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... e stage, the world seemed to slow down. William felt an odd calm, surprised that his legs weren't shaking like it was back in the tunnel. He took the knife and felt the weight of the knife in his hand—a finely balanced blade that seemed to promise effortless precision. When he examined the knife's edge, it gleamed with a sharpness that could slice through steel. It felt deadly, a perfect instrument for the job.

Mrs. Chambers glanced between them, her eyes narrowing. "Remember," she warne ...

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Even a chicken reeled out of the well ended up chasing Bei Feng all over the yard and beating him black and blue! Speechless and aggrieved, he asked the Heavens: if, that day, he’d fished out a Dragon instead of a chicken, what would’ve happened to him!

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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.”