My World Is All about You - Chapter 157 - 158 Quarrel (1)_1

“Hey, wait! I'm not a god, I'm just a guy who loves trash!”Rhys loves trash. Trashy anime, trashy novels, trashy games, he can't get enough. Which was all well and good until one day, his passion for trash gets him mistaken as an actual trash god. Whisked away into another world, Rhys wakes up in a trash heap as a trash talent with trash skills and no chance of progression. Given his trashy start, it seems there's no hope for him.Or at least, there wouldn't be for a lesser man. But Rhys loves trash.There's only one path before him. Embrace the trash! Empower the trash! Dig the diamonds out from the trash! Polish the trash until it shines brighter than gold! If there's one thing Rhys is passionate about, it's trash. And even in another world, he isn't going to stop until he proves that trash shouldn't be overlooked!What to expect: Trash charactersTrash skillsTrash storyNumber go upCultivation-style systemFast-paced progression

In a world where Classes, Stats, and Levels are the everyday norm, Reivyn has a secret.He was unusually aware of his surroundings from an incredibly early age, and Skills and Stats were acquired easily. He was just the son of an ordinary village family, and nothing appeared out of the ordinary on the surface. But below the surface, dreams of another life help shape his mentality and growth. Why does he have some remembrance of a past life, and what is his purpose in this new one?“Soul of the Warrior” is what I call a Semi-Isekai LitRPG. I say “semi,” because Reivyn's past life is remembered like a dream, and very incomplete. It is still Isekai, though, as he remembers enough that it directly shapes his personality and his sense of self.The System that governs the world of “Soul of the Warrior” is a combination of modified versions from Selkie's “Beneath the Dragoneye Moons” and Kosnik4's “Magic Smithing.” I have changed enough of these Systems and combined them in a way that is unique that I'm mostly sure it's fine, but I still have requested permission to use these ideas. They have both graciously granted me permission.Winner of the April Writathon Challenge.

She was the most unpopular female wolf in the New Moon Pack, as lowly as a blade of grass. Eight years ago, her mother went missing, her father was killed, and her entire pack was exterminated. Thus, she had been demoted to the lowest servant level by her father’s murderer. For eight years, she had been beaten, cursed, and starved, but she kept her identity a secret.

This year, she turned eighteen years old.

He was the alpha of the largest werewolf pack in all of America and shone like the sun. With his perfectly sculpted face and a tremendous amount of money, no werewolf didn’t know his name, and he was the dream lover of every woman. Everything seemed perfect, except for the fact that he didn’t have a mate yet.

This year, he turned twenty-six years old.

What kind of spark or conflict would there be when they meet by chance?

“Rose, I can give you everything you want. In exchange, you have to be mine.”

“Alpha, the truth is, I’m—”

“Oh, Jesus f*cking Christ! Now, you will never escape me, my Luna.

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.”