Assassin's Chronicle - Chapter 14: Luck

Takebayashi Ryouma, a 39 years old man with hidden past, found himself in a strange white room. The gods tell him that he has died and that they are sending his soul to a different world, a world where magic exists. After living alone for 3 years, his gamer soul loses its common sense and starts along crazy routes.

Samul is a novel author. He enjoys writing novels and even reading other's works as well. But that's just it. Reading and writing novels. Those are the only things Samuel enjoyed in his whole life.

His parents were well-off and he didn't need to find a job to feed himself. Everything going well for him until he died, his health was worsening as the day went by.

Before he died he tried to write a thank you letter to his parents but he couldn't do that too.

The next thing he knows he wakes up in the world that he created, [Blade Of Destiny]. However, instead of transmigrating into the body of the main character or even a side character, the boy became an extra called Lucas Darkheart.

Who is Lucas Darkheat? No Idea! He's just an Extra in the novel! ...Or is he just an Extra?

……………………………………………………………

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The simulation is over, and the entry is obtained: a showdown!

Looking at this entry, Zhao Meng was stunned.

“How should this term be used?”

“Hey! Here’s a wounded fox!”

…

A few years later, a woman who looked like a fairy appeared in front of him, and said:

“My lord, I’m here to repay my favor!”

This book is also called “Starting from Transforming Monsters”

- Description from novelbuddy

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.”