I Fabricated the Techniques, but my disciple really mastered them? - Chapter 1022 - 529: Striking in Succession, Muxiao’s Shock

Sold to the Duke of the Empire, I still had hopes of a happy marriage in my heart as I'd liked the Duke for a very long time. I wanted to give the Duke my everything, even if it was just a political marriage. I tried my best to fulfill the marriage but Alexavier Agnes, the man I got married to never showed up in our bedroom even once after six months of our marriage.One day while having dinner we had a small quarrel and he dashed out of the room fuming and panting in anger.That was also the night when my screams and cries echoed in pure darkness as I was murdered brutally by some assassins. Why was I killed? Why did my husband hate me so much? Why did he not show up in our bedroom for six months? There's so many questions I didn't know the answers to.I shed tears of blood as I took my last breaths and swore to myself that if I get a next life I'll never marry this man again....Turns out God listened to my prayers as I woke up as my younger self... But I failed to stop my marriage with him. And something strange happened as he unexpectedly showed up in our room on our very first night.“I only married you to save the marquis's fortune.” I paused before adding, “I'll divorce you in an year.”His brows furrowed as he growled, “You can not divorce me.”Why? Why does he not want to divorce? He hates me and I hate him back, divorce is the best option for us. Then why? Just what changed this time?

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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