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Time Warp Trio Show

I'm Filming Variety Shows In Apocalypses

The best actor was shooting a doomsday movie when he suddenly transmigrated to a real doomsday world and became Aon Flearov, a young man with a huge debt and a blood-sucking family. What does one do in the apocalypse? Of course, shoot variety shows, live streams, do ads, act in movies, hold concerts and fan meetings— The whole showbiz world was placed in real apocalypses, and Aon, a newly-debuted doomsday star, was thrown to a random variety show to fight zombies! It was at this desperate moment that Aon awakened a superpower— A system. DING! [Heyo, dad, your son is online~] Aon: [Son, are you a farming system? A counterattack system? A pay-to-win system?? Anything will do!] The system instantly burst into tears: [B-but dad, I'm a superstar system!] And so, in a doomsday dating variety show: The system picked and chose a few "cabbages" seriously: [Dad, do you want to find me a zombie step mom or an alien step dad? Old or young? One, two, three, or four?] In a doomsday gourmet show: The system handed a frying pan, spatula, guitar, piano: [Go, dad! I want a stir-fry zombie brain, alien omakase, mutated beast AYCE, spirit plant pancakes— ] In a doomsday idol survival show: The system looked at the zombies and aliens crying on their knees, begging for mercy: [Dad! They're all moved by your singing! They want an encore!] [Dad! After you do the zombie dance, the zombies collectively change their race's name!] Doing part-time jobs in the eternal sun apocalypse, camping in a natural disaster doomsday, living with aliens, styling zombies in Doomsday Supermodel, turning into plants and fighting zombies, fighting against fellow doomsday celebrities in Doomsday Survival championships— Here, there are various shows you can and can't imagine. Name one, and it will come true. #An actor who cannot become a superstar isn't a good doomsday survivor# The three no: No R18 No harem No boys love— no bullying the author!
Zehell2218 · 4.7K Views

Splinters of Time

In the coastal town of **Sarween**, where the waves of the sea collide with the curse of suspended time, a legend unfolds about a man imprisoned in an endless loop of guilt and oblivion. Adham, the writer who turned his heart into a ledger of lies and ghosts, battles the demons of his memory through **stone towers** that rise from the belly of the sea like divine punishment. Here, where events are born from the womb of pain, **Yara** transforms from a lost daughter into a cosmic enigma: a child who vanishes on a crimson night, only to return as mathematical ciphers that pierce the fabric of reality. Her letters are not cries for help, but calls from parallel worlds mocking humanity’s attempts to grasp time. The **twenty towers**, numbered with the blood of victims, are not mere stone—they are open books bleeding with the wounds of a past rewriting itself. Each tower is a mirror reflecting Adham’s fractured selves: a terrified child, a guilty youth, a weary old man. The **scar above the heart** is but a fiery seal reminding him that the truth is a beast fiercer than any fiction. In this world, time is a poisoned loop: the sea spits out corpses bearing identical DNA, the **white shark** devours the dreams of the past, and shattered mirrors forge parallel universes where Yara does not die… but morphs into an idea haunting her creator. This tale is not a narrative, but a morbid dance between creator and creation. Adham, who believed writing would redeem him, discovers he authored his own prison with his hands: every sentence carved a scar, every chapter lit a candle in the darkness of his conscience. This novel is not about lost time, but about a being who builds his cage from falsified memories and battles mirrors reflecting his image as a crownless executioner. Here, in Sarween, the truth is not a victim… but a killer cloaked in martyrdom. Thus unfolds the legend of **Shards of Time**: like Narcissus gazing at his reflection in the river of memory, drinking from it until death. But here, the river is a sea that regurgitates the names of victims every night, and the mirrors do not reflect faces… they devour them.
Muntadher_Khudhur · 560 Views
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