MTL - The End of The World’s Reborn Cannon Fodder Counter-attacks - Chapter 43 : Empty positions, space abilities against the sky.

Take a look at the cover. Now take a look at the synopsis. Now take a look at the cover once again. Did you manage to see anything else outside of two big plots on it already? Then let me tell you this - if I'm willing to use this great cover for this novel, then surely as heck I am confident in the first chapter making you read more!

【Host, host! I might be late, but I, the Femme Fatale Conquer System, am here to accompany you!】

【Now, let’s first conquer Momoana, a legendary female emperor who boasts looks and wits.】

Shu Yichao: “Charge, my nomads! Show them our unrivaled archery!”

And so, Momoana died.

【My host, I’ll assume what happened earlier was an accident. We have to succeed for the next one. Our next conquer target is Purin, a lofty and cold sorceress.】

Shi Yichao: “Clear the mobs and stack skeletons! I shall bring the undead calamity upon the world!”

And so, Purin died.

【…Maybe you didn’t hear me clearly, my host. I said court her, not cull her. Our next target–】

Shu Yichao: “Build the hive and spam the worms. My hive mind shall devour the world! Who can compete with me?”

【…】

Shi Yichao: “Halleluyah! I have finally gotten rid of every single one of them! Speaking of which, System, it has been a long time since you last spoke to me?”

【I’m tired. Just go and destroy everything.】

Death, Depression, Poverty, Love issues – all things that a 27-year no-name writer faces.

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.”