Apocalypse Cockroach - Chapter 212: Danger Premonition

Those people killed her grandmother, murdered her younger brother, trampled the people she deeply cared about, and even took her own life.

It was because she trusted her ambitious stepmother and half-sister;

because she mistakenly believed that womanly virtue is to have no talent;

because of her noble status and origin….This is what caused her death.

Buried in river water, Ouyang Nuan, gritted her teeth and spoke, “I, Ouyang Nuan was wronged in death. Even if it takes forever, I will become a devil, and in the next life, will not let you off!”

When she once again opened her eyes, Ouyang Nuan was sent back in time to when she was twelve years old. Around this age, her forehead was scarred, her brother fell into the water, and in three years she will be married…

In this life, she will try to change everything to guard and protect those she cares for from those with treacherous intentions. She will live a glorious life!

- Description from Novelupdates

In the world of dragons and snakes, the talented but congenitally sick martial arts master was reborn as the sole heir of the 19th-century Canadian manor owner. He thought he would make money by practicing boxing, but he took advantage of the industrial revolution to become a giant of the times. The opened template.

In the end, the original owner was a hopelessly sick and consumptive ghost! I am still a bastard having an affair with a gardener…

Wait, what’s up with the claw?

James Howlett looked at the bone claws protruding from between his fingers, and became more and more worried about his future.

- 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.”