The Devil's Betrothed - Chapter 33: Cost Of Sharing The Night

Tong, a sinner who was suffering endless torment in hell because of his mistake he had done in his previous life, was giving other chance to redeem himself by the devil.

What’s worse than finding out you’re that Louis XIV when you’re a baby?

Of course there is, for example, it’s still a magic version.

- Description from novelbuddy

After the judgment, the ire of God was revealed with the words: “Be cast unto eternal damnation!” And so it was that humans and jinns alike found themselves scattered across the Nine Circles of Hell, left to burn and suffer for eternity. Until after an untold number of eternities, an angelic voice called out, announcing God's decree: “One soul shall earn the chance to return to grace.” Humans and jinns found a shimmering screen appear before their eyes, tallying their sins and something called 'Fragments of Divinity'. “Cleanse away your sins,” said the voice. “Do what must be done!”Now, a human known as Wretched Nameless One—the only human found in the Ninth Circle—sets out on a journey to claim his spot in Heaven, tasked with fighting hellish monsters and devilish hell-dwellers competing to return to grace. Will he escape eternal torment and rise to grace or return to the everlasting cleansing fire once more?

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.”