The Skeleton Soldier Failed to Defend the Dungeon - Chapter 53. Between Appraisal and Emotion (4)

“Every person has an equal amount of 8 skill holder slots. There are normal skills such as 【Physical Strength】 which takes up 1 slot, but there are also rare skills which take up 4 to 5 slots, or even rarer ones which take up all 8 slots.”

Is what old man Hinga taught me at the Orb Mine, where skill orbs are unearthed.

But we “s*aves” could not acquire skills due to Contract Magic, thus s*aves had no future.

On one fateful day.

The noble who owned the mine, that is, our “Master”, came to visit the Orb Mine.

Due to a sudden earthquake, the ceiling collapsed. Rocks fell directly on the noble’s head. And he died.

At that moment, our contract magic disappeared.

The clever s*aves ran straight to the warehouse where the skill orbs were stored.

They absorbed rare skill orbs, and used their newfound abilities and magic to defeat the guards and escaped the mine.

It was a riot.

I was too late to pick up a skill orb.

“–It’s over. I will be forced back into being a s*ave,” I despaired.

But just then, I saw a skill orb that shouldn’t exist.

An orb which used 10 skill holder slots -【All Things In Creation 《World Ruler》】

A non-standard skill orb that would be of no interest to anyone but researchers because no soul in the world could use it.

However, I was able to absorb 【World Ruler】.

Why? That’s because I was a “reincarnated person.”

I had 8 more skill holder slots than an average person, for a total of 16 slots.

The mine is besieged and there is only one exit. A mysterious skill 【World Ruler】 in my hand.

What do I do now?

Disclaimer: This story doesn't belong to me, I posted it here just to use the audio book feature of the app.For most, becoming a member of the Elite 4 would be the culmination of their Journey. A great achievement that solidified your status in the annals of history. For me, it was just the start of my journey. Hopefully, everything stays Normal.A pre-canon self-insert into the world of Pokémon.

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.”