MTL - I’m the Hero, His Brother, Wear It Quickly - Chapter 300 Aboriginal NPC【09】

On that day, due to the outbreak of an unprecedented and abnormal event, 41 students from class 2-7 of Shiromine Academy are summoned to a different world, one full of magic.

Separated and summoned inside a vast dungeon, where the only way to escape is to head to the deepest area, they are given the power of a Divine Protection 『Vocation』 as the only means of survival.

While some of them are brave, some just do whatever they want, and some harbor treacherous intentions, they all aim to capture the dungeon.

In this place, one person gained a 『Vocation』 whose skills are unsuitable for combat, attendance number 19, Momokawa Kotaro.

A boy with a small and lean build from the Literature Club wasn’t blessed with a physical ability, swordsmanship, or strong magic, rather he only had the 『Shaman』 vocation to rely on.

After being driven out of the group and left behind by his powerful classmates —– his survival instinct starts running at full throttle!

Pushed to the limit of survival in the different world’s dungeon, what starts with trusting and loving each other soon ends in killing and betrayal.

The most beautiful and gruesome battle royale has raised its curtain.

There was breaking news in Beijing. “Master Qiao’s wife for twelve years ran away! Without taking her son with her!”

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said that Master Qiao was two-faced with a cold attitude which led to an unhappy marriage. Others said his wife got together with another man. And a few said, their son was too ugly.

One day, the little boy found Ye Jiaqi and cried,” Qiqi, daddy says I was bought from a pet shop.”

“How can you buy such a gorgeous son from the pet shop,” Ye Jiaqi replied, “You were obviously won… From a lottery.”

…

Twenty years ago, he had spoiled her to the heavens. Twenty years later, he spoiled both of them to the heavens and back.

And from then on, Master Qiao had only one person in his heart.

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“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

“My colleague, who was set to cover an event today at Nightplace, obtained this information firsthand from Countess Maria, who held a special place for Norman in her heart. Our focus this morning is on this breaking news,” the female news reporter continued amidst the chaotic scene, while Norman's charred body lay alone in the ambulance.

Meanwhile, in a different world, a young boy lay fast asleep with his head on the table. The sun, seemingly displeased with the boy's carefree slumber, cast its rays directly onto his face. Annoyed by the intrusion, the boy shifted his head in another direction, unwilling to be roused from his deep sleep.

*ZZZr Zzrz Zzrzzr* However, an additional source disturbed his sleep, filling the room with a buzzing sound. The boy furrowed his brows in annoyance, his eyes still closed. He searched his surroundings and discovered a glass-like slab. With closed eyes, he slid his finger across it and placed it near his ear.

“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

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The king of assassins was reborn, mastering both alchemy and poison. Sitting inside the space, there was a ghost that loved crying.