I Married A Disabled Tyrant After Transmigrating - Chapter 112

An alien abduction romance. Updates Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.Grant has a tolerance for boredom. Late shift in a middle-of-nowhere facility? Sign him up. If the money's good, he'll happily take the peace and quiet of a long night watching an empty cell.And then he meets Subject B-31. Blue, beautiful, and completely inhuman. Her captors call her Batty, thanks to her big ears and the way she hangs upside down by her tail.He's told not to talk to her. He's told to think of her as a test subject, not a person. He's told to cash his checks and live his humble life. He's told to ignore the sorrow on her face and the desperation in her crimson eyes. Maybe he should have listened. When he finally busts her out, the rescue isn't a rescue at all: it's an abduction.Batty is Princess Sykora, of the tyrannical Taiikari Empire. She commands the Black Pike, a massive voidship on the imperial frontier. Grant must learn a new life, in a firmament filled with ambitious nobles, deadly rivals, and the sinister smiles of the Taiikari Imperial Court. And he'll have to learn fast.Because when the Princess of the Void looks at Grant, she doesn't just see a savior—she sees a husband.And she isn't asking.

That day, my head was struck by an unknown object, and after I woke up, I realized that I’m able to, through titles, understand a person’s truest side.

Yang Gang accidentally became the imposter heir to a wealthy family, with a beautiful older sister and a twin younger sister at home...

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.”