MTL - Six-Year-Old Child, Baojiao, is Busy with Kingdom-Building - Chapter 461 Consciousness

At the far north of the Atherno Continent, in an unknown village, Kyrian was born as a mere mortal. Weak, insignificant, and destined for oblivion.But he was anything but ordinary. Upon opening his eyes for the first time, they revealed an absolute white eyes without pupils or irises… and with them, an inexplicable innate talent.The ability to see what no one else could.His eyes didn’t just see the particles of spiritual energy, they could steal them. And more than that.Whether intentions, laws, concepts… everything before his vision could be taken by his eyes.When he stole his first Sword Intention, his eyes awakened to the path of the blade. Upon taking the Intention of Ice, another ocular pair was born.With every new stolen intention, his eyes changed, and new ones appeared.Kyrian does not hide them from the world, no, heeding his mother’s last wishes. He uses his gift without fear, with only one goal.To become strong by any means.

Reborn in the Marvel universe, Hawk learned one brutal truth—safety wasn't something you were given, you had to fight for it. He made himself a promise that day, committing to a path of relentless training and iron discipline that would define the next several years of his life.He didn't want a serum or a suit of armor, he wanted to unlock the power buried deep within.On the day his vow is fulfilled, he awakens a power that sings the song of creation itself, a force that can bend reality to his will.In that same moment, the sky over New York cracks open, and an alien armada pours through...

“Legend had it that in the deepest part of the oldest galaxy, there was a door as red as blood and fire.

Legends and myths, darkness and light, countless stories passed through this old door.

The Door of Constellation that overlooked everything would warn the sky and earth, sending darkness back to where it belonged.”

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.”