Transmigration; A Mother's Redemption and a perfect Wife. - Chapter 170; Okay then Missus

The Non-Human Society is a shell of its former self. Its members are scattered and in hiding, and few if any have the will to fight any longer.Joining the Society, Renn has a single goal. To no longer be alone. Yet her membership comes at a price.Renn joins Vim, the Societies Protector, in hopes of preserving the last chance she has at finding a home and a place to belong.What to expect?- An immersive world-building and character focused story!- A typical, but fleshed out, low-fantasy world. Regrettably, the only numbers that go up here are the chapter and word counts...! And my debt, but let's not talk about that.- A more down to earth, sometimes somber story. But there is hope!- A huge world to get lost in. Lots of content. Over 1M words written already!- Side-Stories! Now released once a month.- A tiny sliver of my heart... forever yours!

Lin Wanwan is a pitiful mentally-disabled girl. Not only does she suffer abuse from her stepmother, her stepmother even attempts to use her as a sexual commodity to pleasure others. Eventually, the poor Wanwan dies from an overdose…

The world that nurtured the civilization which reached the pinnacle of magic was on the verge of destruction.
The last survivor transmigrated to the past, when the magic civilization started growing, as countless mages were still fumbling their ways through the thorny paths of magic knowledge.
He, who came from the end of the magic era, aim to reach the pinnacle of magic.

- Description from Novelupdates

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.”