My Mother-in-Law is Reborn [Seventies] - Chapter 81

The daughter of a duke, the stuttering Maximilian, married a knight of lowly status at her father’s coercion.

Tao Tao has transformed into Yang Peimin from the 1970s, a spoiled and arrogant original character who is the princess of her family. She is pampered by her parents, indulged by her brother and sister-in-law, and even her younger sister dares not raise her voice against her.Being waited on hand and foot is not an understatement, all because she possesses a unique skill – she falls ill whenever asked to work or scolded!She is known in the village as a lazy girl, and families looking for a daughter-in-law shake their heads and waive her off upon mentioning her. Apart from her looks, she has nothing but flaws, and she is certainly not a worthy ancestor to marry. It's foreseeable that her marriage will be a major issue.So, for the newly arrived Tao Tao, is this a good hand or a bad one?Until someone who saw some sparks beneath her notoriously bad reputation.Yes, she is someone who can be molded.

A failed investor from 2017 got drunk and woke up in the 1980s. China is just opening up, and the economy is blooming. There is also the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the bursting of the Dot-com bubble and other financial crisis. He used his knowledge of the future and slowly build up his empire.

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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.”