Marvel: Hunter - Chapter 71: Tracking Paper Crane

Rejected at birth for lacking Ka, the divine essence that flows through all living beings, Alioth seemed cursed from the very beginning of his new life.When the heavenly kingdom of the gods collapsed, the world was consumed by Azoth: an abyssal fog that mutates every living thing it touches.Humanity's last refuge became Caelestia, a colossal floating citadel built amid the ruins of the gods' former home.Here, lineage is everything. Those who possess superior Ka can demand absolute obedience from the weak. Without it, one becomes fragile and unable to wield magic.But Alioth harbors a hidden gift, born from his past life: the power to bestow names drawn from the myths of his old world.Zeus, Odin, Excalibur, Gáe Bolg. Everything he names acquires the legendary traits of its mythical counterpart.But will this power be enough to survive and decipher the mysteries of this world?Alioth doesn't know yet, but he's determined not to waste his second chance.

Go back to 2000.

Lin Feng didn’t want to disturb the situation, he just wanted to protect the things he cherished.

However, there is no need to explain the open life.

Since it’s all over again, there’s no turning back when you open the bow!

- 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.”

The summer I was 17. A painting I created was sold. For 1.4 billion won.