I Became a Scoundrel of a Chaebol Family - Chapter 217: 22. New Year’s Eve Briefing

Blondina was a princess with commoner blood in her veins. She lived quietly in the Star Palace among the heavens, but one day, she heals a wounded cat. The cat became a balm to her lonely life. But the lovely cat was actually…

***

Amon stepped on the neck of the prince.

Amon eyes stared coldly at the prince.

“Humans dare threaten mine?”

“I didn’t know… I don’t know, it’s Blondina…”

“Yeah, I don’t know. But I don’t know either. How much power must be adjusted so that you will not die.”

As Blondina, who was watching, grabbed his collar to drag Amon,

Amon turned slowly and laughed at Blondina.

“Don’t worry, Blondina. I will kill anything that bothers you.”

***

What to do with him.

It seems that I picked up a scary creature without my knowledge.

Tang Zhou dreamed that he was cannon fodder in a novel.

Because of prejudice, he misunderstood and hurt the villain, and later was framed by his illegitimate younger brother and became impoverished.

After waking up from his dream, he looked at the innocent and harmless young villain in front of him and decided to change his own ending.

*

Fu Shen knew about his past long ago and had been plotting for many years for this reason.

He agreed to Tang Zhou’s harsh demands, pretended to be harmless, and in silence kept a low profile.

The original plan was to turn around and leave naturally after the deed was done.

But unexpectedly, after one night, this person seemed to have changed.

Peeled off the coat of indifference, there was actually a piece of small sugar cake inside.

Fu Shen was born with a sweet tooth, and after having a taste, he couldn’t let go.

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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.”