The City of Terror - Chapter 490 - Sharp Cry

On the haunted mountain in the kingdom, they say there lived a witch.

She was born a princess. But even before her birth, the priest declared her to be cursed and demanded her death. They poisoned the mother to kill the baby before she gave birth, but the baby was born out of the dead mother—a cursed child.

Again and again, they tried to kill the baby but she miraculously survived every single attempt. Giving up, they abandoned her on the haunted mountain to die but she still survived on that barren land— A witch

‘Why won’t she die?’

Years later, the people finally had enough of the witch and decided to burn the mountain. But someone arrived to her rescue and took her with him from that burning place, because dying was not her destiny even then.

Draven Amaris.

The Black Dragon, who ruled over supernatural beings, the Devil who no one wished to cross a path with. He hated humans but this certain human girl would pull him towards her whenever she was in danger.

‘Is she really a human?’

The devil named this mysteriously tenacious girl “Ember”, a piece of glowing coal in a dying fire.

This is a tale of the man who brings death and the girl who denies it.

No NTR-IncestA Boy struggles with the problems of being raised in a family full of lewd older women.

“Be better”

Peter was cursed by those words, the very last words of his dying mother.

Cursed to be better. To be above the small squabbles... And so, the last five years of his childhood, he spent as a target of bullying, both in school and in his adoptive, step-family.

But it all changed, when a portal to another world appeared in the middle of his shed!

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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.”