Daoist Competition - Chapter 34 - 15: Battle for Heavenly Gate at Dangyun Peak (6)_2

After being abandoned by her long time boyfriend on their wedding day, Rachael lost all her faith in love and relationships. But that changed when she met Andrew again.

With no hope of finding love again in her life, Rachael agreed to marry her father's best friend's son, Andrew Collins. But little did she know fate had different plans for her.

…..

Excerpt:

Holding his drunk wife in his arms, Andrew kicked the bedroom door open.

When he placed her in the bed, Rachael slowly opened her eyes. “Are we home?”

“Yes.” Taking her heels off, he covered her with the quilt. “I'll get you some warm water.” But before he could get up, she grabbed his hand.

“What happened? Do you want something else?”

Kicking the quilt off, she crawled in his lap. Placing one hand on his cheek and the other at the back of his neck, she inched closer. “Andrew—”

“Hmm?”

“I think I am falling for you, what should I do?”

One day, when a novelist woke up from a restless sleep,he realized that he had transformed into his 12-year-old self.

I lived like any ordinary person when a stranger suddenly approached me, “You are… a hero.”

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.”