The Extra becomes the Villain's Bodyguard - Chapter 17: Ch: Joy and Grief

America, 1980. No sooner had Xu Yi transmigrated than he was put on the dissection table; then he gradually came to understand the true nature of this world. “Studying medicine can’t exorcise undead demons; I must become an exorcist!” he resolved silently to himself. On a misty, rain-soaked night. “Miss Evil Spirit over there, the night is cold and damp; be careful not to catch a chill! Come over here and warm yourself by the fire!” Xu Yi said, holding a lighter, as the pale gold flame slowly approached the other. The Evil Spirit shrank back, looking at Xu Yi with fear. “Don’t be afraid, I just want to warm you up...” Xu Yi’s face broke into a warm smile, “by setting you on fire!” Ding dong! Ding dong! “Sign-in at the Land of Fear successful, Resurrection Coin awarded!” “Synthesis pathway requirements met, do you wish to combine the following entries?” Psychic + Scholar + Painter = Psychic Painter! Saintly Offspring + Gunfight Technique + Revolver Mastery = Holy Gunslinger! Undead + Revelation + Holy Nation = God!

The tale of Oliver.
An orphan boy from a Mine, in 19th century Europe, filled with Magic.

Listen here, because I've seen it with my very own eyes.William Oh was born on the hundredth floor of The Tower, to the greatest Climbers of the ancient world, steeped in the Tower's lethal miasma from the moment he drew breath, giving him strange and unnatural powers.They say he is an immortal being who circles the dreams of mortal men, resurfacing wherever the need is greatest. Those who disparage him will fall into despair, but if you're a Climber in a tight scrape, look to the sky and say a little prayer.Maybe he will appear?Odds are probably better if you pay for my drink.- Rumor overheard on a 1st Floor Tavern. Originator did not pay his tab.

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.”