Sharing Talents with Countless Versions of Myself - Chapter 26 – Once you catch a sheep, you must keep shearing it

Three years ago, she was cruelly abandoned by the man she loved deeply, leaving her to walk down the aisle alone while heavily pregnant. Three years later, she reappears transformed, stunningly beautiful, and says with a smile, “Husband? I don't need a husband.” The man behind her narrows his eyes, his thin lips turning into cold blades, “Qin Yan, try saying that again?”

The Fu family in Liushan Village has had boys for generations, and was so poor that only boys were left, and they finally hoped for a daughter. As soon as the little girl was born, the grandmother who was almost dead was so happy that she recovered from her illness; as soon as she went out to pick up things and found her hands were soft, all the birds and animals flying in the sky, swimming in the water, and running in the mountains fell in front of her, like a pie falling .

I thought that picking up gold would be powerful enough, but I didn’t expect to find a husband on the way, who is still quite a powerful person.

Ever since she was born in Fujia, it has been smooth and smooth, and she has never failed to do business and build a house. The family members treat her dearly and spoil her to death.

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.”

“You’re not taking me to bed. Ever.”