A Villain's Will to Survive - Chapter 137: Farewell (2)

Humanity was on the brink of destruction. Muyoung, an assassin from the Forest of Death, fell to his knees. There were corpses all around him. For years, he had worked for the Forest of Death and had finally been able to eradicate them. Now, he, himself, was about to die. He closed his eyes as he felt his heart stop beating.

My end was not majestic, my beginning was not beautiful, but I will make damn sure that I rise once more. No more shall I bend a knee, no more shall I hide, no more shall I cower. No more shall the light guild my path, for only Darkness remains.

***

Killed by the universe's greatest killer, Truck-Kun. My existence was twisted as I gazed up at King-Yama, staring down at me with revulsion, “You sick bastard, you ate people.” He bellowed, glaring at me with disgust.

Snorting, I gathered my courage raising my head high and proud, my voice carrying a hint of pride, “So what, have you ever tried it...Let me ask you, have you ever had sex.”

A bewildered expression hung on his rugged appearance as he absentmindedly nodded. A slight smirk crossed my face as I declared, “then have you ate ass,”

“WHAT!!!” He balled in panic, shivering like a guilty man on trial.

“HAHA, you call me disgusting, but it appears you were sucking ass, now that is truly disgusting. I don't judge, but if you ask me, I will stick to cannibalism.”

“THAT NOT A FAIR COMPARISON, YOU LITTLE SHIT,”

When I cleared the final chapter of a game that was a national failure, I became an unnamed side character in it.

A non-standard, unmeasurable, EX rank supporting character.

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.”