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... /p>

He can only say one thing about this kind of book: Damn mental retardation!

This kind of book can actually be published and editors are blind! It's no wonder that the sales volume is only 220,000 volumes, and not everyone is a masochist. If he were a reader, he would definitely send a bunch of blades.

As a perfectionist, he came out of a post from a certain post, inheriting the concept of taking everything everywhere, no thunder and no depression, the thunder plot must be ch ...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

“Fair enough.” Atticus shrugged, and flicked his fingers.

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Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

“I told you to let them go!” Daphne cried out.

“Yes, I let them go,” Atticus said. Then, his eyes darkened. “To receive divine judgment from the heavens.”

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