BlackWolf Origin - Chapter 27: Ripples of Resentment

[Class changing to the hidden class, Demonic Swordsman.] [You are the first one to discover the hidden dungeon.] [You are the first one to discover the hidden…] [You are the first one…] [You are…] I’m a gamer who uses ESP.

[Ding!][Your pickpocketing skill increased by 5. Reward: your PP increased by 50.]“System, use my Pop-star Points to increase my singing skill!”…[Ding!][You had won 1st place in the Californian Young Star contest. Reward: your CP increased by 400!]“System, put all these Criminal Points into my martial arts skill. Now I will crush anyone who stands in my way!” Tristan was born with everything he needed to become a star: rich parents and musical talent. However, after a car crash destroyed his handsome face and voice, everybody turned away from him.With his dreams burned, Tristan ran from home and became a small-time criminal to survive. Then, his own gang mates betrayed him, throwing him to the cops.But Tristan is saved by a sudden stroke of luck.[Congratulations, Tristan Hayes! You won the Heavenly Lottery. Your prise is ‘Second Identity System’.][Increase skills and status of one identity to obtain 10x rewards for the other one.]Mafia and showbiz may appear far removed from each other, but both are united by money and ruthlessness within.Now it’s Tristan’s time to navigate both realms to become the world’s first mafia superstar!

“Qu Meng’er was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but her father had tampered with her brakes and ended her life in a car accident.

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.”