The Bizarre Wizarding World - Chapter 149 - 132 More Important Matters

I became a mage character from my favorite game.

It was understood that this was a capitalist country, where the possession of the greatest amount of capital determined to whom the nation effectively belonged.The smile that had been resting on William Sheffield’s face was abruptly erased as his expression turned cold. In a tone laced with determination, it was demanded by him that the police be contacted immediately so that they could crush those who stood in their way. The reasoning behind his words seemed clear: if such actions had been taken before by someone like Rockefeller, then why should it not also be possible for Sheffield?A sense of irony hung in the air as the sentiment was expressed—this was America, where each day seemed to unfold as though it were part of an ongoing shootout, with battles fought not just with guns but with power, influence, and wealth.

“When I opened my eyes, I found myself as a character in a game. It was bewildering, but I thought it was worth a try. That was until I saw the skill given to me. It was [Opening Eyes], with no abilities whatsoever.”The story starts with the MC playing a game that is “Very Difficult”, so difficult, in fact, that no one has ever managed to kill the last boss. After 18 years of playing and, having the best attempt be at 30% of the last boss’s HP, he decides to try out a character that he never used.This character was the Slit-Eyed character. It had garbage stats and garbage traits. But, since the MC had ran out of options with every other character, he was trying to see if he could find any secrets with this new character. So he puts in his name ‘Zero’ and presses play… Only to find himself inside the game, as the Slit-Eyed character.

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.”