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... a pretty lady, and she had proudly flaunted that—wearing thick makeup and the finest dresses of the time. But that day, all of that façade had been torn down. She hadn’t changed her clothes from the day before. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and snot and drool stained her face. She looked like a wounded, wet pup.

I could only imagine how terrible she felt.

At first, she had thought her daughter to be a terrible villain—someone who, out of pettiness, had lightly accused a man ...

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Have you ever seen exposing holy vein?

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After choking to death on a watermelon, Rong Jiahui thought that she would enter the netherworld and be reincarnated.

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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.”