MTL - Empress True Colors - Chapter 42v4 Apologize to the President

Accidentally brought to the Marvel world by a half-disabled main god space, Paqi really felt a lot of pressure.

Superheroes, S.H.I.E.L.D., Avengers, aliens… It’s always a war of the century.

In order to save himself, Patch felt that he had to do something.

It’s just that this move has turned the whole world upside down…

ps: [This book is also known as “The Black Hand Behind the Peerless God Pit in the Marvel World” and “The Marvel Subversion Road of the Two Main Gods in the Counterfeit”, a new book is uploaded, please collect it! Please recommend! Ask for all support! 】

- Description from novelbuddy

Back to the end of Ming Dynasty, he was reduced to a slave.

This emperor, a beggar can do it, a slave can do it, a bandit can do it, but a house slave can’t do it?

- Description from novelbuddy

In the 21st century, she was the talented leader of the hidden family clan, once she crossed over, she became the number one waste?

Break off an engagement? A good-for-nothing? Open your ​​eyes and see clearly!

This lady here can just throw you into the skies and let you be closer to the sun.

With a red fan in hand to blow the world into a whirl of chaos, carving a name for herself under the skies.

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”