MTL - I Am This Type of Woman - Chapter 45 city

Zane Thaleward, born into a prestigious family known for their extraordinary magical abilities, struggles to meet the expectations placed upon him. Unlike his relatives, his magic is weak, limited to only the simplest of spells, making him the subject of mockery and ridicule.Despite the constant criticism, he remains determined to become stronger. One day, while searching the family’s library for a way to improve his magic, he stumbles upon a strange, ancient book. Little does he know, this discovery will change his destiny forever.

Kyros Steele was the strongest warrior in the Omega Kingdom. But when the Great War of All began, this kingdom fell. Kyros was captured.

Destined to become a slave through necromancy, Kyros could only curse at his led bitter life.

But on his final moments, he meets an eccentric Old Man who claimed to be the God of Time.

Much like Kyros, this Old Man was fated for suffering and defeat. Because the God of Time could not be killed, the Great Gods conspired to curse him and make him human first. And so the God of Time escaped but was now human. Even if he used his powerful magic to send his consciousness back in time, he would still be defeated, for his soul was no longer a god but a man.

Helpless as his time-traveling rebirth would easily fail, the God of Time offers and asks for Kyros's help. He would send Kyros back along with his own consciousness back in time. This would hide the God of Time from his enemies and give Kyros the chance to fulfill his revenge.

Just when the two were about to time travel, a shocking mystery caused the God of Time to marvel in awe. Kyros was not a human but had the bloodline of the most accursed and dangerous race of all.

Kyros is the legendary Nephilim.

And so begins the Ascension of the Nephilim.

The year was 2026, and the world wasn't what it used to be. Ever since the Abyss Gates cracked open three years ago, spilling monsters and dungeons across the planet, life had turned into a chaotic mess. Cities were half-ruined, half-rebuilt, and people clung to whatever normalcy they could find. Hunters—those brave or crazy enough to fight the monsters—became the new heroes. Everyone else? Well, they just tried to survive.Fin wasn't a Hunter. He wasn't a hero either.He was just… Fin. A lanky 19-year-old with messy brown hair, a chipped front tooth from a dumb skateboard accident, and a power that everyone called useless. Absorption. Sounds cool, right? Like he could suck up energy or steal someone's strength. Nope. All it did was let him “feel” things he touched a little more than normal. He could tell you the exact texture of a brick wall or how warm a coffee mug was—big whoop. No fireballs, no super strength, no flashy moves. Just a glorified touchy-feely trick.“Fin, you gonna eat that sandwich or just stare at it like it's gonna confess its life story?” Meg's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.He blinked and looked across the rickety table at his best friend. Meg was short, loud, and had a wild mop of dyed purple hair that she swore made her look “intimidating.” It didn't.

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.”