The World Awakens: Ten Consecutive Draws Before Invincibility - Chapter 270 - Arrival

The poor Commandery Princess is down and out. Her father died when she was young, and her mother passed away not long ago. Her grandfather, the only one she can rely on, is now at death’s door from his illness. Faced with the merciless uncle, the greedy aunts, as well as cousins competing to present the model of the worst relatives, the Commandery Princess could do nothing but feel depressed in heart.

Following the death of the emperor, the Astanian Empire plunged into chaos. His two sons both aiming for the throne caused a civil war that divided the empire.In the midst of this conflict, Alaric was forced into conscription. He later joined the crown prince’s army as a company commander.He led his 100-man army into battle, fiercely fighting with the hope of a better future. Unfortunately, he was just too weak to cause a ripple on the battlefield.A single arrow to the head shattered his hopes and he died without even a proper burial.Just when he thought that everything was over, he found himself back to his younger self with his memories intact.Armed with his knowledge of the future and a system that awakened his dormant powers, Alaric began his journey to overcome his fated demise.

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.”