PREVIEW

... ith the four golden pillars of light as the center were already filled with corpses. Endless blood could not even accommodate the ground. It gathered into rivers and soaked the corpses everywhere.

There was still one hour before the Great Wall was completed.

After two hours of bloody battle, Lin Shuang’s army had decreased to less than 20,000 people, and all of them were injured. The medical potions had long been exhausted in the two-hour bloody battle, and there were less than a ...

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When Wen Rui met Xie Yanqing for the first time, Mo Shang was like a jade, and his son was unparalleled in the world.

When Xie Yanqing saw Wen Rui for the first time, she smiled sweetly and looked forward to her beautiful eyes. With just one glance, he knew that this girl had lived in his heart.

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“Second Lord, some people in the Chinese painting circle say that Madam was hired as a senior consultant of the art institute, so there must be a financial backer!”

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Wen Rui’s bright eyes moved slightly, and said quietly: “Rely on thick skin.”

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Someone strolled over and grabbed Wen Rui’s slender waist: “Huh? Miss Wen, the wind hasn’t moved and the flag hasn’t moved, it’s your heart that’s moving.”

That night someone put Wen Rui against the wall: “Ruirui, are you still excited?”

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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.”