PREVIEW

... d the former Holy Daughter of the Wearora Sect and a peak Spirit Realm cultivator at only in her twenties, she is an absolute genius seen in hundred years until that monster appeared recently"

"Woah, so that’s who she is, now I pity this Jiang Ho guy, he just step on a snake’s tail"

"Heh, it will be better if it was a snake. She is more deadlier and poisonous than a serpent, she is in an entirely different league of her own, I’m afraid even the new Holy Son would be weary of her" ...

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The daughter of the Yun family, who had been lost for twelve years, faced a problem as soon as she returned to Jiangcheng. If she did not fall in love, she would inherit hundreds of billions of property. In order not to inherit the family property, he and the prince pretended to be a fake couple, thinking that the well water would not make the river water. However

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… Qin Yao: “My wife has no power to tie the chicken, so she is not allowed to bully her.” Everyone looked at the woman in Qin Ye’s arms, and at the hundreds of people who were beaten on the ground and screamed, shivering!

Master Qin: “My wife doesn’t know anything from the countryside, so I have to let her.”

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Crowd: Aren’t you from the countryside, a bum who doesn’t know anything?

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Master Qin took his wife into his arms and threw out countless black cards: “Look who has more money.”

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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.”