Fairy Tail: I Don't Want to Be the Guild Master - Chapter 385: Seaside

I am the sword.
Killing a man amidst a thousand miles, no one dares take ten steps.
Killing a man amidst a thousand miles, no one can take ten steps.
Killing a man amidst a thousand miles, ten steps? Not possible!
I am the sword, the sword is me,
On the path towards heaven, each shall wield their own.

A Journey Across Time, A Battle for FreedomWhat if you could go back in time?What would you do?Stop the world war?Stop slavery?When Joseph Situma, a modern-day man, is thrust back to the year 1542, he is reborn as Khisa Lusweti, the son of a village chief in Eastern Africa. Struggling to bridge the gap between his past life and his new reality, Khisa must navigate the brutal tides of history. But as he uncovers the looming horrors of the transatlantic slave trade, he realizes that fate has given him a chance—an opportunity to change the course of history.Armed with knowledge beyond his years and the trust of a people who see him as both a leader and a boy, Khisa must unite warriors, outthink ruthless enemies, and fight for a future that was never meant to be. But history is not so easily rewritten, and with every victory comes a greater challenge.Will he defy destiny, or will the weight of the past crush him before he can break the chains of oppression?A gripping tale of resilience, strategy, and the unyielding spirit of a people on the brink of war.

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.”

Anger. Pain. Desolation.