
Dual Rebirth: Vengeance of the Discarded Daughter
Alina was the eldest daughter of the prestigious Padilla family, but everyone mocked her as a defective dud who couldn't cast a single spell.
The moment she woke up, her father and younger sister Karina barged into her room, demanding she sign a transfer agreement to the Aethelgard Order-the most brutal faction on the continent.
It wasn't just a transfer; it was a legal disownment. In her past life, Alina didn't realize Karina was also reborn. She had dropped to her knees and begged to stay. Her reward? Her magic was violently drained from her veins by her own family. Her fiancé drove a blade through her chest, and her sister stood over her bleeding body, smiling. She had ruined her hands making potions for them, only to be discarded like trash.
The phantom pain of her chest being ripped open still burned behind her ribs. Looking at the hypocritical family waiting for her tears, she felt nothing but exhausting disgust. Why should she ever be their stepping stone again?
"For the honor of the family, you leave today."
Her father sneered as she calmly bit her thumb and pressed her bloody fingerprint onto the contract. This time, Alina didn't cry. She packed a single bag and walked out the door, heading straight for the deadly Aethelgard Order to show them what a true monster looked like.
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Chapter 4
The second the gates sealed, the Gauntlet escalated.
The howling wind solidified into physical blades of arcane pressure. They slashed across Alina's leather jacket, tearing the fabric with loud, ripping sounds.
Alina stopped walking. She closed her eyes.
She let go of the mental barrier holding her Prismatic Core in check.
The core spun. A terrifying, ancient vacuum opened inside her chest.
The deadly arcane blades flying toward her suddenly warped. They were sucked into the invisible vortex radiating from her body. The violent magic shattered into raw, harmless particles the second it touched her skin, flooding directly into her mana veins.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her veins stretched, burning as the massive influx of power forced them wider.
Alina bit down on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but she didn't make a sound.
Deep inside her, the chaotic colors of the Prismatic Core began to bleed out. They darkened, shifting into a deep, abyssal black. The true form of the Primordial Conduit.
She took a step forward.
The sheer density of the magic she was compressing leaked into the physical world. The heavy stone slab beneath her boot cracked, spider-web fractures shooting out in all directions.
The soul-forged lanterns lining the walls sensed the terrifying purity of her core.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
They ignited in rapid succession. Ten. Twenty. The blue flames roared, illuminating the ancient, blood-stained runes carved into the corridor walls.
Alina opened her eyes. The black of her pupils seemed to swallow the blue light around her. She could feel the fractured pieces of her soul from her past life slowly knitting back together, fed by the Gauntlet's energy.
A deep, guttural growl echoed from the darkness ahead.
Three massive Arcane Hounds, beasts formed entirely of unstable purple magic, materialized in the center of the path. They lunged at her, jaws unhinged.
Alina didn't chant. She didn't draw a weapon. She simply braced herself. The exact fraction of a second the beasts made contact with her skin, it was as if they had slammed into an invisible, bottomless black hole. The violent arcane magic comprising their bodies was frantically siphoned away. The three hounds froze mid-leap, letting out high-pitched, distorted whines as their forms rapidly destabilized. With a heavy whoosh, their bodies collapsed entirely, dissolving into a heavy rain of pure purple energy that was immediately sucked directly into her.
Alina breathed in sharply, sucking the fallout directly into her lungs. The energy hit her core like a shot of adrenaline. Her skin flushed with heat.
She picked up her pace. She walked faster, treating the deadly execution chamber like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Thirty lanterns. Fifty lanterns. Eighty lanterns.
The entire corridor was blazing with blinding blue light.
At the very end of the Gauntlet stood a set of silver double doors. The exit to the inner courtyard.
When Alina was exactly ten steps away, the Gauntlet's ultimate defense triggered.
All the remaining arcane energy in the corridor rushed to the ceiling, condensing into a massive, crackling bolt of purple lightning. It dropped straight down, aiming directly for the top of her head.
It was a strike meant to vaporize an Adept-level mage.
Alina didn't dive out of the way. She stopped, planted her feet, and threw her arms wide open.
The lightning struck her dead center.
A deafening explosion shook the stone walls. Blinding white light swallowed her entire body.
Outside the silver doors, three inner-sect disciples were staring at a monitoring crystal. The crystal flashed white, then cracked down the middle.
"She's dead. Vaporized," one of the disciples muttered, his face pale.
Inside the corridor, the light faded.
Alina stood exactly where she had been. Smoke curled off the torn edges of her jacket. Her muscles twitched, overloaded with raw power.
She swallowed the lightning.
A sharp, physical pop echoed inside her chest. The bottleneck shattered. Her magic reserves expanded violently, instantly jumping from a basic apprentice level to the absolute peak of an initial-tier mage.
Alina let out a long, slow breath. The smoke cleared from her lungs.
She took the final ten steps.
As her boot hit the stone in front of the silver doors, all one hundred soul-forged lanterns flared brighter than the sun for a fraction of a second.
Then, simultaneously, they all blew out. Pitch black.
The Gauntlet was completely drained.
The silver doors sensed her presence and slowly pushed open.
Alina brushed a piece of ash off her shoulder and walked out into the daylight.
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7.2
Clifton, the god of esports, was secretly battling a career-ending wrist injury to protect his team.
A year ago, he kissed his duo partner, Justice, only to be met with violent disgust. Justice shoved him away and dry-heaved in the rain, looking at him like a monster.
Humiliated by the straight man's raw revulsion, Clifton cut him out of his life.
But now, Justice suddenly appeared at Clifton's club as a rookie tryout.
Instead of an ambitious climber, Justice played the perfect, pathetic victim. He cowered, trembled, and acted terrified whenever Clifton was near.
He even signed a bloodsucking contract with a toxic teammate, sparking rumors he was brought in to replace Clifton as captain.
During a scrimmage, Clifton hesitated to shoot because he remembered Justice had just severely burned his hand.
Justice showed no mercy. He ruthlessly gunned Clifton down, humiliating the captain in front of the entire coaching staff.
Clifton was consumed by blinding rage and betrayal.
If Justice was so disgusted by him, why did he fake his devotion for six months just to use him?
Why was he acting like helpless prey now, after trampling all over Clifton's pride?
Determined to rip off the liar's disguise, Clifton dragged Justice into a live stream in front of sixty thousand viewers.
"He's asking if you are in love with me."
Clifton smiled cruelly, waiting for the public execution. But just as the trap snapped shut, a choked, terrified gasp came through the headset.

8.0
"IS IT TRUE?" Grayson's voice thundered through the room.
"Yes!" Tessa said softly. "Yes it is!"
"So you've been cheating on me, haven't you?" He spat.
Her hands trembled. "No, I swear, it's not like that."
He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising her wrist as she squealed in pain.
"Then whose baby are you carrying, huh?" His voice was ice cold.
Tessa shivered, tears blurring her vision.
"I don't know."
**********
Pregnant with the powerful Roman Blackwood's child, while engaged to his unstable stepbrother - Tessa Quinn becomes the key to a ruthless inheritance war where love has no place.
As secrets unravel and danger closes in, Tessa must protect her unborn child while trapped between love, vengeance, and men who want to own her fate.

8.8
I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals.
Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell.
He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout.
Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up.
I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed?
I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform.
"He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned.
I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.

8.1
I died on an apocalyptic battlefield, only to wake up pinned down by a lead-lined blanket of my own fat.
A violent download of memories hit me. I had transmigrated into the body of an exiled, sadistic noblewoman who was three million coins in debt.
The original owner was an absolute monster. She had purchased beastman guards just to torture them for fun. In the corner of the filthy room, a golden retriever boy cowered, his back shredded by her barbed whip. In the basement, a snake guard was frozen and scarred from constant electro-shocks. When the white tiger guard returned from hard labor, he looked at me with pure, murderous hatred, ready to tear me apart to protect the others. Even the local elites kicked down my door to mock my pathetic life and try to steal my men.
I was a decorated commander who bled for humanity. Why was I trapped in this ruined vessel, bearing the sins of a degenerate abuser?
It was all a setup by her sweet-faced cousin, Debera, who stole her royal life and sent her to this outer-rim hellhole to rot.
I gritted my teeth and plunged a military-grade gene repair serum into my arm, letting the agony burn away the black filth and weakness.
"The crazy woman you knew before is dead."
I tossed a medical kit to the trembling guards, loaded my old electromagnetic pistol, and headed for the deadly Demon Hunting Zone to start my revenge.

8.6
For two years, I was trapped behind my own eyes, a prisoner in my own skull.
A crazed fan had hijacked my body after a brutal car crash, wearing my skin like a cheap suit.
When my soul finally locked back into my flesh in a cramped hospital room, I realized she had destroyed everything I built.
This parasitic stalker had drained my massive fortune to zero, buying luxury gifts for a mediocre actor and turning me into the internet's most hated woman.
My phone was flooded with death threats, and the hashtag demanding I go to hell was trending at number one.
Even the hospital nurses despised me. One marched into my room, raising her hand to violently slap my pale cheek.
"You psychotic bitch, you make me sick!"
Worse, my sprawling Beverly Hills estate had been foreclosed and sold to a mysterious billionaire named Kasey Dominguez.
I had absolutely nothing left. No money. No reputation. No home.
The sheer violation of watching a psychotic stranger ruin my life while I was locked in the passenger seat of my own mind made my blood boil.
I refused to let her destroy my legacy.
As the nurse's hand descended, my atrophied muscles snapped into action.
I twisted her wrist until the joint popped, grabbed the keys to my freedom, and slipped out into the cold Los Angeles night.
I was going to take my life back, starting with the billionaire who thought he owned my house.

7.6
My baby daughter died in the cold hospital, and I agreed to donate her heart to save another pup. I brought her ashes home in a small wooden box, seeking comfort from my mate.
But when I returned to the packhouse, I found a massive celebration. My Alpha mate wasn't away on patrol; he was throwing a grand Naming Ceremony for his sister's newborn. He didn't even know our daughter was dead.
"Give Lyra the gift. Now."
He impatiently demanded I hand over the box in my arms. When his sister's son tried to snatch it, I pushed him away to protect my baby's ashes. His sister immediately screamed, accusing me of trying to hurt her children out of jealousy.
Without asking a single question, my mate grabbed my wrist, ready to smash the box to teach me a lesson. To save my daughter's remains, I had to drop to the floor, bare my neck in ultimate submission, and lie that it was just my late father's relics.
He was disgusted by my tears. Later, when I tried to jump off the balcony to end my pain, he pulled me back—not out of love, but because my suicide would ruin his perfect party. He locked me in my room and ordered the maids to force me into a bright red dress for the evening feast.
Looking at the red silk that mocked my bleeding heart, my despair finally died, replaced by a cold, venomous hatred. I tucked a white funeral flower into my hair and walked out the door. This time, I was going to turn their joyous celebration into a living hell.