The Profligate Madam of the Family - Chapter 81 - There’s Still Time to Admit Defeat

When I entered for the Film Academy, the examiner arranged a crying scene for me. I pinched my thighs blue but still no tears came out, but now, oh.

Chen You held a cigarette with his mouth, give me ten seconds, I can cry like a dog, a dead dog.

444: Film Emperor, it’s time to go to the next set.

- Description from Novelupdates

*“The flap of a butterfly's wings can trigger a tornado on the other side of the world.” —Edward Lorenz.We are twenty years before independence in the Viceroyalty of New Granada. Spain is still the overlord of the southern part of the continent, but its power is fading. Can our protagonist really change the future, or will he be swallowed by the competing interests surrounding independence?He awakens with only a few memories of the 21st century, struggling to navigate a world on the brink of revolution. From the start, he aims to use the independence movements to become one of the most powerful forces in post-independence South America and secure a future for his descendants. But to achieve his goals, he must outmaneuver the Church, the nobility, and wealthy merchants—while trying to build a good life for himself and the people who place their trust in him.

To pick is to choose. This is a story about choices. Three thousand worlds full of gods and demons, with a daoist scroll in your hand, you are able to control the entire universe…

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.”