Mercenary Harem in Murim Novel - Chapter 151 – Hands

Story about human babies raised by monsters in a world of sword and magic.

Allen is an orphaned boy that had lived a rather pleasant life with his orc mother in the bowels of a deadly dungeon, until the day a band of humans ventured down to loot and pillage the home they had come to think of as safe.

They took everything that Allen had, and drove him further away from the humanity. In anger and anguish, Allen turned his back on the humans. He encapsulated himself in a deep-seated hatred of them, refusing to associate with them in any way—even going so far as to reject any attempt at kindness.

Allen begins his journey in a world of human with full of deceit, danger, envy, and politics.

That day, my head was struck by an unknown object, and after I woke up, I realized that I’m able to, through titles, understand a person’s truest side.

Alzi had a promising future. At seventeen, the Goddesses blessed her with a life affinity—a rarity for commoners in a small village; a few days before the class-choosing ceremony, her Mother gets sick. After using her little mana to keep her alive, she runs to the capital to find a true healer. With no money, she sells herself into slavery for a decade. The decade is almost up, but she has been turned into a broodmare for the nobles and faces a sale to keep her enslavement going.

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.”