Hellmode ~A Hardcore Gamer Becomes Peerless in Another World with Retro Game Settings~ - Chapter 36: helping out

Hector King, a man in his 50s, no family or friends to speak of, paralysed from the waist down due to a work-related accident. Now he lived alone with his pup Huskey.But one day, he mistakenly summoned Satan.“Ah, it's been a long time since I was summoned. You found my book? Good, what do you want? Riches? Women? Fame? Strength? Or perhaps, your legs? All at the discounted price of your... soul.” Satan offered.Hector, however, didn't need any of that. And so, his answer even shocked Satan, making that smug look disappear. “I... I want you to be my friend.”And from there, the friendship that would last eternity started, all at the price of Hector's soul....Year 2021,As a mortal, Hector died. But Satan decided to do something crazy, “F*CK IT! You're my best friend, I can't let you die. Hector, I am appointing you as Hell's Inquisitor, a position only under me.”...1935, EarthHector found himself in his old original physical body again, but he was now taller and buff.“I-I got a new last name? Hmm, it has a nice ring to it.” He muttered.He was, from then on, Hector King Washington.“WOOF!”And the good boy Moony was also there, bigger, buffed and more beautiful.

Tachikawa Shin always thought he was a decent, upright man—unfortunately, he’d been saddled with an indecent favorability system.Raise others’ affection to grow stronger?“I’d rather stay away from these witches, but this concerns my safety and physical integrity... Well, it seems I don’t have a choice,” Tachikawa Shin said righteously, with absolutely no perversion whatsoever.All hail the Rizzler!

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.”