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... ng to protect him from the unforgiving winter chill.

Strange how he was dressed in the finest silk and had the entire room covered to ensure that it remained warm.

Regardless, he seemed to be muttering something to himself like a wizard conjuring a spell, but on closer inspection, even that was strange as he was not uttering any language charged with supernatural credence. Instead, he was merely speaking gibberish.

This was no mere man; nay, this was King Draco of Astoria ...

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In the wake of the apocalypse, betrayal doesn't just stab you in the back—it bites. Zorvax learned this the hard way. Abandoned by those he trusted, he didn't just become another number in the legion of the undead. No, his fate was far more peculiar.“I thought death was the end... I was wrong,” Zorvax mutters, his voice a gravelly echo of his former self. He's a zombie, but with a twist—he's got his human mind intact. Trapped in a decaying body with an insatiable hunger, Zorvax finds himself in a gruesome predicament that's just the beginning of his ordeal.Enter the 'Zombolution System,' a mysterious power he awakens that's as cryptic as it is potent. “They wanted a monster? I'll show them the true meaning of terror,”Zorvax boasts, with a smirk only a sentient zombie could muster. This dark gift is his ticket to ascend beyond a mere walking corpse, promising to unlock abilities that could crown him the emperor of the undead.As Zorvax hones his newfound skills, the line between man and monster blurs. Will his human intellect triumph, or will the beast within claim the throne? “This world has no place for the weak,” he arrogantly declares, ready to challenge fate itself.

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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.”

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