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... now, my companions in White Dove City are still waiting for me to return."

Lady Bellini became a bit flustered as she got up to stop him, "Auntie apologizes on behalf of Lia, can you, give Lia another chance? To go back to her team..."

"You are a precious member of The Mandalas, the Third Lady, and I, a mere mud-legged adventurer, cannot afford your apology."

"Auntie... is willing to compensate you for that child."

With a bite of her teeth, as if making a difficul ...

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In the world of dragons and snakes, the talented but congenitally sick martial arts master was reborn as the sole heir of the 19th-century Canadian manor owner. He thought he would make money by practicing boxing, but he took advantage of the industrial revolution to become a giant of the times. The opened template.

In the end, the original owner was a hopelessly sick and consumptive ghost! I am still a bastard having an affair with a gardener…

Wait, what’s up with the claw?

James Howlett looked at the bone claws protruding from between his fingers, and became more and more worried about his future.

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Spend life energy to infuse martial arts, and you can perform unlimited deductions.

Shen Yi’s mortal body only has a lifespan of less than a hundred years. Fortunately, he can gain his remaining lifespan by killing demons.

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Shen Yi occasionally ponders, how come this lifespan is getting longer with more use?

He put the sword into its sheath, raised his eyes to the sky, and heard that there was a Jade Palace above the clouds. It was filled with thousands of saints, each of whom had experienced endless years.

This time I came to heaven just to borrow a million years from the immortals to prove my path to immortality.

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“I beg you, please teach me how to pick up female angels!!!”
Pleaded the twelve-winged angel.

“Teacher!! How can I fool more people into my sect?”
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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.”