Duke, Please Stop Because it Hurts - Chapter 2

It all started when a minute before we began morning activities, something suddenly occurred. The floor started shining a dazzling light, the shining expanded in an instant, and 30 classmates, including me, were laying on top of a place we didn’t recognize.

The fallen Sky Knight was the sky's tears,and with altitude still at hand, he wouldn't give up,Blood and Fire and Iron descended from the heavens,Behold, the heavens were crying!The roaring soul was rising through the sky!!!

The half-elf Sharlayan, who was excluded by his tribe since he was a child, got rid of the restriction of anti-addiction on the day he became an adult, and obtained his own golden finger-the “window” that can communicate with other worlds.

From this moment on, his every move will be under the attention of countless people from other worlds, but because of this, he has obtained a lot of vital information from the bullet screens of those sand sculpture netizens.

About the nature of Azeroth, the future of the high elves and Quel’Thalas, and, as a half-elf, my true origin.

The world is beginning to unravel the veil of mystery, and no matter whether Sarlayan is ready or not, the magnificent wave of the era is just around the corner.

“Children, embark on a journey, witness this vast and mysterious world with your own eyes, and discover the truth hidden behind it.”

“Don’t be ashamed of your half-elf blood, I believe that one day, you will fulfill my and your mother’s expectations, and make the whole of Azeroth proud of you!”

“…Also, who said your mother is human? Have you heard of Dragon Knight?”

――Father, Julian Deep Shadow

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”