Chronicles of the Heavenly Demon - Chapter 18

A heaven-defying ring that allows objects to be brought back from games into reality!Before ‘Dawn’ was released, it already obtained the status as the ‘second earth’. Jiang Fei, a young teen who loves games came into the world and quickly rose up in power, status and fame. With his unmatched skills, he decimated all foes that oppose him. However, such rise would attract the attention of many, even as he tried to play everything off as low-key, something just don’t work out as plan…“If trying to keep myself away from the spotlight no longer works, then come! Let the world know of my existence!” – Jiang Fei

In the middle of the night, looking at the woman in his embrace, he smiled devilishly, “With your discontentment, do you want me to continue?”

“You really want me to save people?”

Looking at the shivering victim in front of him,

Look at the [Owl’s Head Wire], [The Murderer’s Gift], [Universal Anesthetic], [Invisible Potion] in the item column…

Shiraishi touched the hideous mask on his face and fell into deep thought.

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“The Salary Thief in the Distillery”

“What does the vest do to me have anything to do with it?”

“There are limits to being a human being, I choose to be a cat…”

The magic version of Conan

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”