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... el, and then followed the example of the Sima family in the past, and sat on the throne of the Ninety-Five Supreme.

  That seat represents the most extreme power in the world. Even if it is suppressed by the fate of the country and cannot practice, once a certain power or family can sit on it.

   Still able to obtain a lot of resources, and then form a virtuous circle.

   It can be said that any force with some strength has the ambition to glimpse the dragon chair, the diffe ...

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“I’ll say it again, I’m not really a genius singer, nor a genius creator! I have no love for singing! My ideal is to be a carpenter!”

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“No, boss! But this is your TV station, you have to think about the ratings! Everyone just wants to hear how awesome you are, not your woodworking hobby! The story of being banned?…Okay, okay, can we talk about last year’s rich list? We all know that there are four Chinese women in the top 50 of the world’s richest list, all of them are single, and it is rumored that they are all single with you…”

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MTL - Every Day the Protagonist Wants to Capture MeChapter 88 Fan Wai: The story that Chu Sheng and Fu Chongyi had to say
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Transmigrated into the body of a cannon fodder villain, Chu Yu has three major worries:

1. How can he help the protagonist turn into a real harem master?

2. How can he develop a good relationship with the protagonist?

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System: Congratulations! ~ Sprinkle Flowers ~ Grow Old Together Happily!

Chu Yu: … Wait, what about the harem novel?

Author’s Note – This 1vs1 (no harem) And HE (Happy Ending)

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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.”