MTL - The Young Master is a Girl - Chapter 159 water melody head

Lord of the Mysteries, part two.

In 1368, at the end of July. Bloody scarlet will descend from heaven.

of the family. He had to care for his grandparents in place of his father, show respect to his uncles, maintain brotherly love...In this life, he only wanted to breat free from these bloodsuckers, find a sugar “daddy”, and by the way, nourish his stomach.*****Song Jiawen felt something was weird. That guy from next door—who had to return to the countryside to study because his father was imprisoned—suddenly switched from literature to science and joined her class, and even moved to the seat behind her. Ostensibly, he did it so she could tutor him in physics and biology, but why did she always feel like he had an ulterior motive?*****Years later, as Jiang Yan watched the soup simmering in the pot while soothing his son in his arms, he glanced back at his wife, who was leisurely watching TV on the sofa with her legs crossed, and thought miserably, this meal ticket he had married into was proving to be quite a struggle!

She spent the night with the man who destroy her country, fleeing with their child in her arms. With that, she believed their relationship had come to an end. “Even if he’s another man’s child, even if he’s not of my blood, or even if he’s the child of a bastard, I’ll raise him as my own.” Until he came to her with eyes as ferocious as a beast. “Don’t even think about running away using the boy as an excuse. I’m still struggling to control the urge to crush the little creature that took you away from me.”

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.”