MTL - The Great Conqueror - Chapter 562 12Holy Knight

[CONTENT WARNING: Graphic violence, profanity, dark humor, 18+]“The Resurrection System is Absolute.”Stabbed? Werewolf transformation. Poisoned? Immunity. Crushed? Teleportation.For every death he gets an ability. An F rank shit ability, but an ability nonetheless. It's up to Kurt to level up the abilities he thinks are worth growing.If F rank Pyrokinesis is good for lighting his cigarette, maybe SSS rank flames burn different.There's a catch however. Even life and death has rules and a cosmic order that enforces them.But what are they going to do? Kill him? Yeah, good luck with that.#System#Resurrection#Harem#MemoryLoss#Guild#Dungeon#Comedy#Weaktostrong

After experiencing heartbreak from being abandoned, he enlisted in the military.

And then, he became a war hero.

He was supposed to die in the academy dungeon.Instead, Earth’s greatest war hero opens his eyes as Velorum’s most hated student—the “villain” everyone expects to be executed by midterms.Swordsmen duel, mages burn, saints bless, tamers command beasts. He, unfortunately, practices the one art people fear most: necromancy. He doesn’t want a throne or revenge; after a lifetime of medals and funerals, he wants something scandalous for a villain—to live well. To laugh after curfew, to taste street food, to keep the friends who chose him alive.But the church wants a heretic, the crown wants a scapegoat, and the academy’s golden hero can’t explain why the “villain” keeps winning.Call him monster, call him traitor—he’ll carve out a life worth living, and smile while he does it.

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.”