Shadow Slave - Chapter 1516 Consuming Wrath

This is a world where civilization and savagery, rudeness and grace coexist,

The flag of the skeleton is flying,

The smell of gunpowder lingers,

Here are coins and muskets!

Here are women and rum!

Sail!

Towards freedom!

PS: This article is inspired by the Pirates of the Caribbean, no empire hegemony, and aims to enjoy the wonderful adventure brought by the romantic ocean!

- Description from novelbuddy

Imagination is always pleasant, but reality is cruel. I just wanted a simple life but why am I always getting into trouble?

Valhǫll, a fantasy game with a touch of modernity.I thought I’d give it one last try with the rewards of achievements.I acquired extraordinary traits like [Death Avoidance], [Ironman], [Winds], traits I wouldn’t have chosen in ordinary circumstances.But I should have never started.I fell into a game where reaching the ending seemed impossible.With the body of an orphan wandering the market alleys.[Devil’s Blood], [Worst Condition], [Eccentric Actions], [Mysophobia].Plus burdened with hidden penalty traits.“Damn it.”Can I survive?No. I must survive, no matter what it takes.

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.”