Tempest of the Battlefield - Chapter 10: Please Don't Miss Me

After an accidental electric shock, Jackson traversed into a parallel world filled with supreme beings—beings whose might and strength could hold the skies on their shoulder.

At first, Jackson preconceived the idea that he’d only traversed on the other side of the world, the United States, until that is various peculiarities popped up.

While watching the news channel, Jackson wondered whose the big green guy jumping up and down the buildings of New York without care.

Who is that bodybuilder statue donned in a red-blue uniform standing tall and proud in the Memorial Hall?

And who is that man flying the skies with a big hammer calling himself a God?

Jackson wondered if he should advise his parents to move away from New York.

But after a moment of thought, Jackson pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Stark, for the safety of mankind, I think it’s necessary to discuss the developments of technology and advanced armors with you.”

This is the story of a young man living in the world of Marvel who only wished to live a quiet and stable life but as fate would have it, fate had other plans for him.

It's simple. A vengeful wildfire of a woman. A tyrant who begs to be burned.When Aria crashes into Kael’s empire, hellbent on making him pay for taking her job away, she’s met not with defiance—but a dare. “You want revenge?” he taunts, voice dripping with dark invitation.“Then ruin me. Take your pound of flesh exactly where it hurts.” His proposition is a trap laced with sin: As expected he calls the shots in his bed, her contempt is his twisted aphrodisiac.“Hate me until your hands shake,” he growls. “But do it on top of me, where I can watch you savor every cut.”Their arrangement is a collision of dominance and delirium. Aria wields her fury like a blade, determined to break him. Kael? He thrives under her wrath, goading her darker, deeper, hungrier.But vengeance turns slippery when every command she hisses ignites his obedience, and every cold glare melts into bruising kisses. Soon, the bed becomes a battleground—her nails carving victory into his skin, his whispers a serpent’s promise: “Chain me with your rage, darling. I’ll still come back for more.”The rules are simple: No mercy. No surrender. But as their games spiral into something ravenous, who’s destroying whom? And when hatred burns this hot, what’s left when the ashes cool?

After sleeping for 10,000 years, the god-level small Ancestor woke up.She unexpectedly became a fool with the IQ of a three-and-a-half-year-old, heading to the college entrance exam hall, and everyone was waiting for her to make a fool of herself!The small Ancestor smiled slightly: “Very good, great wisdom appears foolish.”Casually, she achieved a “god-like” score that shocked the entire internet.Looking around her side, either there are Bosses of Ma Jia or they are Jinli little cuties, and everyone wants to desperately grind her into the ground with underhanded tricks!The small Ancestor smiled slightly: “Very good, my craftsmanship in creating people is still present. For those who grew crooked, just a little pinch to remake them should suffice.”The Bosses of Ma Jia can't hide their little bodies under their disguises, trembling!After casually remaking the defective products, she turned around and was immediately photographed sharing a bed with the Empire's unspeakable Mr. Bo, instantly shattering the hearts of girls around the world!The small Ancestor pondered slightly: “Something... seems amiss, I was just occasionally craving his body... his Spiritual Energy, you may carry on.”Several days later.A certain charming man personally delivered a marriage certificate to her residence: “I heard you crave Mr. Bo's body...?”#Reverse-plot small Ancestor VS abstinent domineering strongman #

“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

“My colleague, who was set to cover an event today at Nightplace, obtained this information firsthand from Countess Maria, who held a special place for Norman in her heart. Our focus this morning is on this breaking news,” the female news reporter continued amidst the chaotic scene, while Norman's charred body lay alone in the ambulance.

Meanwhile, in a different world, a young boy lay fast asleep with his head on the table. The sun, seemingly displeased with the boy's carefree slumber, cast its rays directly onto his face. Annoyed by the intrusion, the boy shifted his head in another direction, unwilling to be roused from his deep sleep.

*ZZZr Zzrz Zzrzzr* However, an additional source disturbed his sleep, filling the room with a buzzing sound. The boy furrowed his brows in annoyance, his eyes still closed. He searched his surroundings and discovered a glass-like slab. With closed eyes, he slid his finger across it and placed it near his ear.

“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

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