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... otect him.

The old people in the square stood in front of Chen Yu one after another, using their bodies, banners, and wooden boards to cover him tightly.

Chen Yu did not refuse.

After all, his real purpose for coming here was not to "ask for money".

He took out his phone, turned on the screen, glanced at the time, and looked up at the sky, feeling that the time was almost right. He immediately put down the banner, bent over, and slipped out of the crowd.

A ...

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“Have you eaten?” (Husband)

“Yes.” (Molitia)

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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.”