MTL - Tokyo Video Game Tycoon - Chapter 938 technical barriers

Not everyone wants to live a life filled with fame, riches, glory, and honor. Some, just want the easy life. To live a life that simply plays itself over and over, with a hint of spice here and there.

“Boss…I’m really sleepy….” My eyelids were starting to feel heavy. After all, it was past 3am. Most normal people would be asleep by now.

Five of the world's wealthiest tycoons descended upon a poverty-stricken district simultaneously, astonishingly just to visit a 20-year-old young man. This young man was their master fifty years ago. Initially, these magnates only acquired some rudimentary knowledge from William Johnson, but that was enough to make them leaders in their respective fields. However, they were stunned by William's ageless visage when they saw him again, as they were unaware that William Johnson had lived for a billion years. He not only established different religions all over the world, but even Alexander the Great was once his student. Yet, after dispersing the tycoons fifty years ago, he chose a long slumber. But now, William Johnson has awakened...

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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.”