Black Iron Magician - Chapter 496: The Result of Death

[The return of the Great Holy Spirit, blood boiling! 】 The father was killed, the family wealth was taken, all the hands and feet were interrupted, and the revenge flame was ignited, and the Qitian Dasheng inheritance was obtained. Since then, the rise of the sky, God blocked the killing, the Buddha blocked the Buddha! Qin Feng wore a gold armor and held a hand of the sea god: “I want this world for thirty-six days, and I will return to the big holy flag!”

- Description from Fpzw (Translated)

Humans, once the masters of Earth, were losing their place to the inexplicable phenomena known as Objects.And this is a story about becoming an Object and living worry-free in the Seoul of such a world.

Liszt finds himself reborn as a countryside baron in an alternate world resembling medieval Europe. In this world, there are dragons that can discharge metals, elves that can tend to crops, and missions written in mist that only Liszt can see. With the help of the mysterious missions, can Liszt gradually grow from Baron of Flower Town into something greater, claiming the whole continent and beyond?

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.”