Douluo: My Soul Skills Made Tang San Cry - Chapter 114 Tang San’s defense is broken! Dugu Bo knows the situation!

What is a Protagonist?

After transmigrating, the wind will blow and the water will rise! After rebirth, begin the slaughter in all four directions!

Bring a system to win at life!  Carry a dimension to soar above the masses!

Enter a red packet group and walk to the peak!

… …

How could a life without a cheat be called a Protagonist?

However——

Behind every successful Protagonist lies innumerable cannon fodder, they are unresigned to be the Protagonist’s stepping stone, they want to be the main characters of their own lives, it doesn’t have to be dazzling but it must be a unique and unmatched life.

Wen Qing’s job is to complete the wishes of these cannon fodder, settle their obsessions, and allow them to successfully reincarnate.  Regarding the reward for completing the missions ——she can snatch the Protagonist’s golden finger.

- Description from Novelupdates

“My name is Yang Jian, when you are reading this, I am already dead.”A mysterious sheepskin scroll, an eye that peers into darkness, this is the tale of a survivor

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.”

The year 1847