MTL - I’m Not Shouldering This Blame - Chapter 12 Gossamer

Anyone who could construct a stable Spell Model could become a Wizard — that was the Wizards’ ultimate secret! Having been given a new life as the son of an aristocrat and armed with a super quantum computer from his past life, Spell Models came as easily as breathing to Merlin. With this overwhelmingly huge advantage, would Merlin become the greatest Grand Wizard of all time?

One day, a villainess came to the orphanage.“I absolutely can’t stand children!”“How can someone my age have a child? It doesn’t make sense!”“What’s so great about these little creatures that tire you out all day long…”Setting aside her dislike for children…Somehow, after she arrived, the children started gaining weight.“It’s all because of the contract, you know?”That’s what she says.While personally feeding them sweets she made herself.

Zhuang Shuqing, who is dedicated to her career, throws two hundred yuan bills: “We are all adults, mutual consent is very normal.”After marriage -“Boss, Mrs. Lu has taken out your will to read again.”“Hmm, I have good writing skills, let the children learn more.”“Boss, Mrs. Lu said she has too many enemies and has written a will... to ask you to take a look...”“Who dares to touch my woman?”The little princess ran over, panting, “Daddy, brother took mommy and ran away!”Guard against everything, but it's hard to guard against family thieves. A certain man's handsome face turned completely black, “Someone, send the young master to a deserted island for me!”

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.”