MTL - Sword Spirit - Chapter 734 Front and rear containment

Born with the fate of a slaughterer, but all he wanted to do was help.

It always starts with an accident.That’s how all these stories go. One moment, you’re minding your own business, and the next, you wake up in someone else’s body. For Caspian, his accident started earlier than he even knew.Maybe it began when his sister got him into romance novels? Or when he started really sympathizing with the villains at the ends of books? He’d never know. It was too late to worry about it now.For now, he had to find a way to fix this nightmare, or rehabilitate his image, all while trying to free himself from the fate set out for him. All because of the damn “gods” who he'd cut a deal with.These were the only two options he had available, and he wasn’t sure he could succeed at either. The man he had taken over for had been…a true piece of work. And the secret villain of the book he had been reading before he passed.It had been a harem novel. A reverse harem novel.He was trapped in a huge ass CASTLE with a bunch of men who hated him because he was taking affection and time away from their shared wife. All Cass wanted to do was be a good person, not mess around with this poor woman and her far too handsome husbands.But why would no one leave him alone? Was he too suspicious? And why, after going out of his way to avoid them like they had asked, did they keep pestering him?And where did the heroine go?How was he going to manage three, handsome men without the heroine?

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.”