MTL - Vanguard of the Eternal Night - Chapter 144

In the world of dragons and snakes, the talented but congenitally sick martial arts master was reborn as the sole heir of the 19th-century Canadian manor owner. He thought he would make money by practicing boxing, but he took advantage of the industrial revolution to become a giant of the times. The opened template.

In the end, the original owner was a hopelessly sick and consumptive ghost! I am still a bastard having an affair with a gardener…

Wait, what’s up with the claw?

James Howlett looked at the bone claws protruding from between his fingers, and became more and more worried about his future.

- Description from novelbuddy

“What I want, the Heavens shall not lack! ”

High-school student Koremitsu Akagi finds himself attending the funeral of Hikaru Mikado, who had died in an accident during Golden Week. He’s not sure why he’s there, as he only exchanged a few words with Hikaru at school. However, Hikaru doesn’t seem to be completely gone from the world, as he comes back as a ghost in order to fulfill a promise to Aoi Saotome, his fiancée. Since Koremitsu is the only one who can see him, he asks him to carry out his promise in his place.

Complying with his request, Koremitsu tries to fulfill Hikaru’s promises to the rest of his “girlfriends”, helping them overcome past misunderstandings and repair broken relationships.

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.”