Grabbing Your Hand, Dragging you Away - Chapter Sixty-Three

Warriors train their bodies. Scholars fill their minds. Every cultivator must have both and the talent to harness qi. But when the youngest princess of the murim lord was born, her golden core had to be sealed immediately because her talent for harvesting qi was too strong. Follow her as she regains her talent as the weakest murim princess.

A solo leveling x Marvel fan fic

# FATETang Li, a loner learned in the mystic arts, transmigrated into a book, becoming an overbearing CEO's wife who only ever thinks of running away and trying to kill him everyday, even cohaiting with a gigolo and ended up destroyed by the CEO.Tang Li was speechless, thinking to herself that the Host must be crazy to want a gigolo instead of a CEO who has money, looks, and size!Eventually, everyone noticed in surprise that she gave up on the gigolo and started competing for the family inheritance. Not only had she accepted one impressive disciple after another, she kept hovering over her husband as well."Darling, I think you're having indigestion, I made you warm soup.""Hold me, darling. I'm afraid of the thunder~"***Unable to hold it any longer, the overbearing CEO undid his belt while saying dangerously, "Tang Li, you made me fall for you, and I'll have you know how deep is my love right now!"Tang Li (I just wanted a husband): "..."Listen here, darling...

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.”