MTL - Douluo: Protects Our Spirit Hall - Chapter 343 Tianshui City Shui Binger

Struggling until thirty-eight years old and still can't afford a house, you have to pay a dowry of 300,000 to get married, living frugally for most of your life, your liver is shattered from overworking, but where's the money? Who really took all the money?

Jiang Qin, who is full of grievances, was reborn at the age of eighteen. The only thought in his mind when he opened his eyes was to start a business and make money.

The first step, to take back the love letters he had sent out, flip it over, and write three lines in the stunned eyes of the school beauty:

You must never work for others, better to latch onto a wealthy woman if you can.

You can make more money if you lose it, but if you lose your conscience, you can make even more!

As a corporate slave, never be a servant!

As for love? Even dogs don't talk about that stuff!

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She had a request for him and was forced to sign a contract with him.After the contract expired, he actually wanted to discuss renewing it.'I can cook.' One day when she came home, she saw a table full of various delicacies.'I can make money.' In the office, he laid a row of Black Cards in front of her.There was even one night, when she returned home, he calmly looked at her and said, 'I can also...!''......'So that night, someone posted online seeking help: Urgent, waiting online, what to do when entangled with a domineering CEO?

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.”

I became a mage character from my favorite game.