Dead on Mars - Chapter 108 - Sol Hundred and Twelve, I Believe I’ll Be Forever Alone

Warriors train their bodies. Scholars fill their minds. Every cultivator must have both and the talent to harness qi. But when the youngest princess of the murim lord was born, her golden core had to be sealed immediately because her talent for harvesting qi was too strong. Follow her as she regains her talent as the weakest murim princess.

Sing the story, bard, of the Firebrand. He, the youth who saved Morcaster from ruin. He, the warrior who defeated an empire. He, the archmage who crossed the Netherworld...The tale of Martel the mage, from his humble beginnings as a hapless novice at a magic school. Slow, character-focused and light-hearted progression fantasy. Updates daily.

A smug smile appeared on her step sister's lips when she finally revealed she was actually pregnant with her mate's child.Her father's futile attempt to apologize, for ignoring her all this time, because he had his own reasons and asked her to understand.A plea of forgiveness from her mate as he begged her not to reject him, claiming it was just a stupid mistake that he shouldn't have made.And to top it off, a cursed alpha from the north, to whom her step sister was actually promised, is here to collect his debt, so she has to take her place as the sacrifice now.Darn!

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.”