame and fortune, admired by many, and enjoying extraordinary treatment. He has always been the one standing behind others, and no one can stand behind him anymore.

But the next second, the sticky sensation from his palm made him freeze.

A familiar yet unfamiliar rusty smell suddenly wafted into his nostrils. In the dim light, he subconsciously raised his hand and brought it close to his nose—it was the smell of blood!

His hands, his body, his sides... were all covered in thick blood!

He suddenly stood up and looked around. Everywhere he looked, there were all sorts of strangely shaped corpses, as well as grotesque, half-corpses that were still wailing.

The dance floor was now a river of blood.

The scene originally had more than 120 superhumans gathered there, but now there are more than 50 corpses piled up, more than 30 people are seriously injured and in critical condition, and the rest are tightly surrounding the center of the dance floor, forming a rigid human wall.

Wu Ling was initially terrified by the horrific scene before him, but he quickly regained his composure, forced himself to push his way to the front of the human wall, and roared, "Are you all fucking crazy? What the hell are you doing?!"

But when he saw the figure surrounded in the center of the human wall, the anger on his face froze instantly, and even his roar got stuck in his throat.

It was a man covered in blood, his tattered black leotard torn in several jagged rips, barely hanging on his skin, with deep and shallow wounds underneath, and several streams of dark red blood still oozing out.

Burn eschar, frostbite bruises, dents from blunt force trauma, deep cuts from sharp blades, and bruises from toxins faintly emerging beneath the skin—all the ruthless methods of a superhuman were used on him.

But his back remained straight, without the slightest sign of weakness or hunchback.

His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white and the veins bulged out like dragons.

In those eyes, mostly covered in blood, a fierce light still burned within them, like a dying lone wolf with its fangs still outstretched, locking onto everyone who approached.

The moment of confrontation is not the desperate act of a trapped beast, but a ruthless act that drags everyone around it down into the abyss.

Anyone could see that the man was at his limit; every breath he took was laced with blood, and his body was trembling uncontrollably.

The fear of being slaughtered by him earlier was already etched into the very marrow of every superhero present. Not a single one dared to move an inch, let alone step forward to deliver the final blow.

They clenched their fists, their Adam's apples bobbing, cold sweat trickling down their foreheads, yet they dared not even breathe too heavily. Each of them feared that this dying beast would fight back with its last ounce of strength. They could only stand frozen in place, their eyes fixed on the man's bleeding wound, secretly praying that he would bleed to death and collapse, completely extinguishing that piercingly fierce light.

The shock in Wu Ling's chest almost burst out of his throat, and the shock was even greater for the heroes around him who had gone through the whole bloody battle—even with a hint of undisguised fear.

It's nothing more than a foundation for strengthening the physique, plus a negligible resilience; it doesn't even qualify as a proper super recovery.

A third-rate guy, so insignificant that he wouldn't even deserve to be remembered among a group of superhumans, somehow managed to take more than fifty lives single-handedly amidst the encirclement and strangulation of a hundred superhumans.

Those still standing in this pool of blood at this moment are either ruthless characters with overwhelming abilities, cunning and shrewd battlefield veterans who know how to adapt to changing circumstances, or lucky ones like Wu Ling who never dared to set foot in the heart of the battlefield from beginning to end.

The deathly silence, like thick, sticky blood, enveloped everyone.

The leader of the boy band, Ju Xi, swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and broke the suffocating silence first:

"Where the hell did this lunatic come from?"

Upon hearing this, Locke, standing in the center of the battlefield, let out a hoarse laugh, like sand rubbing against rusty iron.

"Madman?" He repeated the word slowly, drawing out the last syllable with a hint of self-mockery and coldness. "That's right, I can't even remember when I went mad."

He slowly withdrew from his fighting stance, raised his head, and his eyes, which were mostly covered by blood scabs, now shone with a scarlet light, almost scorchingly frenzied.

His gaze swept over every glamorous "hero" present, like a poisoned knife, making people's scalps tingle and forcing many to subconsciously tense their backs.

"Have you ever tasted the bitterness of imprisonment?" His voice suddenly turned cold, carrying a chilling edge. "Stripped of freedom, crushed dignity, and even the last shred of your personality trampled into mud."

In that sunless cage, being slaughtered like livestock, even crying out was a luxury. Looking back now, I realize how incredible it was that I survived those days…

As soon as he finished speaking, he raised his hand and forcefully twisted his dislocated wrist back into place.

The cracking sound of his joints colliding was so jarring it made your teeth ache, but he didn't even flinch. He just coughed up a mouthful of dark purple blood.

Blood droplets sizzled on the charred ground, sending up a wisp of pungent white smoke—the toxins remaining in the body.

"Sometimes, I really want to kill everything I see." His voice suddenly rose, filled with long-suppressed hysteria, "Why? Why should I be humiliated like this, while you can live a glamorous life dressed as heroes?!"

The roar abruptly stopped, his chest heaving violently, but the madness in his eyes gradually subsided, solidifying into a cold, hard light.

He spoke in a hoarse voice, each word deliberate and slurred as if spitting something foul, "You think you deserve to stand under the spotlight and enjoy the adulation of ordinary people? The world is full of suffering and cries of pain, the streets are filled with swallowed injustices, and you, on the other hand, wear glamorous clothes, lick your lips for fame and fortune, and then you want to stomp on those festering sores, adding more tragedy and pain."

"Yes, I know some of you are crying foul, saying you had no choice, that you were forced into it." He suddenly chuckled, his laughter filled with chilling mockery. "But who the hell hasn't gone through this? Is that your excuse for committing evil?"

"Seeing your faces makes me sick!" He suddenly raised his voice, making the eardrums of those around him ring. "After getting rained on, you tear other people's umbrellas to shreds; after experiencing hardship, you block other people's paths to survival. With this kind of character, do you even deserve the title of 'hero'?"

His voice suddenly turned somber, as if there was blood stuck in his throat, each word strained and painful: "It wasn't until I saw the pathetic state you all were in that I finally understood—all the suffering I endured wasn't for nothing."

"It's to constantly remind myself: don't get lost, don't associate with you bunch of scum, don't live as anyone's shadow!" He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, oblivious to the blood seeping from his open wounds. "I want to become stronger, to be able to take control of my own life."

"Not you 'heroes' who climb to the top by stepping on others, but the damn strongmen who only listen to themselves!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than he suddenly threw his head back and burst into wild laughter. His laughter was hoarse and insane, yet it carried a kind of triumphant, reckless abandon that made the ears of those around him ring.

Some people shrank back in fear, while others gripped their weapons tightly, their faces turning pale.

Through his bloodshot eyes, he spotted the hungry wolf at the edge of the crowd, standing with his arms crossed, watching him quietly. His eyes were devoid of emotion, but unlike the others, they didn't show any fear.

The laughter gradually subsided, the air thick with the stench of blood. His voice, icy cold, lashed out at everyone: "Don't expect anyone to save you. There's no such thing as a free lunch. The only one who can save you is yourself!"

All the pent-up frustration and pain that had been weighing on my heart for a year was finally released with those words. It was like a stone that had been blocking my chest was finally removed, leaving only a hard, fierce feeling.

The hungry wolf looked at him, who appeared to be insane yet still had a sliver of clarity in his eyes, and nodded almost imperceptibly. Then, he turned and his figure silently disappeared into the shadows in the distance.

[Approved]

[Character compatibility +24%]

[Currently 75%]

[Character breakthrough has reached stage two]

[Popularity Point Acquisition Efficiency +50%]

[Popularity +600]

【1456→2056】

[Character Trait Slots Unlocked]

[Character Trait Acquired]

[Protagonist Aura (Fake) - Gold]

[Character Trait Acquired]

Martial Arts Prodigy

[Character Trait Acquired]

[Limiter Release (10%)]

[Character card being upgraded...]

[Hungry Wolf Youth (50%) → Hungry Wolf Youth (100%)]

[You can spend popularity points to continue upgrading]

[Next Phase]

【Garou - Red-Haired (Half-Monster)】

Under the horrified gaze of a group of superhumans, Locke's injuries were healing at a terrifying speed.

The bleeding wound scabbed over and the scabs fell off instantly, the rolled-up flesh returned to its original position in a flash, and even the toxins remaining deep in the skin turned into wisps of foul-smelling black smoke, which evaporated and dissipated from the pores.

In just a few breaths, the man who was just covered in blood and on the verge of death had completely recovered to his peak condition.

He lowered his body and assumed a fighting stance again. Dark lightning suddenly flickered in his eyes, carrying a destructive and ferocious aura that stung the eyes.

The next second, he suddenly looked up and roared, his voice booming like thunder across the deathly silent battlefield:

"Come on! Phase Two! Today, let us fight to the death!"