Silver-haired少年Flynn stood at the center of the altar in "Titan Era" Academy, when suddenly the awakening array beneath his feet exploded into crimson patterns. Not the rumored C-tier. Not even the long-anticipated B-tier— An A-tier Titan had descended. The crowd fell deathly silent—then erupted into chaos. A woman in red robes descended from the sky, her finger tracing Flynn’s jawline. “Come with me. Resources, power, women… Name your desire. I’ll raze entire cities for you.” An elder in white robes leaned on his staff, whispering, “Fine talent, but not yet peerless. Swallow the ‘Dragon Blood Pill,’ and I’ll elevate you to the heavens in a single step.” A golden-haired warlord clapped mockingly. “Pathetic. An A-tier dares call itself genius? You’re nothing but fate’s discarded pawn—too weak even to be a stepping stone.” Three factions clashed, tension razor-sharp. Just as Flynn’s throat moved, about to speak— Blizzards roared to life. A dark figure emerged from the frozen north, treading upon snow. With every step, the earth cracked and space hummed. He pushed back his hood. Gasps echoed across the arena. Flynn’s voice trembled: “…Grandfather?” The old man didn’t even glance at him. He raised a hand. Boom—! A fire dragon plunged from the clouds, its claws tearing apart the academy tower; A thousand-ton rhino burst through the earth veins, its horn lifting the entire training ground into the air. “Who dares touch my grandson?” The words dropped like thunder. And every warrior knelt. Elite masters from three great academies collapsed onto one knee, crushed by overwhelming bloodline pressure. Flynn looked up, trembling. “You’re… SS-tier?!” At last, the old man turned—his gaze icy. “I am. But you? You're merely S-tier. Nowhere close.” The crowd sucked in their breath. S-tier? A once-in-a-thousand-years, world-ending aptitude! But before anyone could process the revelation, the headmaster of Black Tortoise Academy suddenly screamed: “Wait! His awakening stone… it's identical to the one that shattered in our vault a century ago?!” The camera zoomed in—the cracked stone at the altar’s heart bore ancient engravings glowing faintly: [Offered to the Patricide] Flynn’s blood turned to ice. Memories surged— A snowy night in his childhood. He’d watched his grandfather nail an old man to an icy cliff, holding in his hand a glowing stone… “Why?” he croaked. The old man stared at him, then slowly smiled: “Because true Titans don’t need awakening. We… came to collect what’s owed.” Snow howled again. The fire dragon roared toward the heavens. In the next second, the grandfather turned—placed a palm upon Flynn’s crown— “Now, it’s your turn.” “Take back their power. All of it.”

The night the storm lashed against the mud, they pinned me into a puddle, laughing at my madness, calling me worthless, mocking that I didn’t deserve to live. Three years later, I returned in stilettos, dressed in black-and-gold tailored suit with crimson lips, eight bodyguards clearing the path behind me. The wedding hall blazed with light, crystal chandeliers glowing above the “beloved daughter” standing veiled and smiling. Beneath them, elegant women raised their glasses softly: “Look—her daughter’s about to marry, while that madwoman probably died in some gutter no one remembers.” I stood at the door. Didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just flicked my wrist—the whip sliced through air, *crack*—striking the rose bouquet at the head table. Petals exploded, glass shattered. Silence fell so deep you could hear every breath. I walked forward, heels clicking down the red carpet, stepping over memories of the feet once crushed into my face. “Who—” someone stammered. I smiled, pulling a DNA report from my folder and flinging it into the air: “She is my daughter. And you…” My gaze locked onto the girl in white, “…aren’t even worthy of the insoles I threw away.” Papers rained down like snow. One truth after another slammed down: forged birth certificates, stolen identity for school enrollment, fraudulently claimed family trust funds—all orchestrated by your father and my ex-husband. The society ladies turned pale; the woman who once led the humiliation fainted on the spot. My ex-husband rushed forward, collapsing to his knees, clutching my legs: “Nianwei, I was wrong! But I still love you!” I looked down at him—like staring at a dog rotting in the mud. “You swore to protect me for life.” I held my phone to his ear. “Listen well—Kingsley Group is now entirely under my ownership. All thirty-seven of your companies? Mine.” The phone rang again. I answered calmly: “Seize control of all sixteen underground networks in Hecheng. Let them know… the Godmother has returned.” As I turned, at the end of the red carpet, my daughter gazed at me, trembling. I knelt, wiped her tears, whispered so only she could hear: “Don’t be afraid. Mom isn’t a crazy woman.” “I’m here to kill.”

Plagued by an embarrassing condition, Bille seeks an intimate checkup from her cousin Vincent, the co

Emma was working the night shift at the convenience store when the glass door slammed open. A blood-soaked man staggered in and locked the door behind him. She recognized those eyes—three years ago, at the crash site, he had held her dying body and wept until his voice broke. Back then, she was called Lena Walker. Now she’s Emma Kim, living under a new identity, even her heartbeat trained to lie. "Don’t call the police," he gasped, knuckles pressing against the counter. "They’re trying to kill me… because of you." Footsteps echoed outside. Three shadows passed across the window. Without hesitation, she lifted the counter flap and pulled him into the back. She brought antiseptic, gauze, a needle and thread. Her hands were steady—not like someone saving a life, but fulfilling a fate. He stared at her. "You’ve changed." "And aren’t you alive too?" she shot back coldly. "Didn’t you swear to die with me after I was gone?" Before the words faded, gunfire exploded outside. Glass shattered. A man kicked the door open, gun aimed at her head: "Walker bloodline—you're due to pay." Lucas lunged. A struggle erupted. A bullet grazed her cheek. Blood dripped onto his lips. He suddenly smiled. "Remember this taste? You once said blood was your favorite perfume." When the police arrived, they found the two of them sitting in a pool of blood, laughing at each other like lunatics. The media captured it all. The headline rocked the city: *Behind the Nightclub Shooting: Lovers or Accomplices?* But only Emma sensed something was wrong. In the moment before he lost consciousness, he slipped her a note that read: *You’re not Lena. Who are you?* And on the last page of her diary, written in unfamiliar left-handed script: "This time, I’ll kill you."

The sun shone gently over the vine-wrapped courtyard. Beaux knelt on one knee, a diamond ring cradled in his palm, his voice so tender it could melt into water: "Melody, marry me." The next second—a blur of motion. "Boom—!" A fist slammed into Beaux’s jaw, sending him flying backward, crashing into a marble round table. Porcelain cups shattered, tea spilled like blood. Silence blanketed the scene. The attacker was Melody’s mother—Mimi. Barefoot on the broken shards, her white dress flapping in the wind, she stared down with eyes as cold as ice-forged blades. She crouched, gripping Beaux by the throat, her whisper soft as a lullaby: "Call me Mom. You think you’re allowed to marry my daughter? Do you even dare?" Beaux’s brother, Wyatt, shot to his feet, hand instinctively reaching for the tactical knife at his waist. But he didn’t move. His gaze locked onto Mimi, throat tightening—as if staring at a ghost that should not exist. "Mi… Mia?" His voice trembled. No answer came. Only the wind rustling through the courtyard, brushing aside strands of hair from Mimi’s forehead, revealing an old barcode tattoo behind her ear—the military’s top-secret code: M-117. That night, at the family birthday banquet. Beaux’s grandfather sat at the head table, silver-haired and imposing. His eyes swept across the guests before settling on Mimi, lips curling into a sneer. "A madwoman living off my charity—daring to strike my grandson? Guards! Lock her in the basement. Let her keep company with the other ‘failures.’" Before the words fully faded— "Shing!" A dragon's cry rang out as steel left its sheath. Mimi tore free the Chinese sword mounted decoratively in the corner. Her blade flashed like snow—flick, twist, spin—three streaks of frost aimed at three guards’ throats. They didn’t even see her move. All three dropped to their knees, clutching their necks, blood gushing. She turned, the tip of the sword pointing straight at the old man. "Twenty years ago, you pulled me from the battlefield, carved out my memories, labeled me, trained me, raised me like a lab rat." A smile touched her lips, but her eyes held no warmth. "But you forgot one thing—soldiers’ muscles may forget their enemies, but never how to kill." Gasps erupted throughout the hall. Wyatt suddenly laughed low, then ripped open his shirt, revealing the same barcode on his chest: "Mom… I’ve waited eighteen years for this moment." Beaux remained frozen on the floor, watching as the woman he loved stepped slowly toward Mimi, took her hand, and whispered: "Mother, let’s go home." Because Melody was never a daughter. She was a clone—Mimi’s own genetic twin, born of science, shaped by vengeance, grown to replace. And Beaux? Merely a pawn—destined to suffer most deeply—in this long, calculated game. Music still played. The candles on the cake burned quietly. Then—darkness.