Sweet Hatred - Chapter 11: He knew.

We follow Anthony, a man forced to adapt to a world of dark fantasy that imposes itself on him with an unmistakable brutality. A place where shadow and violence reign supreme, where inequality is riven and the laws of nature are distorted. A world where every moment could be the last.What fate does this cruel universe hold for our protagonist? What hidden secrets do the powerful hide behind cold and inaccessible masks? And what alliances, betrayals or rivalries will be woven into this maelstrom of supernatural forces and unfathomable powers?To survive, Anthony will have to fight, evolve and face his own demons. For in this place, no matter the greatness of the beings that populate it, it is tenacity that dictates the law.

Liam Sera Banfield is a reincarnator.

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.”

Wang Tianxiao was reborn thirty years ago, the day before the eldest son was born.

It was more than 20 degrees below zero, and the wife shivered on the cold kang with her big belly and three-year-old daughter in her arms.

In the pot, there was no firewood to be seen, and the bottom of the water tank was solidly frozen.

What a difficult start.

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