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... eng like this, the others also followed his gaze.

On the screen, there was a part of the Void that had become somewhat blurred, clearly at the edge of the so-called “Heavenly Eye,” almost out of sight.

In that blur, the originally calm Void had, for a moment, silently torn apart.

From that crack, two figures emerged.

One was a breathtakingly beautiful woman with a charming face, looking slightly playful and cute.

The other, dressed in white, with long hair ...

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I transmigrated to the Great Qin empire to find myself a famous good-for-nothing in Ye Manor and the subject of ridicule of everyone. But thankfully, my dantian is the planet Earth.

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There are 1.4 billion people on this Earth. I’ve hit jackpot.

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After the hard struggle of a post-80s Shen Feiyang, he met with a tragic car accident in his fifties. When he again opened his eyes, he did not see the white walls of a hospital, nor had he arrived at the netherworld. Instead, he had transmigrated into the body of the post-50s young girl, Shen Yunfang.He had transmigrated into an era where people could not get enough to eat or sufficient clothes to wear.Humph, such hardships could not defeat a wise woman who had battled through society for half her life. Watch as she, with a chicken in her left hand and a duck in her right, carries a chubby baby on her back and sings triumphantly along the way.

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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.”