MTL - I Have a Game Clone - Chapter 65 Transformation Department

「Shimizu-san, you dyed your hair black.」「Ah, yes.」「Why did you dye it all of a sudden?」「Because…yesterday…」Shimizu-san, who sat next to me and had dyed her hair from blonde to black gradually lowered her voice, slightly blushed, and laid her face down on the desk.

Nameless Traveler, “If you could bring the martial arts, Inner Strength, Daoist skills, Divine Skills, and other abilities you've learned in the game into reality, would you play such a game?”Gamer, “Of course, I would play. Is there really such a great thing?”Nameless Traveler, “Then, if you were to die in the game, and you would also die in reality, would you still play?”Gamer, “Let me think about it—um, I think I would play, as long as I'm careful to avoid provoking higher-level monsters.”Nameless Traveler, “What if the game was so difficult that a Little Monster at the entrance of a village could easily chop you down, would you still play?”Gamer, “……”

Framed by her so-called best friend and half-sister, Su Qianxun stumbled upon a strange man when she was making her escape. A strange man so handsome it looked as if his face was carved by the Gods, but with a heart as cold as stone. A wild and fiery night ensued, and ever since then, they embarked on a journey filled with passion, lust, conspiracy and treachery.

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.”