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  "Sister Lan, don't worry, my uncle and aunt have been arranged. The hostel they live in is the best in the neighborhood. In the morning, I bought fried dough sticks and soy milk for them. At noon, I ate beef noodles and two meat dishes."

  Xiaobai seldom opens up the chatterbox. He doesn't talk much on weekdays, but because he hasn't seen Lanshu for a long time, it seems that he has endless things to say.

   Listening to Xiaobai's detailed description of the situation of ...

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When a female general living in a world where women are superior to men falls into a world where women are superior to women:
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Sweeping to a woman wearing tulle standing at the gate, scratching her head and making poses to the men passing by, the female general’s face turned black, what a shame for a woman!
But when she glanced at the little woman with a gentle face who was sewing clothes for herself with a needle and thread, the female general roared in her heart, she wanted this woman!
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1. The hot and “thick” female general attacked the gentle but stubborn Xiaojiabiyushou.
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Search keywords: protagonists: Gu Changjun, Liu Xi ┃ supporting roles: piles of people eating melons ┃ others: lily, crossing, pet text, crossing

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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.”

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