MTL - Pretending To Be a Holy Place, I Was Signed For a Thousand Years - Chapter 193 Enter my chessboard and play a game (4200 words)

When a person dies, they either die light as a feather (aka unimportant) or heavy as Mt. Tai (aka very important).

Being able to see into people's past has no real appeal for the teenager this story is about, letting him use it only as amusement and to show off when he was drunk.Never watch into someone's past beyond a superficial level.Never try to find out more than you should.NEVER. EVER. LOOK. INTO. THE. FUTURE.But everything changed the moment he was forced to look into the future, was forced to investigate a murder, and was forced to make the acquaintance of the victim's twin brother('s fists).The more time passed, the more it appeared that the primary reason for this murder wasn't a local problem, but a global one.This single, marred corpse was the beginning of a threat that would shake the world.(MC looses a screw when he enters the prison)BL, first-person view; MC is shuo (perhaps even a reversible couple); love interest falls in love first; both MC and ML are straight, mutual bending, Enemies to Lovers

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.”