The Reversal System: Only for the Elite at the Mahayana Stage - Chapter 32 – Lack of mood

I became an extra who confessed to the main character in a female-oriented romance novel but was rejected – an embarrassing history. However, I tried to brush it off as no big deal, until… “…Didn’t you say you liked me?” After you rejected me, why are you now clinging to me…?

Sometime after ‘Gates’ appeared in this world, humanity was divided into two: [User] and [ordinary human beings] Lee-kyung was able to awaken into a user and choose a [Class]…but, in momentary misjudgement, chose to be a [Necromancer], the worst of all classes.

Lee-kyung, searching for the materials to evolve his skeletal servant, ‘Lackey,’ was barely able to participate in a high-level raid for [Tower of Command] Dungeon. In an accident, he falls down alone to uncover a hidden conspiracy.

Injured and desperate to survive, Lee-kyung called out to anyone…and reached a vengeful spirit. “Please, I’ll do anything….Please form a contract with me and save me!”

–-You’ll do anything?….

TW: Depictions of mental health

While browsing an online gallery, I was summoned to a tower.I obtained a gallery that allows me to communicate with those who have completed the tower.

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.”