I Turn Out to Be a Grand Master - Chapter 162 - Thank You, Senior, For Your Help

Reborn in the Marvel universe, Hawk learned one brutal truth—safety wasn't something you were given, you had to fight for it. He made himself a promise that day, committing to a path of relentless training and iron discipline that would define the next several years of his life.He didn't want a serum or a suit of armor, he wanted to unlock the power buried deep within.On the day his vow is fulfilled, he awakens a power that sings the song of creation itself, a force that can bend reality to his will.In that same moment, the sky over New York cracks open, and an alien armada pours through...

“It’s true… So why does no one believe me?”Sometimes, I play small pranks, but they’re really just small ones.I’m not the mastermind at all.

Humanity’s first 8th Class Mage.

Betrayed, he traveled back 30 years into the past.

The story follows Ian Page, archmage and the first man to break through the 6th class, then through the 7th and become the most powerful mage, an 8th class mage.

After a lifetime of war and killing, the continent was finally unified thanks to his efforts. Now, old, his wish is to live the rest of his life in peace and try to find salvation for all the blood he spilled. However, his old friend, maddened by paranoia, couldn’t tolerate someone so powerful, so he betrayed Ian and killed him.

In his last breath, he cast a time magic that allowed him to travel back to when he was a young boy. With all the knowledge he previously had, he decided to do things better so he could end with less regrets.

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.”