Fake Marriage To The Richest Tycoon - Chapter 294 - 293: The competition

“He” was originally a weak and pitiful “sissy”. Once reborn, he became an ancient martial arts genius with both medicine and poison. The national male god.

Don’t touch anyone who belongs to her, and she will hold what is not her, and she will never be merciless when she abuses scum and face.

He is a business genius who covers the sky with one hand in Huaguo. He has a dark belly and is decisive in killing. He is the only one who turns into a loyal dog in front of her.

She kills, he sets fire. She poisoned, he silenced.

One day, the pampered and lawless Lu Xingchen said in disgust, “Brother, they all say you are my dog.”

- Description from novelbuddy

Zhang Qiu is an archaeology undergraduate. One month ago, he went to Qinling Mountains with a group of archaeologist doctorate students led by Prof. Fang, to study the newly discovered ancient tomb. While the people were excited to open the tomb, Zhang Qiu was pushed back, and accidentally fell into an opening. Before he fainted, he saw a pair of red eyes staring at him. When woke up, he discovered that he was deflowered! QAQ he remembered the deeds and often dreamed of it.

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.”