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... d looked at her mangled face with a worried expression on her face.

"One of the dragons did that to her." Jack looked at Vieva and his breaths were unstable. He was worried about her.

"What should we do now?" Elma turned back and looked at Jack. "If we don't get her to a good hospital quickly then she will not survive." Elma looked in Jack's eyes, there was a serious expression on her face.

Jack listened to her and nodded. "But, what hospital would admit her? Just look at ...

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He was persuaded into playing the VRMMO 「Trailblazer」 or TB for short by his cheerful childhood friend Miyu.

But Wataru faced Miyu, who was full of motivation and said this.

「Then, I’ll be the rearguard. Shinto priest? I’ll take this one」

「What!? You are not going to fight next to me!? And you call yourself a man!?」

For some time she would become one of the top players and start getting called Hero.

So Wataru had to deal with being an extra.

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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.”

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“Ding! Congratulations! You have received 7 billion red pockets!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received 50 million yuan!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received a Lamborghini Aventador!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received 51% stock of a listed company!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received a whole tower worth 5 billion!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received the skill, Combat King!”

“Ding! Congratulations! You have received the skill, God’s Singing Voice!”

“7 billion red packets? How long will it even take me to open all of them?” Lin Fan complained.

“Excuse me, how long do you think it will take you to earn a million?” a certain random reporter asked.

Lin Fan was silent.

“Sorry, but, why do you keep blinking?” the reporter asked.

“Didn’t you ask how long it would take?”