Roaring Dragon - Chapter 17: Striking a Stone With an Egg

In 2036, humankind steps foot on Mars for the first time.

A normal high school boy with nothing much happening in his life except for...life. Every new day was the same as the one before but he doesn't really care much about it. He thought of himself as a normal high school-going boy with no clear future. Lazy, sarcastic, but kind of intelligent, he was living a normal life.Though fate had different plans for him as he met a girl who he did and did not know. The school princess was the first thing he saw when he woke up in his bed caressing his head. To any other boy in his situation, it would be pure bliss but he was worried.Why?Since she was in his house which he had locked before going to sleep. Little did he know that the girl was more than what she showed and was about to turn his entire life upside down. How will he tackle this situation? No one knows that.

To the one who has never owned, obtained, or enjoyed anything throughout their entire life.“You have been chosen.”Thus, I shall bestow this power on you, for you are ’empty.’The power of the Void.Be my apostle and carry out my will.

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.”