MTL - My Son is a Transmigrated Prince - Chapter 75 075

Shen Ziqiao woke up from her deep slumber to find herself transmigrated as the character of an ancient novel. To make matters even worse, she was written by the author to be the moronic daughter of the villain, merely a walking cannon fodder.

“Are the Gods punishing me because I left a bad review?!”

Yet it doesn’t end there; she has to strive against a reborn heroine’s revenge! And especially against the major death flag in the plot: getting married to the capital’s fool.

But why does she find this fool’s eyes to be too cunning?

- Description from Novelupdates

Reborn in the Marvel universe, Hawk learned one brutal truth—safety wasn't something you were given, you had to fight for it. He made himself a promise that day, committing to a path of relentless training and iron discipline that would define the next several years of his life.He didn't want a serum or a suit of armor, he wanted to unlock the power buried deep within.On the day his vow is fulfilled, he awakens a power that sings the song of creation itself, a force that can bend reality to his will.In that same moment, the sky over New York cracks open, and an alien armada pours through...

He was about to join the beta test on the newest VR games, Second World.

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.”