Apocalypse: Transmigrated General's Daughter Uses Space to Survive - Chapter 43: The Training Begins

[ADULT CONTENT WARNING: Explicit intimacy and mature relationship themes. 18+ only.]Seven years together. Two years married.To the world, Alexander Montclair is the perfect husband gentle, patient, and calm. A man who never raises his voice and believes love should be quiet and understanding.But behind closed doors, his silence speaks louder than anger.In our marriage, his family comes before everything. His mother’s wishes dictate our lives, while my own needs are expected to wait. Every compromise, every apology, every sacrifice, it’s always me who gives in.The only time I feel chosen is in our intimacy moment, when desire briefly drowns out duty and that's when he listens to me instead of his family’s voice.But sex moments can’t hold a marriage together.This is not a story about cruelty or violence.It’s about emotional neglect, quiet obedience, and the slow ache of realizing that love without choice will eventually break you.After seven years of loving him, I must decide: Remain the husband who is always second or finally choose myself.

Strength: 1Agility: 1Stamina: 1Magic Power: 20Luck: 1All my stats are dumped into Magic Power.I can only use one spell.There’s no character as broken as this, and yet, that’s me.And somehow, I got mistaken for a once-in-a-lifetime genius.

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.”

When I cleared the final chapter of a game that was a national failure, I became an unnamed side character in it.

A non-standard, unmeasurable, EX rank supporting character.