The Reborn Wife is Farming - Chapter 653 - : Cash

You might not believe it when I say this, but not all top students are the same!-------------------------------No system, high intelligence, character-driven slice-of-life book!

I once believed I was the heroine of a modern fairytale, blessed with beauty, wealth, intelligence, and a powerful legacy. Men adored me, women envied me, and I was engaged to the most desirable man, Cole Fay. My life seemed perfect, a dream where I held the starring role. But on my eighteenth birthday, that illusion crumbled. The truth hit me hard: I wasn’t the protagonist, nor even the villain or a side character. I was just cannon fodder, a disposable part of someone else’s story. But when fate recognized the cruel joke of my life, I was granted a second chance. This time, I’ll write my own story, living for myself. And this time . . . I will never love you again.

Jack Somnus was a mid-wealth professor of economics and a trading advisor for the powerful Johnson family. But after years of working for the Johnsons, he was abandoned without a word. He was laid off without as much as a severence package. Jack’s life got worse when he lost his wife. Depressed and alone, he got into an unfortunate accident. Instead of dying, he travels back in time to his teenage years. Now, Jack has a second chance to live the life he always wanted. He wants to be the one who controls, not the one being controlled. But his time travel hides a deeper secret, one that might throw him for a loop. [WARNING: CONTAINS EXPLICIT EROTIC SCENES]

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.”