MTL - You Call This the Black Man Behind the Scenes? - Chapter 50 Soft Persimmon Melon

The top assassin of the Z country has been reborn as Gu Ningyue, the eldest lady of a prominent family. Due to her inability to discern people, she was framed as mentally ill by the child of her father’s mistress, believing them to be her own sister. This same person then seduces her fiancé, and on her birthday, offers her a cup of poisoned wine, sending her to the afterlife.Ha! A mental patient? In debt by tens of millions? With a bad hand dealt to her, let’s see how she tramples on scumbags and shameless women while seizing control of the family!However, this powerful figure? I’m only clinging on for convenience — why are you still hanging on to me?

Sixty Years ago, one middle aged man brought a Qilin that looked like a pug and a mandarin duck that looked exactly like a duck, walking into the Imperial City of the Central Plains for the first time.

Ronan was just another overworked office drone until a sudden death transported him to a vast, unfamiliar fantasy world—alone, invincible, and armed with absurdly powerful abilities from a game he once played. But reality isn't as simple as a game, and after days of wandering the unending Nim Forest without finding civilization, his optimism begins to fade.Just as isolation threatens to wear him down, he encounters Frieren, a quiet elf girl hiding in the bushes. Their meeting marks the first step on a path neither of them fully understands, in a world that seems empty, yet full of mystery.

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.”