The Demon Queen's Royal Consort - Chapter 12 - Awakening I

The tomatoes and potatoes are piled up in the warehouse, the dead horses are squeezing the milk, the vampires are carrying the watermelons, the succubuses are picking the eggplants, and the Lich King is quietly licking the ice cream…

The people who died in the crown pointed to the tribes:
Let the dead be born, and let the dead die!

(This book is based on the dungeon and the Warriors, Warcraft, heroes invincible, riding and cutting, and another million finished “Wasteland Ranch” character guarantee)

- Description from Uukanshu translation

Everyone in the City of Jing thinks that bestowment of marriage between Xian Junwang and the daughter of the Yi’an Marquis House is to insert a fresh flower into manure.

In Tianlan Continent, there is a magic store called Origin Mall.

The Coke here can make people full of blood in an instant; the spicy bars here can make people fight leapfrog; the games here can make people improve their cultivation; the novels here can make people understand the techniques…

There are countless goods here, including leisure, entertainment, dining, training…

Oh, by the way, remember one thing, don’t make trouble in the store, because the owner of the store is very strong…

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.”