MTL - When a Fanfic Protagonist Transmigrated into the Original Novel - Chapter 39

“Haunted by the Curse's relentless pursuit, one seeks solace in the arms of darkness...”-- -- --Hael Winterlock, the youngest and most beloved prince of the Winterlock dynasty, lived the typical luxurious prince life within the dynasty, with the thought of being just an ordinary rich royal member in the future.But when he awakened the never-before-seen Nine Magical Arcana Runes petals, the law of the Kingdom automatically dictates him as the next ruler of the throne, something that goes against his predetermined fate.And from thereon, life came crashing down for Hael, who had his father killed by his throne-obsessed brothers, and then he himself burnt to coal and flung into the icy depths to drown to death.Just when life seemed over, Hael found a portal and a moon fragment, a rumored source of controllable power at the depth of the sea, and the moon fragment fused with him as he disappeared into the strange portal.There was a new advanced world, a world where an ongoing war between humans who grew with cybernetic fusions, and the Eldritches, creatures of dark magic, raged on.Once more, he was given a chance to change things, a new chance at life.One day, he swore to return to back to Winterfall Dynasty to take what was rightfully his. But only if his dreams could be reality. The Forgotten Realms had another name:The Abyssal Realm of Ruins, a Place of No Return!

I killed the player.

He was one hell of a f*cker.

The course of commitments never did run smooth.

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.”