MTL - Immortal Wife Can’t Be Provoked - Chapter 35 Make a Fortune Step 1: Rectify Insiders

William was but an ordinary man—until fate saw fit to thrust him fifteen years into the past. Yet, this was no mere journey through time; he awoke not in his own flesh, but in that of the third son of Duke Herne, the most formidable noble in the realm.Now, amidst the glittering halls of power, where smiles conceal daggers and honour is but a well-spoken lie, William must navigate a world where commoners are naught but dust beneath the boots of the aristocracy. In this treacherous game of deception and ambition, he must learn quickly—for in the world of the nobility, ignorance is a death sentence----------------------------Hear ye, my loyal readers… From this day onward, updates shall be limited to three chapters per day—no more!Alas, my quill grows weary, and my stockpile of chapters runs thin. The weight of silence presses upon this tale, and my passion falters…I ask but a simple boon—Golden Tickets and a flood of reviews! Shall this humble plea go unanswered?.

He became a teacher at the best magic academy in the empire.
….For being mistaken for someone else.

“My name is Zeon, and my weapon is the entire desert.”

The Earth underwent terraforming. As a result, the oceans evaporated, and the land transformed into sand.

On the desertified Earth, Zeon became the sole Sand Mage.

The world named him the Sand Ghost.

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.”