Immortality Path: From the Blind Man at the Pharmacy - Chapter 33 - . To kill, it’s better to act early rather than wait until the last moment.

Lane Allen, an A-rank Guide, got injured on an emergency mission suppressing a dungeon break, and perished in his almost-lover’s arms.As the remaining members of his team continued to fight for their lives, in a fancy apartment in a distant part of the city, a young man opened his eyes.“Phew… That hurt like hell…”“It’s a bit of a shame to switch so soon… But I guess it is what it is.”“Anyway, who should I become next?”Actually, Lane Allen was not a Guide, but rather an Esper with a mysterious Plunder ability! It allowed him to possess other people’s bodies, and steal their awakened abilities. Keeping his real body safe, Lane could enjoy life to the fullest, constantly swapping identities, and doing whatever he wanted without ever worrying about the consequences! How great was that?Except…Damien Lennox grabbed Lane’s arm, and pressed him against the wall, his clear green eyes staring down at Lane intently, as if he could see right through him. “There’s no one else whose guidance feels so harsh and chaotic, yet pleasing at the same time.”It seems that Damien was somehow able to recognize Lane even after switching identities, and is unwilling to let him go?

‘Less than a month old… I became the the great empire’s treasured princess…!’

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.”