Live-in Son-in-law - Chapter 485: Turned Away at the Door

Song Cheng transmigrated and became a blind errand boy in a medicine shop in a remote town.Fortunately, after he found a wife who did not disdain him, his “Golden Finger” also followed.Demons and ghosts roamed the Chaotic World, Profound Techniques went with Occult Sciences, Divine Weapons dazzled the cosmos, the Yin and Yang were inexhaustible.Song Cheng did not seek to dominate as a king, he simply wished to live his life well....This is the story of a person with Longevity, who walked through long years and witnessed innumerable Dynasties.

This work portrays the perspective of Yuhanna, a masochist, as she falls into a state lower than livestock, ultimately becoming a mere human toilet.This is an extremely dark and hardcore explicit story.It delves into almost all hardcore genres feasible in a modern setting, excluding fantastical elements.Hardcore | Dark | Masochist | Submission |Incest| SM | R18 | SMUT

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.”

All I ever wanted was for famous detectives like Sherlock Holmes or Arsène Lupin to appear in my dreams and share their wisdom. But instead, why am I hearing the voices of notorious serial killers in my head, guiding me to solve a string of mysterious cases?