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"Already dead, yet why do you still meddle?"

The dolls shouted menacingly, relentlessly assaulting the barrier prote ...

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The call of the nightmare realm cannot be denied, the woven fate is inevitable.

His ability to travel to the nightmare realm granted him immortality but also pit him with an unfamiliar world, curses and magics unseen before in the real world.

Monsters of unknown origin, macabre beasts and horrors beyond the ken of man have taken the place of old inhabitants of a once glorious civilization.

Now under the light of the Clairvoyant Moon the nightmare realm is on the verge of destruction. Here you will find dishonorable knights, mad sorcerers, twisted alchemist, the malformed Lost Ones and the vestiges of old gods all converging in a dead world.

But there are also those who seek to undo the curse, to restore the world. There are scavengers that only want to survive, the seekers of truth that seek the secrets of old.

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The epic tale of struggle against impossible odds and enemies bigger than life.

What Aldrich will find outside his little village will not just test the limits of his will, but also his sanity.

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Aldrich, is a fifteen year old boy, living in a small village called Wakefield, he dreams of being a Crestmaster.

On the day Aldrich awakens his Crest, Wakefield is attacked and burned.

He is the only survivor, barely making it out with a mysterious gift, a heavy mission and dire warnings to never turn back.

He is then told to forget about what he saw and the innocent villagers that died, to never ask questions. All things Aldrich could never do.

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“Master Ian!” She called.

Ian smiled with the usual mischievous smirk that he always used. His crimson eyes trailing a little over her room and spotted the black dress over her bed and shifted his eyes over to the woman in front of him. He stepped forward and spoke. “Where did you acquire that dress?”

“Mr. Harland gave it to me.” Elise replied and strained her neck to see Ian’s brows knitted in its elegance.

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His grin grew bewitching as though something had stirred deep inside the scarlet eyes that he had. He slowly slid his hand over the collar of her dress, sending a cold shiver that startled her for a moment due to its freezing temperature. After unbuttoning the first two buttons on her collar, he tilted his head down, whispering to her ears. “Because they want to be the one to undress the cloth.”

He paused and kissed her neck, turning the pale skin to red before retracting his move to fix his eyes on her and leisurely replied. “Unfortunately, you can’t wear the dress over there with this.” He chuckled and passed a box over to her hand. “And the fortunate news is I prepared a dress for you.”

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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.”