She was born into a wealthy family - Chapter 122 - Qian An’s grand view

He had served in the strongest Special Forces, Heavenly Sword Special Force. As the commando of commandos, he created the Netherworld in the western underground world and became the formidable Oriental Yama. He said, “I’m Liu Feng. I’m adept at two things: killing and saving. If I want to cure someone, even ghost soldiers can’t take him away; if I want to kill someone, God can’t save him.” Now he was the bodyguard of Yang Shiwen, who was the daughter of the richest family in Donghai City and suffered from a rare disease. Could Liu Feng save Yang Shiwen’s life with his amazing art of healing? What would happen to his double life?

- Description from Novelupdates

A woman with heavy makeup said, “My husband's net worth is over a hundred million, and all I need to do every day is go shopping for beauty treatments. I don't need to work at all!”

Suri Drew said, “Hmph, my husband's liquid assets alone are a billion. Did I mention it?”

A sexy lady said, “My husband is a master of judo and karate. I feel so safe with him!”

Suri Drew said, “My husband can take down ten strong men with his bare hands. It's just a piece of cake.”

Ding! Congratulations to the host for obtaining one billion in funds.

Ding! Congratulations to the host for acquiring top-notch combat skills.

Wife's boasting all became a reality.

Yigol Novak is a bit panicked as he said, “Honey, if you keep bragging, the entire blue star will be mine...”

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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.”