SAYE - Chapter 133

Struggling until the age of thirty-eight without being able to afford a house. Facing the need to pay a dowry of three hundred thousand in order to get married. Living frugally for most of his life, working to the point of his liver breaking.

But, where was his money? Who in the world earned all the money away?

Jiang Qin, filled with countless resentments, is reborn at the age of eighteen. The only thought upon opening his eyes was to start a business and make money.

He snatched back the love letter he had given, flipped it over, and under the shocked gaze of the school belle, wrote three lines:

I shall never work a job again!

I just want financial freedom, never to be a s*ave!

As for love? Not even dogs would bother with that!

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I once believed I was the heroine of a modern fairytale, blessed with beauty, wealth, intelligence, and a powerful legacy. Men adored me, women envied me, and I was engaged to the most desirable man, Cole Fay. My life seemed perfect, a dream where I held the starring role. But on my eighteenth birthday, that illusion crumbled. The truth hit me hard: I wasn’t the protagonist, nor even the villain or a side character. I was just cannon fodder, a disposable part of someone else’s story. But when fate recognized the cruel joke of my life, I was granted a second chance. This time, I’ll write my own story, living for myself. And this time . . . I will never love you again.

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.”

“As if I’d marry an ugly woman like you!”