MTL - Little Sweetheart - Chapter 8

The daughter of Prime Minister is a nympho?

The brutish Prince is her husband?

The stroppy Princess wants to kick her husband off the marriage sedan?!

“Shit! I want a divorce!”

“Why?!”

“You can’t satisfy me in bed!”

The next day, Prince Chennan becomes the laughingstock of the whole Kingdom of Dayue.

How Hua Yueling, the Stroppy Princess with a soul from 21st century, will create her legendary story in this ancient world?

- Description from Novelupdates

A military enthusiast with dreams of serving, shaped by his father’s influence and a bookshelf full of war theories, finds himself unexpectedly reborn into a fantasy world he’d recently read about.Now an orphan, he faces impending destitution in a land governed by strict caste systems. But with the Reich Empire Academy Entrance Exam as his potential salvation, he’s armed not with magic, but with a vast knowledge of military tactics from his past life. As the date of his expulsion from the orphanage looms, he’s determined to leverage his unique skills to change his fate.

Waking up in the middle of that, she nearly screamed—until she saw him.Her cold, obsessive husband. The man she had spent an entire lifetime running from.In her past life, she trusted the wrong people. She abandoned the man who truly loved her and ended up betrayed, ruined, and dead.This time? Ha! Divorce? Dream on.Since fate gave her another chance, she’d play the game her way. Stay mysterious, act sweet, and turn every schemer against each other.And as for the dangerously obsessed husband?Let’s see who traps who first!

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.”