MTL - Dali Temple Small Dining Room - Chapter 19 Soy milk fritters (1)

This Dark story contains raw and unfiltered mature contents. Strictly R18+. Read with caution.Ella had lost everything. After her mother’s accident, her father married someone else and pushed her aside, choosing his new family over her. Her friends slowly left, and she was left to deal with everything alone. She spent all her money to keep her mother on life support. Now, she was broke, exhausted, and barely holding on.Then Nicholas showed up.He was a stranger—handsome, confident, and calm. But what shocked her most was the marriage certificate he brought. According to him, they got married in Vegas. The problem? Ella doesn’t remember it at all.She already has too much to deal with—her sick mom, the hospital bills, and her fiancé, who has been her only support. She can’t afford to lose him now.But Nicholas won’t go away. He says he’s her husband, and he wants her to come with him. Ella feels drawn to him in a way she can’t explain. He sees through her like no one else does.She knows she should walk away. She knows she should stay with the safe life she’s trying to hold on to. But something about Nicholas pulls her in—and she’s scared he might break her in the end.TW: DOMESTIC ABUSE, MENTAL HEALTH SCENES, ROUGH SEXUAL ACTS.

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Reborn in the magnificent world of cultivating immortals

Everything is based on ‘stability’, and everything is settled before moving, and when moving, there is a thunderbolt, and after moving, there is no sound.

Hidden cards, refining elixir, practicing escape, and practicing spells.

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- Description from novelbuddy

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.”

After thousands of years of silence, the world of cultivation once again welcomed the golden age.