Cinnamon Bun - Chapter Four Hundred and Ninety-Eight - Hold Up

When Cui Qichao’s ancient emperor blood awakened, he began to suppress the emperor’s instincts in various worlds…by crazily farming.

Yandi Shennong’s blood, quality farming guaranteed.

Cui Qichao: I love farming, farming makes me happy!

- Description from Novelupdates

Going for a swim, she ends up in an ancient wild Beast World and ends up being brought home by a handsome wolf.
She wants to stick to the handsome wolf, stock some salt, farm some land, look at some handsome men and grow old like that, but the handsome wolf pounces on her every day.
What? He wants her to have babies?
NO~ NO~ NO~ There is no happy ending to interspecies marriages, hurry and let go of me handsome wolf~

- Description from Novelupdates

Dewitt, known as the Iron Marshal, is now on the verge of death. Just when the whole empire thought he was not going to survive, a small fox came down from the sky. The little fox was so powerful that it woke up the Marshal who had been in a coma for a month with one paw. If Wen Jin knew that the price of his paw was to become the Marshal’s fiance, he would refuse, because the legendary, ferocious Marshal was a well-controlled villain, only touching his fluffy body every day.

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.”