The Martial Emperor with Dragon Blood - Chapter 1244 - 1245: Blood Prison Battlefield

Amid the silence of the aftermath, a sealed envelope was found resting beside the fallen Infinity Blade. Its edges were worn, as though it had been carried for many years, yet the seal remained intact. Gok, known for his stoicism and strength, had written it long before the final battle, anticipating that one day his journey would reach its end.

He was supposed to die in the academy dungeon.Instead, Earth’s greatest war hero opens his eyes as Velorum’s most hated student—the “villain” everyone expects to be executed by midterms.Swordsmen duel, mages burn, saints bless, tamers command beasts. He, unfortunately, practices the one art people fear most: necromancy. He doesn’t want a throne or revenge; after a lifetime of medals and funerals, he wants something scandalous for a villain—to live well. To laugh after curfew, to taste street food, to keep the friends who chose him alive.But the church wants a heretic, the crown wants a scapegoat, and the academy’s golden hero can’t explain why the “villain” keeps winning.Call him monster, call him traitor—he’ll carve out a life worth living, and smile while he does it.

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.”

“Look at you, you were this teeny-weeny when you were little.”Using both hands, Shao Zifeng gestures how small his pet beast used to be. He then raises his head and looks at the gigantic being in front of him.“Just how did you grow into this ferocious form?”