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... titude, "Thank you for helping me in my time of need. I will repay you later."

Nia, filled with curiosity and a young girl's idealism, combined with her concern for Howard's well-being, clung to his arm, refusing to let go.

Howard looked at Nia in surprise; ever since he had become an earl, no one had dared to boldly grab his arm and impede his movements in such a manner.

"You can't leave; you're not well enough to go," Nia insisted, struggling to articulate her concerns ...

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Immortals, gods, demons, princes and generals; dragon girls hold lamps, and the cups hold the sea.

Wild foxes practice Zen, and fierce tigers realize Taoism; they swim in the North Sea in the morning, and go to Cangwu in the evening.

Immortals and gods survive, and demons establish a country.

These originally had nothing to do with Qi Wuhuo.

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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.”

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"God of Mischief is interested in you and wants you to be his emissary. Do you accept?"

With blood and wounds covered his entire body, the voice echoing inside his mind was like that of a hope shining upon him.

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