MTL - Eight Desolate Sword God - Chapter 7 Gold stitches

Inside the dining room.

Fangzheng: Hello, I’m on a blind date.

Sister Yu: A blind date?

Fangzheng: To make a long story short, I know you are here to deal with your parents. As long as we make it clear, we can go back to our respective homes.

Sister Yu: Do you know who I am?

Fangzheng: I don’t know much, so what do you say? Continue to photograph or?

At this time, a waiter came in and bowed awkwardly to the two of them: I’m sorry sir, I made a mistake, this is not the room you are looking for! Your blind date is next door!

Fangzheng: ….

- Description from novelbuddy

My name is Joo In-gong. The name that my parents gave me meant ‘protagonist’ of the world. Really?

“She was originally a demon. How could she be led evil after meeting a human like me? Those critics always say some ridiculous things.”

In 1798, during an interview with a reporter, Cardinal Ranchi was asked about his past with the exiled princess of the last descendant of the Demon Clan and the recent signs of the Demon Clan’s recovery. He said:

“I have made too many efforts to safeguard world peace. I am convinced that under her leadership, there will be no chance of the demons returning to the country.”

…

In the winter of 1802, the demons successfully restored their country.

[Based on the above materials, please identify who is the main war criminal who led to the return of the demons, and explain why it is Lan Qi. (10 points)】

——Selected from “Classic Collection of Imperial History Unified Examination Questions”

- 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.”