Void_Cowboy Rolls a Nat 20 on Chaos

[Thegameaholic]

The rain of Brockton Bay hammered against the cracked glass of Greg Veder's bedroom window, a rhythmic, dismal pulsing that matched the thrumming headache behind his eyes. On the screen of his ancient, dusty CRT monitor, the glowing interface of Parahuman Online flickered with brutal finality.

His thread on the Brockton Bay local boards—a deeply researched, eighty-paragraph masterclass explaining why the Empire 88 was secretly controlled by a rogue Thinker operating out of an abandoned bowling alley—had been locked. Downvoted into oblivion.

User XxVoid_CowboyxX has been issued a temporary 24-hour mute for spamming and conspiracy posting.

Beneath the moderator tag, the comments were a parade of snark. Go outside, Void. Is this guy for real? Someone take away his keyboard.

It was just like school. Just like Winslow High, where Sophia Hess had deliberately caught his foot in the hallway earlier that afternoon, sending his plastic cafeteria tray sloshing lukewarm chili all down the front of his favorite knock-off graphic tee. Emma Barnes had giggled, Madison Clements had taken a photo, and Greg had spent the remainder of fifth period sitting in a stall in the boys' bathroom, scrubbing at his jeans with abrasive industrial paper towels until his skin was raw.

"They'll see," Greg muttered into his stained, lumpy pillow as he kicked off his shoes and dragged the thin blanket over his shoulders. His voice cracked, small and pathetic in the dark room. "I'm gonna figure out who the capes are. I'm gonna be somebody. I'm gonna be..."

He cried himself to sleep, his chest aching with the hollow, agonizing loneliness that only an unmedicated, neurodivergent teenage outcast in the worst city in America could truly understand.

Greg didn't wake up to the horrific screech of his cheap alarm clock. He woke up to light.

It wasn't the dull, grey daylight of a overcast Brockton Bay morning. It was an impossible, hyper-vibrant illumination that burned through his closed eyelids. It shimmered in iridescent violet, blinding gold, and deep, shimmering void-black.

He scrambled backward, untangling his feet from his blanket and slamming his skull directly against his particle-board headboard. "Ow! What the—"

Floating exactly six inches in front of his face was a colossal, hovering window made of translucent glass and crackling static. It looked like an interface from an Aleph video game, but the air around it hummed with raw, palpable power that made the hair on Greg's arms stand straight up.

Scrolling across the center of the display in bold, energetic typography were words that burned themselves directly into his brain:

The infinite chaos of the endless and infinite multiverse condensed and refined into the form of a Gacha available at your very fingertips! Maybe you will become a shapeshifting fire monarch, or maybe you will be a supreme tinkerer... or a supreme lady killer.

The possibilities are functionally endless! So go ahead and gamble to your heart's content! The endless, ever-changing multiverse awaits, so gamble with the Nuclear Chaos and see what fate has in store for you!

Greg froze. He blinked once. Twice. He reached out a trembling, pale hand and waved it through the glowing box. The light shifted around his fingers like warm liquid silk.

"Holy shit," Greg whispered. His breath caught in his throat. "Holy shit. Holy shit! I'M A CAPE!"

He threw off his covers completely, leaping out of bed and landing awkwardly on a pile of dirty socks. He didn't care. He clutched his hands to his head, his chest expanding with an ecstatic, bubbling pressure that felt like it was going to burst right out of his ribs.

"I'm a cape! Take that, PHO mods! Take that, Sophia! I'm a cape!"

The glowing screen chimed, a cheery, retro sound effect echoing in his mind, and the text shifted smoothly, expanding into a complex, neatly categorized menu system.

Welcome, User. Below is the operational framework for the Chaos Gacha System:

Category Pools:

Item: Artifacts, weapons, technology, and gear from across reality.

Ability: Active powers, magic spells, transformations, and exotic techniques.

Familiar: Companions, summons, beasts, and loyal entities.

Trait: Passive biological, psychological, or existential modifications.

Skill: Innate proficiencies, mastery over disciplines, and learned talents.

Rarity Hierarchy:

Bronze -> Silver -> Gold -> Platinum -> Diamond -> Legendary -> Mythical -> Divine

Earning Mechanism:

Feats: Perform acts of significance (Narrative, Heroic, Villainous, or Chaotic) to generate multi-dimensional energy and earn pull tickets.

The Curse Wheel: Voluntarily accept existential, physical, or situational debuffs (Ranging from Severity 1 to Severity 20) in exchange for instant high-tier tickets. Curses can be alleviated or resolved by fulfilling specific conditions.

Greg's jaw hung open. A multiversal gacha. He wasn't just a cape. He was... he was basically Eidolon! No, better than Eidolon! Eidolon only got three powers at a time and he had to wait for them to charge up! Greg could draw powers from across the infinite multiverse! He was a multiversal Eidolon!

A small banner flashed across the top of the interface in flashing golden letters:

NOTICE: Local Dimension Identified [Earth-Bet]. Danger Level: EXTREME. World Lethality Adjustment Applied. Starter Pack Upgraded.

Starter Pack Unlocked:

1x Random Bronze Ticket

1x Random Silver Ticket

1x Random Gold Ticket

1x Random Platinum Ticket

"A Platinum right off the bat?!" Greg squealed, a high-pitched, entirely unmanly sound escaping his throat. He rubbed his hands together furiously. "Okay, okay, calm down, Greg. Sequence matters. We roll in order. Gotta build the luck curve!"

He tapped the glowing icon for the Random Bronze Ticket. The screen burst into a light show of bronze sparks, spinning like a slot machine before locking into place with a firm metallic CLANG.

[Drake Form] | Rare Ability | Allows you to take on the form of a firebreathing drake or a hybrid at will. As a lesser dragon, becoming a drake grants you increased physical abilities and the ability to fly as well as breathe fire.

"I can turn into a dragon," Greg breathed, his eyes wide as saucers. "I can literally turn into a flying, fire-breathing dragon! I'm Lung! But cooler! And I have wings! Lung can't even fly right away, he has to get beaten up first! I'm better than the leader of the ABB!"

Exhilarated, he didn't wait. He slammed his finger down on the Random Silver Ticket. The interface whirred, glowing with a soft, ethereal silvery light before solidifying.

[Corpus Weapon] | Uncommon Ability | Allows you to imbue whatever weapon you are holding or your limbs with necrotic energy. This necrotic energy amplifies the power behind your attacks and makes them harder to heal while hurting the vitality of the enemy directly. Against living targets, it deals extra damage by exhausting their vitality. You can also channel the necrotic energy around your weapon or fist and throw it out as a projectile.

"Necrotic magic," he whispered, watching the dark green energy dance across his fingers before he willed it away. "I can blast people with necrotic energy projectiles. That is so metal."

Next up was the Random Gold Ticket. Greg took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his boxers, and tapped the shimmering golden box.

[Untraceable] | Rare Trait | You are very hard to track, cameras mysteriously stop recording when you step into the frame, your footprints get covered by the natural elements, and normal people just cannot remember which way you went when someone asks them. Very good for a serial killer or a paranoid.

Greg paused, reading the last sentence twice. His brow furrowed. "Serial killer? Hey! I'm going to be a hero, okay? A famous, brilliant hero!"

But as he processed what the trait actually did, his eyes lit up. "Wait... cameras stop recording? Footprints disappear? People forget where I went?" He burst into a wide, goofy grin. "Sophia and her track team won't ever be able to corner me in the hallway again! I'm completely invisible to PRT surveillance! I can do vigilante stuff and the PRT won't even have footage of me!"

Finally, the crown jewel of his starter kit. The Random Platinum Ticket.

Greg closed his eyes, crossed his fingers, said a quick silent prayer to whatever multiversal gacha gods were watching, and tapped the glowing, radiant platinum icon.

The room went completely silent. The glowing interface exploded into a blinding flash of silver-white and violet light that washed over the entire room. A profound, ancestral chill settled into Greg's lungs, and a deep, resonance reverberated through his soul.

[Necromancer] | Elite Trait | Specialization - You are a natural-born necromancer, dealing with death and souls is just your lane of business. Any death or soul-related ability is easier to master and costs less energy.

Greg stared at the text. The word Necromancer burned with an eerie, majestic dark light.

"A Drake..." Greg began, his voice barely a squeak. "A Drake... Necromancer."

He stood frozen for three seconds before dropping into a wild, hysterical victory dance right in the middle of his room. He pump-primed his fists, did a terrible version of a moonwalk, and nearly knocked over his desk lamp.

"YES! HOLY SHIT! DRAKE NECROMANCER!" Greg bellowed, throwing his head back. "I am literally a D&D boss! I'm a dragon who controls death! Take that, Winslow! Take that, Emma! Take that, world!"

He paused, panting heavily, his heart racing at a million miles an hour. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and looked back at the hovering UI.

"Wait a second," Greg said aloud, pointing a finger at the screen. "You said earlier that I could roll the Curse Wheel, right?"

The screen flickered. A tiny text box popped up in the bottom corner:

Affirmative.

Greg blinked, startled. "Huh? Did... did you just respond to me?"

The text box refreshed instantly, the font taking on a distinctly dry tone:

Affirmative. I am an integrated multiversal assistant unit assigned to guide the User through the interface and prevent you from accidentally incinerating yourself with low-tier spatial anomalies.

Greg's jaw dropped again. "You can talk?! Like, talk-talk?! You're an AI?!"

I am a helper system. Calling me an 'AI' is an insult to my multiversal computing architecture, but given your local baseline intelligence, the term will suffice.

"Hey!" Greg huffed, though he couldn't hide the massive grin on his face. "Whatever! This is awesome! Okay, helper system, pull up the Curse Wheel! Let's get some more rolls!"

Displaying Curse Wheel Interface. Warning: Curses are binding until their resolution conditions are met. Proceed with caution.

A massive, circular wheel materialized in front of Greg. It looked like a roulette wheel forged out of nightmare material, glowing with sinister red runes numbered 1 through 20.

"Spin it!" Greg commanded excitedly.

The wheel spun with a terrifying, heavy screech of grinding metal. Red sparks flew across the room as the needle blurred past the numbers. It slowed down... tick, tick, tick... and locked onto the number 3.

[Neat Freak] | Severity 3 | You are bound by compulsion to be neat, making you very uncomfortable when you are dirty and slightly decreasing your energy recovery and output when you are dirty. | Resolve: Achieve Adept level Discipline or a trait that increases your mental resilience. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

Greg opened his mouth to laugh, but before he could utter a word, a sudden, overpowering wave of pure, visceral disgust violently washed over him.

He looked down at his carpet. The dirty socks he had stepped on earlier suddenly looked like toxic hazard waste. The thin layer of dust on his desk felt like a personal insult to his soul. The smell of his room—stale chips and damp laundry—made his stomach violently churn.

"Oh god," Greg whined, clutching his stomach, his hands twitching violently. "It's... it's so gross. How did I live like this?! Everything is filthy! Everything is disgusting!"

Driven by an absolute, uncontrollable mental compulsion, Greg frantically grabbed a black plastic trash bag from his closet. He began moving around his room at lightspeed, stuffing dirty clothes into the hamper, wiping down surfaces with wet wipes, organizing his comic books alphabetically, and scrubbing his desk until the fake wood grain practically shined.

"System! Spin the Bronze ticket while I clean!" Greg yelled through his teeth, frantically vacuuming the rug with a hand-vac. "I can't stop scrubbing!"

Processing Random Bronze Ticket...

[Scholar] | Uncommon Trait | You are an expert at reading, learning, and retaining information; you could read 50 books in a day and still be able to retain all of the information from the individual books.

As the trait integrated, Greg felt a sharp, crystalline clarity settle over his brain. The chaotic, scattered thoughts of his ADHD and autism suddenly smoothed out, arranging themselves into clean, perfectly organized mental filing cabinets. He felt like his brain had just been upgraded from a dial-up modem to a fiber-optic supercomputer.

"Whoa," Greg gasped, pausing his frantic vacuuming for a split second. "My head... it's so clear! I could read the entire Brockton Bay library in a week! I'm gonna get straight A's! Mrs. Knott is gonna be so confused!"

Satisfied that his room was now completely spotless—the bed made with hospital corners, the floor shining, the air smelling faintly of lemon disinfectant—the debilitating compulsion eased up slightly. Greg wiped his forehead with the back of a clean sleeve and puffed out his chest.

"See?" Greg boasted to the glowing screen. "That was easy! A Severity 3 curse is nothing! Give me another one! Spin the wheel again!"

Warning: Higher severity curses carry exponential risks. Are you sure, User?

"I'm a Drake Necromancer Scholar!" Greg declared, striking a heroic pose. "I can handle anything! Spin it!"

The wheel began to rotate. This time, the sound it made wasn't a retro arcade chime—it was a deep, ominous groaning sound, like tectonic plates grinding together. The runes flashed a deep, blood-crimson. The needle spun faster and faster, a blur of apocalyptic red.

It passed 5... it passed 10... it passed 15...

Greg's heroic pose slowly deflated. "Uh... okay, slow down..."

It passed 16... passed 17... and locked into place with a sound like a thunderclap directly over the house.

18.

The entire UI flashed blinding, violent red. Warning sirens blared inside Greg's head, making him drop to his knees.

[Mortal Enemy] | Severity 18 | Someone REALLY strong is REALLY mad at you. The moment you awaken in your world, someone at least Epic Familiar in strength or a target closest to that level is going to be imbued with absolute hatred towards you and will stop at nothing to tear you apart. | Resolve: Kill or neutralize your mortal enemy. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Legendary Ticket.

The room went dead silent.

Greg sat on his freshly vacuumed carpet. The color drained from his face until he looked like a sheet of printer paper. His lower lip began to tremble violently.

"W-what?" Greg squeaked. His voice was no higher than a dog whistle. "Severity... Severity 18?"

He scrambled onto his hands and knees, staring at the flashing red screen in sheer, unadulterated terror.

"Someone... someone REALLY strong?!" Greg shrieked, clutching at his hair. "Epic Familiar level?! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?! WHO IS IT?!"

He swiped frantically at the screen. "System! System, tell me who it is! Is it Scion?! Is it Leviathan?! Is it All-Father?! Is it Lung?! IS IT KAISER?! WHO IS MAD AT ME?!"

The small helper box popped up, its text cold and utterly devoid of comfort:

Information restricted. The target's hatred has been initialized and bound to your local dimensional existence. The target currently knows your face and possesses an instinctual, murderous fixation on your total obliteration.

"THEY KNOW MY FACE?!" Greg shrieked, flopping onto his back and kicking his legs in absolute panic. "I'VE HAD MY POWERS FOR TWENTY MINUTES! TWENTY MINUTES, SYSTEM! I HAVEN'T EVEN LEFT MY BEDROOM!"

Correction: You have cleaned your bedroom.

"THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR JOKES!" Greg wailed, rolling into a tight defensive ball on the floor. "I have a god-tier cape or an Endbringer-tier monster wanting to tear my skin off! I'm gonna die! I'm gonna be a headline on PHO! 'XxVoid_CowboyxX murdered in his sleep by unknown super-villain'!"

On the bright side, User, you have received a Random Legendary Ticket.

Greg stared at the glowing, pulsing, majestic Legendary Ticket sitting quietly in his inventory menu. It shone with a blinding, cosmic radiance, promising unfathomable power.

He lay there on his clean floor, shivering in his boxers, caught completely between the highest high of his life and the absolute, terrifying brink of imminent annihilation.

---

Greg lay on his back in the middle of his spotless bedroom floor, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon through the Boardwalk. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Inhale for four seconds... hold for four seconds... exhale for four seconds..." Greg whimpered, staring up at his popcorn ceiling. He had read about box breathing on a thread for panic attacks on PHO once, back when he still thought the community might give him helpful advice instead of telling him to jump into the bay. "Okay. Okay. I'm not dead yet. The Mortal Enemy isn't in the room. Scion hasn't broken through my roof. Nobody is currently murdering me."

He sat up slowly, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. The glowing red text of the Severity 18 curse still hung in the air, a ominous reminder that somewhere out there in Brockton Bay—or worse, somewhere across the globe—a titan-tier threat had just developed a burning, pathological desire to turn Greg Veder into paste.

"Right," Greg said, his voice trembling as he forced himself to stand up. "Right. Panic later. Upgrade now. If I'm going to survive whatever lunatic is coming for me, I need stats. I need gear. I need... Legendary loot."

He dragged his trembling hand through the air and clicked on the hovering, radiant Random Legendary Ticket.

The room exploded into a blinding spectacle of fiery orange, deep crimson, and electric gold. Cosmic energy crackled across his walls, shaking the dust off his ceiling fan. The system interface spun violently, numbers and symbols blurring together until a massive, thunderous roar echoed in Greg's mind, settling into a bold, martial display.

[Ryu's Shotokan] | Epic Skill | Street Fighter - You are a practitioner of the Shotokan, a school of special Karate created by Ryu. This school of martial arts focuses on direct, powerful strikes with a mix of kicks and punches, mixing aggression and defense. With enough practice, one may be able to tap into the [Kyoi no Hado] and harness Ki to enhance the power of their blows, perform special techniques, and use the Hadoken.

Before Greg could even process the words, a white-hot jolt of raw information slammed straight into his central nervous system.

He gasped, dropping to his knees as years—decades—of grueling, spiritual martial arts training surged directly into his brain and muscle tissue. He felt the phantom memory of thousands of punches thrown into the freezing mountain wind, the precise balance of a dragon punch, the grounding weight of a horse stance, and the rhythmic flow of spiritual energy circulating through his meridians.

It wasn't just knowledge; it was deep, instinctive muscle memory.

Greg stood up in a single, fluid motion. Gone was his awkward, slouched posture. His feet adjusted instantly, finding the exact center of gravity on his wooden floor. He raised his fists, shifting into a low, defensive stance. He thrust a right palm forward—a sharp, crisp strike that cut through the air with a loud, whip-like crack.

"Whoa," Greg breathed, staring at his hands. "Oh, wow. I... I actually know how to fight. I'm a martial artist!"

The newfound combat instinct surging through his veins acted like a shot of pure adrenaline, flushing away the last lingering traces of his terror over the Mortal Enemy curse. He felt empowered. He felt capable. He felt like a main character.

He looked back at the ominous, glowing Curse Wheel floating beside his bed.

"Okay," Greg muttered, cracking his knuckles. "I need more rolls. Higher risk, higher reward. I can handle it. I'm a Drake Necromancer Martial Artist now. I can take a hit. Come on, wheel, give me something I can work with!"

He grabbed the edge of the wheel and spun it with all his might. The metal screech echoed through his room as the needle blurred past the crimson numbers, finally grinding to a halt on 7.

[Menacing] | Severity 7 | Whether you intend to or not, you generally come across as a very intimidating and scary individual, like a thug or a criminal. Most regular people would rather not be close to you, and trained people may be on guard against you at first meeting. | Resolve: Acquire Adept level communication or above OR acquire a trait that contradicts your curse. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Ticket.

Greg blinked, leaning closer to the screen. He waited. He looked down at his hands, then at his arms. "Wait... that's it? I just look scary?"

He walked over to his full-length closet mirror and gasped.

His physical shape hadn't dramatically changed, but his whole vibe had turned utterly terrifying. His eyes sat in subtle, heavy shadows. His jaw seemed slightly sharper, his brow perpetually set in a dark, brooding scowl. The way he stood—even just standing normally—looked like he was three seconds away from pulling a knife on a tourist. His shadow stretched long and jagged across the floorboards.

"Huh," Greg said, tilting his head. He tried to give the mirror a friendly, welcoming smile, but it came out as a sinister, predatory sneer that made his own skin crawl. "Honestly... not bad! People usually just thought I was a loser. Now they'll think I'm a terrifying villain or an anti-hero! That's a massive upgrade! Plus, it's only Severity 7!"

Feeling triumphant, Greg turned to his newly acquired Random Gold Ticket and slapped the icon.

[Helltaker] | Rare Trait | "You wake up, dreaming of a harem of demon girls" Infernally aligned/Demonic beings find themeselves more attracted to you and it is easier to earn their affection.

Greg read the text. He read it again. Then he threw his hands up in absolute, vocal frustration.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Greg yelled, glaring at the interface. "ANY OTHER DAY! ANY OTHER DAY, SYSTEM! I would literally die of happiness to have hot demon girls like me! BUT WE ARE ON EARTH-BET! THERE ARE NO DEMON GIRLS HERE! WE HAVE LEVIATHAN! WE HAVE THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE NINE!WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND A DEMON GIRL IN BROCKTON BAY?!"

He stomped his foot on the carpet. "I needed a combat skill! Or a forcefield! Or a healing factor! What am I gonna do with this?! Go down to the Docks and ask the ABB if they have any succubi?!"

The small helper box popped up on the side of the display, the text appearing with a slow, distinctly patronizing speed:

User is reminded that the Chaos Gacha draws from the entire multiversal spectrum. While native Earth-Bet demonic entities are non-existent, future familiar rolls, summons, or planar breaches may yield demonic targets. The trait ensures absolute obedience and romantic affinity from high-tier infernal beings.

Greg huffed, crossing his arms. "Fine. Fair enough, I guess. If I roll a dragon-demon girl later, it'll be useful. But right now, it's just sitting there!"

Determined to get something immediately useful, Greg grabbed the Curse Wheel again. "Third time's the charm! Give me a gold ticket with an actual combat application!"

He spun the wheel. It spun smoothly, ticking down past 15, past 12, and landing with a dull click on 9.

[Out of Shape] | Severity 9 | You are quite out of shape, aren't you? Your physical abilities and athletics are notably below average for your race or genetics. 9/10, you would lose to an average member of your species, and your body is totally untrained. | Resolve: Simply train your body into shape. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Ticket.

The moment the curse took effect, Greg felt a sudden, agonizing weight slam into his lungs.

He doubled over, wheezing heavily. His shoulders slouched, his legs felt like lead pipes filled with wet sand, and his lower back gave a dull, aching throb. Just holding himself upright felt like he was carrying a bag of cement on his shoulders.

Greg deadpanned at the interface, his face a mask of absolute disbelief while he puffed for air. "Seriously? Seriously?! I literally JUST got Legendary Shotokan Karate, and you make me a couch potato?!"

The curse penalizes baseline physical conditioning, User. Your technical mastery of Shotokan remains intact; you will simply be very tired while executing a Hadoken.

"I hate you," Greg wheezed, wiping sweat off his brow. "I'm going to have to do push-ups. Do you know how long it's been since I did a push-up? Middle school! It was horrible!"

Grumbling, he tapped the newly acquired Random Gold Ticket to see what he had traded his cardio for.

[Mimic] | Uncommon Familiar | A curious shapeshifting bloodthirsty creature, the Mimic can turn into the shape of any creature or object as well as being able to manipulate its texture and density. Being able to turn into a chest, or a woman with a large chest, or maybe even a mount. They also get larger and stronger the more you feed them flesh, especially human flesh, they may even get smarter if you feed them brains.

A swirling dark portal opened briefly near Greg's closet, and out popped a small, wooden trunk reinforced with iron straps. The moment it landed on the floor, the lid popped open like a yawning mouth, revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp, needle-like teeth, a long, slavering purple tongue, and four dark, glossy eyes blinking up at him.

Gulp. The chest made a wet, wooden burping sound, wagging its thick purple tongue like a puppy.

Greg stared at the creature, then at the description on the screen, his face turning bright red.

"Umm... okay!" Greg stammered, raising his hands defensively as if addressing an invisible audience. "Now, look! People might say what they want about Greg Veder! They say I'm weird! They say I post too much on PHO! But I am NOT that perverted! I am NOT going to make my familiar turn into... into a woman with a large chest!"

A/N:GODDAMNIT VEDER MY WALL

The Mimic let out a low, wooden growl, its lid snapping shut before opening again to sprout two tiny, wood-carved leg-like appendages, skittering closer to Greg's ankles like a giant, toothy crab. It rubbed its iron-bound corner against Greg's shins in a surprisingly affectionate manner.

Greg looked down at it, softening slightly. "Okay... you're kind of weirdly cute. And you can turn into a mount? Like a giant armored bike or a battle-monster? And you eat flesh..." Greg paused, sweating again. "Human flesh? Yeah, okay, we are definitely going to feed you E88 thugs or ABB gangsters when I go on patrol. No regular people for you, buddy."

The Mimic let out a happy CLACK of its lid, settling down near his bed like an oversized, terrifying footstool.

"Right," Greg said, taking a deep breath and wiping his face. "One more. Just one more spin on the Curse Wheel. I need a Diamond or Legendary tier pull to deal with this Mortal Enemy situation."

He approached the wheel carefully, grabbed the handles, and gave it a violent spin.

The wheel spun with an unsettling, high-pitched screech. Red light flickered across the room, but suddenly, the interface began to glitch violently. Green lines of broken code tore through the red display, a deep, buzzing static filling the room.

The needle landed on 14.

[Uh-Oh] | Severity 14 | This can only end so well. (Gacha rolls another Curse Wheel; the result is the effect of this curse but the user is not aware which curse effect is applied) | Resolve: N/A |

Reward Granted: 1x Diamond Ticket.

Greg stared at the prompt in sheer confusion. "Wait... Uh-Oh? What does that mean? It rolls another curse?"

Before he could process it, the Curse Wheel inside the system interface began spinning rapidly on its own behind a thick, corrupted layer of scrambled black and purple pixels. The sound of grinding gears echoed in Greg's ears as the hidden wheel clicked to a stop.

Behind the glitched overlay, the hidden system registered the secondary roll: Severity 1 - [Infertile].

Whatever reproductive organs you have, they refuse to harbour life or help in the formation of life. You cannot impregnate anyone or be impregnated, no matter what. Resolve: Acquire a fertility boosting trait or an appropriate biokinetic ability.

Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

Greg squinted at the glitched, corrupted box floating in front of him. He tried swiping at it, tapping it, and blowing on it, but the text remained completely obscured by purple digital noise.

"System?" Greg asked nervously. "What... what did it roll? Is it bad? Am I gonna combust? Did I get super-cancer?!"

Information Obscured by Curse Condition [Uh-Oh], the helper text replied smoothly. However, internal diagnostics indicate the applied secondary curse is extremely minor in immediate tactical impact. User needs not panic.

Greg let out a massive, dramatic sigh of relief, slumping against his desk. "Oh, thank god! A Severity 1 hidden curse! That's practically nothing! Probably just made my fingernails grow slower or something! Whew!"

He rubbed his hands together, his eyes locking onto the magnificent, shimmering item sitting in his inventory. "AND I GOT A DIAMOND TICKET! HARVEST SEASON BABY!"

Without losing a single second, Greg tapped the Diamond Ticket.

The entire bedroom was engulfed in a blinding, primordial golden light. A wave of heat so intense flared through the air that the paper posters on Greg's wall began to singe at the edges. A colossal, divine aura descended upon the room, accompanied by the distant, thunderous roar of a cosmic beast.

[Son Gokū] | Legendary Familiar | Naruto - One of the tailed beasts, as the four tails, Son Gokū takes the form of a giant monkey with octopus tails. Son Gokū has strength befitting his massive frame with exceptional physical prowess. In addition, he is able to create and control fire and earth at will, often using them in tandem to create volcanic eruptions and spew lava. As a tailed beast, he is immortal and will revive upon death, he can also fuse with a person to grant them his abilities.

Greg completely froze. His eyes bulged out of his head.

"S-Son... Son Goku?!" Greg shrieked, clutching his head. "Giant monkey with octopus tails?! Lava control?! IMMORTAL?!"

He stared at the word Naruto in the prompt. "What the heck is a Naruto? Is that an Aleph manga? I've never heard of a Naruto!"

(Because Earth-Bet's pop culture diverged heavily in the early 1980s following Scion's arrival, Japanese media like Naruto had never been created in Greg's world.)

The Gacha interface flashed with an urgent prompt:

Familiar [Son Gokū] summoned to spiritual storage. Notice: Entity size exceeds local room dimensions by 4,000%. Physical materialization in current location will result in the immediate destruction of your house and three surrounding suburban blocks.

Option Available: Permanent/Semi-Permanent Spiritual Fusion. Do you wish to fuse [Son Gokū] into your soul core? You will gain his elemental affinities (Lava Release, Earth, Fire), massive physical durability, immense spiritual energy reserves, and immortality framework.

Greg didn't even hesitate. He threw his arms into the air. "YES! FUSE IT! FUSE IT RIGHT NOW!"

Commencing Fusion Process with Four-Tails [Son Gokū]...

A pillar of pure, molten crimson energy burst out of the interface and slammed straight into Greg's chest.

Greg let out a choked, silent gasp as his entire body was lifted two feet off the ground. A tsunami of sheer, unadulterated primordial power flooded every cell, every vein, and every atom of his being. It felt like someone was pouring liquid starfire directly into his blood vessels. His muscles flared, his bones hardened into dense, unbreakable structures, and deep within his soul, the presence of a vast, ancient, volcanic entity settled with the weight of a mountain.

The heat in the room spiked to a staggering degree, but Greg didn't feel burned—he felt home.

When his feet finally slammed back down onto the floor, the floorboards groaned under his sudden, dense weight.

Greg opened his eyes. They glowed with a fierce, molten-gold radiance before fading back to his natural color. He took a deep breath, and a tiny, wispy puff of dark volcanic smoke escaped his nostrils.

Fusion Complete. System Note: Familiars bound via Chaos Gacha are fundamentally absolute in their loyalty. While Son Gokū possesses an ancient, proud consciousness, his spiritual essence is entirely integrated into your sovereign will. He will not nag, argue, or attempt to take over your body. You command the full authority of the Four-Tails.

Greg looked at his hands. He felt... godlike. The weakness from his [Out of Shape] curse was still technically there in his stamina, but his underlying physical strength and elemental density were now utterly absurd.

He held out his right palm and focused.

Fwhoosh!

A bright, roaring flame erupted from his palm—but it wasn't normal fire. A split second later, the flame thickened, turning into a glowing, bubbling, liquid stream of bright red magma. It floated half an inch above his palm, radiating terrifying, metal-melting heat, totally under his absolute mental control.

"Lava," Greg whispered, his eyes wide with awe. He snapped his hand shut, instantly snuffing out the molten rock without leaving a single burn mark on his skin. "I can make lava. And fire. AND I HAVE DRAKE FORM!"

He brought his hands together, realizing the sheer, absurd synergy of his power set. "If I turn into a flying Drake... and I use Necrotic Corpus energy... AND I BREATHE LAVA INSTEAD OF NORMAL FIRE..."

He gasped, slapping his cheeks. "I'M A VOLCANIC UNDEAD DRAGON MARTIAL ARTIST! I'M LITERALLY A FINAL BOSS! TAKETTHAT, ALL-FATHER! TAKE THAT, EIGHTY-EIGHT!"

Remembering he still had the Random Bronze Ticket from the glitched roll, Greg tapped it eagerly, his mood soaring to the stratosphere.

[Durable] | Common Trait | You are fairly tough, granting you a slight increase to your defense and letting you take more punishment.

"Nice!" Greg cheered, feeling his skin contract slightly, becoming subtly denser and tougher, like soft leather hardening into polished armor plating. "Simple, reliable, passive! I love it!"

He looked back at the Curse Wheel. The dark, ominous runes pulsed softly in the ambient light of his bedroom.

Greg stood there for a moment, weighing his options. He had a Mortal Enemy out there. He had a scary aura. He was physically out of shape. He had a secret minor curse.

"...Okay," Greg said out loud, raising his hands in a surrendering motion to the room. "We are NOT tempting fate anymore tonight. Four curses is enough. If I roll again, I'm gonna end up making Scion personally come down here to beat me up with a metal pipe. We stop while we're ahead!"

A remarkably sane decision, User, the Gacha helper noted in text. Your survival probability has increased by 14.2%.

"Right!" Greg declared, turning around.

Immediately, the lingering, oppressive compulsion from his Severity 3 [Neat Freak] curse hit him right in the forehead. He looked at his desk, where a single piece of crumpled notebook paper sat slightly crooked near his mousepad.

"Gah! Still dirty!" Greg whined, marching over to the desk.

Driven by the irresistible urge for perfect order, Greg spent the next twenty minutes dusting every single individual key on his keyboard, folding his laundry into pristine geometric squares, aligning his school textbooks by height and color, and scrubbing his door frame until it practically sparkled.

As he placed the final pencil into his wooden desk organizer with mathematical precision, a soft, pleasant DING sounded in his head.

Feat Accomplished: Cleaned Living Environment Under Debilitating Mental Compulsion and Extreme Stress. Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

System Helper: Congratulations, User. You have successfully conquered dust and clutter. Truly, a display of multiversal heroism that will echo through the ages. Sarcasm protocol fully engaged.

"Oh, shut up, System!" Greg laughed, wiping his hands on a clean towel. "A free ticket is a free ticket! Roll it!"

He tapped the new Bronze Ticket.

[Horns] | Common Ability | Allows you to grow sturdy and pointy horns on your head.

Greg deadpanned at the floating text. He raised a hand and activated the ability.

Pop. Pop.

With a subtle, painless tug at his temples, two sleek, polished, obsidian-black horns erupted from his red hair, sweeping backward over his skull in sharp, elegant curves. They looked like miniature dragon horns, perfectly matched to his Drake Form aesthetic.

Greg walked over to the mirror and looked at himself.

Between his brooding, terrifying [Menacing] facial structure, his sharp posture, his newly sprouted dragon [Horns], and the faint, lingering smell of volcanic sulfur hovering around his clothes... he didn't look like dorky, pathetic Greg Veder from Winslow High anymore.

He looked like an absolute monster. A dark, mystical anti-hero straight out of an epic comic book.

Greg ran a hand along the smooth, cold surface of one of his horns, a slow, wide, confident grin spreading across his face.

"Today," Greg whispered to his reflection, his eyes flashing with a faint, molten-gold ember. "Today is going to be very, very different."

---

The morning light filtered through Greg Veder's window, casting a warm beam across a bedroom floor so spotlessly clean it looked like a sanitation model.

Greg sat cross-legged on his rug, staring intently into the translucent blue screen hovering inches from his nose. His newly enhanced, razor-sharp mind—thanks to the [Scholar] trait—was working through the mechanics of his interface like a high-speed engine.

"Okay, helper system," Greg muttered, stroking his chin where a tiny, barely noticeable stubble was beginning to form. "Let's review the loadout rules. Explain the ability limit again."

The small floating text box in the corner of his vision flickered to life.

Notice: Base Ability capacity for human hosts was initially set to two (2) active slots. However, upon acquiring three distinct active abilities, your dimensional spirit framework underwent an automatic expansion, unlocking a maximum of five (5) concurrent Ability Slots.

Current Active Ability Loadout (3/5):

Slot 1: [Drake Form] (Rare Ability)

Slot 2: [Corpus Weapon] (Uncommon Ability)

Slot 3: [Horns] (Common Ability)

Slot 4: [EMPTY]

Slot 5: [EMPTY]

Greg tapped his fingers against his knees, his eyes fixing on the third slot. "Wait... [Horns] is categorized as an active Ability, right? Not a passive trait?"

Correct, the system text displayed smoothly. Unlike permanent biological traits, active abilities can be summoned, dismissed, or toggled at your absolute discretion.

Greg raised a hand to his forehead and willed the ability to deactivate.

With a subtle, painless sensation like a gentle pressure releasing from his temples, the two sleek, obsidian dragon horns dissolved into faint wisps of dark energy, vanishing completely into his scalp. He ran a hand through his messy red hair; his forehead was completely smooth.

He focused again, willing them back. Pop. Pop. The shiny, sharp black horns sprouted right back out, sweeping backward in an aggressive, imposing curve. He dismissed them once more, and they disappeared without a trace.

"Awesome!" Greg grinned, pumping his fist. "So I don't have to walk around school or go on patrol looking like a freak unless I want to! I can keep them hidden under my hair and only pop them out when I want to terrify a villain or put on a scary costume for heroing!"

A prudent observation, User. Walking into a grocery store with obsidian demon horns tends to invite unwanted PRT Parahuman Response Teams.

"Exactly," Greg nodded, before turning his attention back to his status menu. "Now, what about Son Gokū? I can throw lava, create earth tremors, and breathe fire because of him. Why isn't he taking up one of those five slots?"

Clarification: the system responded, the font pulsing with a warm golden light. Entity [Son Gokū] was obtained via a Familiar Ticket, not an Ability Ticket. Furthermore, you opted for Spiritual Fusion. Son Gokū's essence is directly woven into your soul core. His elemental release and brute physical traits are intrinsic attributes of your fused physiology now, not slotted abilities. They consume no Ability Slots.

Greg's mouth popped open. "Wait... so Son Gokū is completely free?! He's like... a passive stat stack?!"

Correct. However, User is reminded that while Son Gokū's fused soul grants you titanic physical density, elemental control, and raw muscle output, your baseline body remains bound by the Severity 9 curse [Out of Shape].

Greg winced, feeling a dull throb in his lower back just from sitting upright for too long.

"Yeah, I noticed," Greg grumbled. "When I used the lava earlier, I felt like I could tear a city bus in half, but three seconds later my lungs were burning like I'd just sprinted up a mountain."

That is the mechanical interaction between your curses and fused stats, the Gacha helper noted dryly. You possess the physical engine of a mythological beast housed within the chassis of a heavily neglected teenage boy. You can bypass your physical weakness by drawing directly upon Son Gokū's strength to force your body to perform inhuman feats—but the tax on your baseline stamina will be immense. You will be left utterly exhausted.

Greg nodded solemnly. "I get it. It's like putting a nitro-boosted jet engine inside a beat-up lawnmower. If I don't upgrade the lawnmower, the engine is just gonna break the frame."

He paused, his eyes darkening as he glanced at the lingering red aura of his Severity 18 [Mortal Enemy] curse.

"And I have to upgrade the frame," Greg whispered, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his knees. "Because whoever is mad at me... they aren't going to care that I'm just a kid from Winslow. System... you're 100% sure they don't know where I live right now?"

Re-confirming parameters: the system text displayed in a cool, dark purple. The target of your Severity 18 curse does not currently possess your GPS coordinates or home address. However, the curse has etched your spiritual signature and facial features into their mind. The exact moment you enter their line of sight or perceptual range in the physical world, absolute hatred and instant recognition will ignite within them. Until then, you are safe behind the veil of distance.

"Great," Greg breathed, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. "So as long as I don't bump into them on the street, I have time to prep."

The sound of footsteps echoing up the hallway carpet snapped Greg out of his inner monologue.

"Greg? Honey?"

It was his mother, Sandra Veder. Her voice carried that familiar, slightly exasperated edge she always had on weekend mornings—the tone of a mother preparing herself to confront a mountain of moldy cup-noodle bowls, scattered dirty laundry, and a son buried under three blankets playing video games.

The door knob turned.

"Greg, I swear if you didn't bring down those dirty dishes from Thursday, I'm going to—"

Sandra stepped into the room and froze dead in her tracks.

The air inside the bedroom smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaning wipes and fresh pine. Every single shirt in Greg's closet was neatly hung and color-coordinated. The carpet looked as if it had been meticulously scrubbed with a toothbrush. His desk was completely clear of clutter, his books arranged in perfect, symmetrical order by height, and his bed was made with pristine, hospital-grade precision corners.

Sandra stood in the doorway, her mouth hanging wide open. Her eyes darted from the spotless baseboards to her son, who was sitting politely on the floor in a clean t-shirt—with completely normal hair and no horns in sight.

"Greg...?" Sandra gasped, dropping the empty laundry basket she was carrying. It landed on the floor with a plastic thud. "What... what happened in here? Did someone break in? Were we robbed?!"

"No, Mom," Greg said, striving for a calm, mature posture, though his [Menacing] trait made his casual glance look like a brooding anti-hero contemplating a dark past. "I just decided it was time to take responsibility for my living space."

Sandra blinked, taking a slow step back, staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head. She reached out and placed a cool palm against his forehead. "Are you sick? Do you have a fever? Did you join a cult online, Greg?! Is this one of those weird internet challenges?!"

"I'm fine, Mom!" Greg laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Feat Accomplished: Rendered Biological Mother Utterly Speechless Through Unprecedented Domestic Cleanliness. Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

System Helper: A miraculous event. Scientists across Earth-Bet are currently checking their instruments to confirm if the world has shifted off its axis. Rolling ticket now.

Mental sparks rained down behind Greg's eyelids as the Silver Ticket resolved.

[Impulse] | Uncommon Ability | Allows you to quicken the electrical signals in your body, increasing your reflexes and speed proportionally. Overusing may cause nerve damage.

Ooh, Greg thought, his eyes lighting up. A speed-boost ability! If I combine that with my Shotokan martial arts, my punches are gonna be lightning fast! And it's another way to temporarily compensate for my terrible cardio!

Greg stood up, his posture imposing and straight. "Actually, Mom, while you're here... I wanted to talk to you and Dad about something down at breakfast."

Ten minutes later, Greg was sitting at the kitchen table. Across from him sat his father, Arthur Veder, clutching a mug of black coffee, and his mother, who was still staring at Greg with deep, burning suspicion.

Greg pushed away the box of sugary chocolate cereal his dad had left on the table. Instead, he pulled out two hard-boiled eggs from the fridge, peeled them methodically, and began eating them alongside a small bowl of plain oats.

Arthur lowered his mug, his eyes wide. "Greg... son. Your mother told me about your room. And now you're... eating oats? Without four spoons of sugar?"

"Dad, Mom," Greg began, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. Thanks to his [Menacing] curse, the simple motion looked terrifyingly intense, like an underworld boss pitching a territorial takeover. "I've made a decision. I'm taking my life seriously. I'm starting a strict, clean diet today. And I need a gym membership."

Arthur choked on his coffee, coughing loudly into his napkin. "A... a what?!"

"A gym membership," Greg repeated calmly. "The community health club down on 4th Street. I want to build physical strength, improve my endurance, and get into prime physical shape."

Sandra clutched her heart. "Arthur, call an ambulance. He's had a stroke. My baby has suffered a brain injury."

"Mom, I haven't had a stroke!" Greg groaned. "I'm sixteen! I'm tired of being out of shape, tired of being lazy, and tired of... of who I used to be. I want to change. Please. It's twenty-five dollars a month."

Arthur stared at his son for a long, silent minute. He saw the sharp, intense focus in Greg's eyes, the total lack of his usual whiny posture, and the clean dishes sitting neatly in the sink behind him.

Slowly, Arthur reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and laid a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the kitchen table.

"I'll pay for the first two months," Arthur said, his voice surprisingly soft, a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his lip. "Just... don't quit after three days, okay Greg?"

"I won't, Dad," Greg said firmly. "I promise."

The UI in front of Greg's vision burst into a rapid-fire sequence of golden notification windows:

Feat Accomplished: Completely Stunned Both Parents with Display of Uncharacteristic Maturity. Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

Feat Accomplished: Enrolled in Physical Conditioning Program (Gym Membership Acquired). Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

Feat Accomplished: Commenced Strict Dietary Overhaul. Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

System Helper: Three Silver Tickets acquired in under ten minutes. Truly, the power of basic human self-care is a terrifying force. Shall I roll the loot, my dramatic host?

Roll them all! Greg commanded internally, practically vibrating with excitement beneath his stone-cold exterior.

The three Silver Tickets spun simultaneously in a storm of glittering metallic light.

[Venomous] | Uncommon Trait | You are venomous, and your bite contains paralyzing venom. The power of the paralysis scales with your physical abilities.

Greg raised an eyebrow mentally. A paralyzing bite? Okay, a bit creepy, but if someone gets me in a headlock, I can literally bite their arm and paralyze them instantly! That's an incredible element of surprise!

The second ticket locked in with a bright chime:

[Four Dark Devas of Destruction] | Trash Familiar | Danganronpa - Despite their grandiose and strange name, the Four Dark Devas of Destruction are actually a set of 4 very quirky but well trained hamsters with their own unique personalities.

A tiny, soft weight suddenly appeared inside the deep front pocket of Greg's hoodie.

Greg froze. He deadpanned at the screen. "Hamsters? Trash tier hamsters?!"

He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out four tiny, amazingly fluffy creatures. One was an orange-and-white Syrian hamster wearing a fierce, tiny scowl (San-D). Another was a fat, round, gray chunk resting lazily on its back (Jum-P). The third was a dark, slender hamster with piercing black eyes (Maga-Z), and the fourth was a bright white, hyperactive little ball of fur performing tiny flips (Cham-P).

Greg stared at the four hamsters sitting in the palm of his hand. They looked up at him, entirely unfazed by his [Menacing] aura, and began tiny, coordinated grooming rituals.

A warm, ridiculous feeling bloomed in Greg's chest. Growing up, his parents had never let him have a dog or a cat because of his dad's mild pet allergies. But these four little guys were perfectly clean, highly trained, and sitting right in his hand.

"Okay," Greg whispered, a tiny, genuine smile breaking through his severe expression. "You guys are actually awesome. Welcome to the crew, Devas."

He carefully slid them back into his pocket, where Jumbo-D immediately curled up and went to sleep.

Finally, the third Silver Ticket resolved:

[Health Insurance] | Uncommon Trait | Your health is insured, no need to worry. Whenever you are wounded, you will be granted the exact amount of money you would need to pay a professional to treat your injuries or illnesses. Beware, trying to commit insurance fraud may have your trait get revoked.

Greg stopped dead in his tracks, reading the description three times over.

"HOLY SHIT!" Greg gasped internally. "Health Insurance?! That means if I get shot, or burned, or broken by a villain... the system literally PAYS ME the exact cash needed for a private hospital to fix me?!"

Correct, the system chimed. It is an automated financial reimbursement framework tied to your physical damage. Just refrain from deliberately slamming your thumb with a hammer to pay off your college tuition. The fraud detection protocol is absolute.

"This is insane," Greg muttered, pocketing his dad's fifty-dollar bill. "I'm a walking financial safety net!"

Before heading down to the local health club, Greg stood in the middle of his living room. His [Out of Shape] curse was still weighing heavily on his limbs, making his legs feel like bags of wet sand.

"If I'm gonna do this, I'm going all in," Greg said, setting a digital timer on his phone. "I read about this insane training regimen online once. The Aleph manga workout. I'm doing it."

He dropped to his hands and knees.

"100 Push-ups. 100 Sit-ups. 100 Squats. And a 10-Kilometer run."

Warning: the system helper interjected. Given your current Severity 9 physical debuff, attempting a high-intensity endurance workout of this caliber without prior conditioning carries a 98.4% probability of intense physical agony and temporary muscle collapse.

"I don't care!" Greg gritted out, lowering his chest to the floor. "I have a Mortal Enemy out there! I have to be strong!"

ONE!

His arms shook violently. His core burned.

TWO!

By repetition twenty, Greg was sweating buckets. By repetition fifty, his muscles felt like they were being torn apart by hot pliers. The Severity 9 curse amplified his body's natural fatigue tenfold, making every single inch of movement feel like lifting a mountain.

NINETY-NINE! ONE HUNDRED!

Greg collapsed onto his stomach, gasping for breath, his chest heaving wildly. But he didn't stop. He rolled onto his back and began the sit-ups. Then the squats.

When he finally stumbled out the front door to begin the 10-kilometer run through the damp, chilly streets of his neighborhood, his vision was swimming with red spots. Passersby on the sidewalk recoiled in terror—partly because of his horrifying [Menacing] scowl, but mostly because he looked like an exhausted demon running for his life while wheezing like a broken vacuum cleaner.

Six miles later, Greg slammed into his front driveway, dropping straight onto his knees and vomiting a small amount of water into the bushes. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer.

Feat Accomplished: Pushed Untrained Physical Body Far Beyond Biological Safety Limits Under Severity 9 Debuff. Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Ticket.

System Helper: Well, look at you. You didn't die. I am genuinely impressed, host. Your stubbornness approaches decent levels. Rolling your Gold Ticket now.

The Gold Ticket exploded into a brilliant display of topaz and amber light.

[The Camper] | Elite Ability | "I can stay here all day" - When standing still in a single place for over 10 seconds you gain increased energy, Stamina, and health regeneration as well as increased durability and resistance. If your feet are moved more than 10 centimeters from the initial position this effect fades.

Greg lay on the concrete, reading the screen with bleary eyes. A slow, exhausted grin spread across his sweaty face.

"A defensive anchoring ability..." Greg wheezed. "If I stand still... I regenerate stamina and health... and gain massive defense..."

Without waiting, Greg opened his Ability Menu. He had two open slots left. He equipped [Impulse] into Slot 4 and [The Camper] into Slot 5.

Ability Slots Fully Occupied (5/5):

[Drake Form]

[Corpus Weapon]

[Horns] (Inactive)

[Impulse]

[The Camper]

"Five out of five," Greg whispered, pulling himself up to stand perfectly still on his driveway. Ten seconds passed.

BZZZT.

Instantly, a soothing, cool wave of emerald energy washed through Greg's exhausted muscles. His ragged breathing smoothed out, his burning lungs cooled down, and the agonizing lactic acid build-up in his legs began to rapidly dissipate.

"Whoa," Greg gasped. "The Camper skill... it's completely nullifying the fatigue from the run!"

After a quick shower and a heavy protein meal, Greg walked down to the Brockton Bay Community Health Club. He wore a simple gray athletic t-shirt and dark shorts. His horns were safely retracted, his hair swept neatly back.

For the first time in his life, Greg was actually excited to go to a public place. He felt like he was turning a page. He wasn't the weird, annoying Greg Veder from Winslow anymore. He was taking care of his body, he was working hard, and maybe—just maybe—he could meet a few cool people at the gym, make some friends, and find a workout partner.

He pushed open the heavy glass doors of the health club, stepping into the buzzing weight room.

"Alright," Greg muttered to himself, taking a deep, optimistic breath. "Let's be friendly. Just a normal guy at the gym."

He walked over toward the bench press area. A tall, athletic guy around college age was wiping down a bar with a towel. Greg put on what he hoped was a friendly, approachable smile and stepped up.

"Hey man!" Greg said cheerfully. "Mind if I jump in on the bench after your set?"

Or at least, that was what Greg tried to do.

The second he opened his mouth, the Severity 7 [Menacing] curse actively distorted everything about his presence.

Instead of a warm, friendly smile, Greg's brow contracted into a shadowy, sinister scowl. His eyes narrowed into cold, predatory slits. His voice came out as a low, gravelly, threatening rumble that sounded like a gang enforcer demanding protection money. His shadow seemed to stretch menacingly across the gym floorboards.

The college guy turned around, saw Greg standing over him like an impending executioner, and went dead pale. The towel slipped right out of his trembling hands.

"I-I... uh..." the guy stammered, taking an immediate step backward and holding his hands up defensively. "No, man! It's—it's all yours! I was just leaving! You can have the whole rack! Take whatever you want! Please!"

"Wait, no, you don't have to leave—" Greg said, taking a step forward and reaching out a hand to clarify.

"DON'T HURT ME!" the guy practically squeaked, grabbing his gym bag and sprinting toward the locker rooms at full speed without even taking his water bottle.

Greg froze, his hand awkwardly hovering in mid-air.

Around him, the subtle atmosphere of the weight room plummeted into dead silence. Two powerlifters by the squat rack lowered their weights, whispering nervously to each other while shooting terrified glances at Greg. A girl doing cardio on a stationary bike immediately unplugged her headphones, packed her things, and quickly walked to the far opposite corner of the building.

Greg stood alone by the bench press. His hand slowly dropped back to his side.

A heavy, painful knot formed in his chest. He looked down at his reflection in the wall mirror. He saw his face—brooding, terrifying, criminal. The curse didn't care that he was just a teenager trying to turn his life around. It didn't care that he genuinely wanted to make a friend or be part of a team. To the world, he looked like a dangerous, sociopathic thug looking for a fight.

"Right," Greg whispered softly to his reflection, his voice small and hollow. "The curse... right."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, rubbing his eyes for a second. He was used to being rejected—he'd been rejected at Winslow for years. But being feared for something he couldn't control hurt in a completely different way.

It doesn't matter, Greg told himself, closing his fists until his knuckles turned white. I didn't come here to be popular. I came here to get strong. If people are scared of me... fine. I'll just let the weights do the talking.

He stepped up to the barbell. He loaded two heavy plates onto the bar. Under normal circumstances, his untrained teenage body couldn't have lifted it once. But Greg closed his eyes, tapped deep into his soul core, and drew a microscopic fraction of Son Gokū's volcanic strength into his arms, channeling all his melancholy, frustration, and sheer determination into the iron.

UP!

The heavy bar flew into the air as if it were made of styrofoam.

Greg's eyes snapped open, blazing with a faint, molten-gold ember. His human muscles screamed under the sudden, massive output, but he pushed through it. He racked the bar, moved to the squat rack, moved to the deadlift platform, and then to the cable row.

For two straight hours, Greg put his body through an absolute, unrelenting gauntlet of extreme physical conditioning. He channeled his isolation into pure power, using [The Camper] during 30-second rest intervals to rapidly regenerate his torn muscle fibers, only to immediately blast them again with high-intensity lifts.

The gym patrons kept a wide, ten-foot berth around him the entire time. Nobody approached him. Nobody asked to trade sets. But they watched from a safe distance in total, stunned awe as the terrifying, broody teenager lifted numbers that belonged to professional powerlifters without breaking a sweat or taking a single break.

A golden light, warmer and brighter than any before, filled Greg's vision as he finished his final set of pull-ups.

Feat Accomplished: Completed First Elite-Level High-Intensity Conditioning Session, Displaying Indomitable Mental Fortitude in Isolation. Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Ticket.

System Helper: No sarcasm this time, Greg. That was a legitimately astonishing display of iron willpower. You swallowed your pain and pushed through a Severity 9 physical debuff and social isolation without flinching. Respect earned. Rolling ticket.

Greg wiped his sweaty face with a towel, taking a deep breath as his mood lifted slightly. "Thanks, System."

The Gold Ticket burst open, glowing with a deep, magnetic metallic sheen.

[Iron Manipulation] | Rare Ability | Allows you to telekinetically control iron and iron-based objects in your perception. The level of control and strength is based on the level of focus and the amount of mana spent.

Greg's eyes widened in absolute shock. "Magnetism?! I get iron manipulation?!"

Before he could process the sheer tactical utility of controlling iron in a city full of metal buildings, cars, and weapons, another massive system notification flashed across his screen, pulsing with brilliant rainbow light:

ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: Master of Six Abilities! Milestone Reached: Total acquired active abilities has reached six (6). Reward: Ability Slot Capacity Permanently Expanded!

Ability Slots Upgraded: 5 -> 8 Slots Available!

"EIGHT SLOTS!" Greg cheered internally, slamming his fist into his palm. "YES! I can equip Iron Manipulation right now without removing anything!"

He immediately slotted [Iron Manipulation] into Slot 6.

It was late evening by the time Greg finally stumbled back into his immaculate bedroom. The four hamsters—the Four Dark Devas of Destruction—were happily exploring a small, clean cardboard maze Greg had built for them on his desk. San-D was currently munching on a small piece of broccoli, while Jumbo-D slept soundly inside a clean sock.

Greg dragged his exhausted body onto his bed. Every single muscle in his frame throbbed with a deep, satisfying ache—the good kind of pain that promised growth, strength, and resilience.

He reached over and set his phone alarm for 5:30 AM.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Greg muttered into his clean pillow, his voice heavy with sleep. "5:30 AM. 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, 10k run. Then evening gym."

He closed his eyes, feeling the gentle, rhythmic pulse of Son Gokū's dormant lava core resting inside his soul.

He thought about his parents—about how proud his dad had looked at the breakfast table. He thought about telling them about his powers... but quickly dismissed the idea.

Not yet, Greg thought, his mind crystal clear thanks to his [Scholar] trait. I'm not ready. I'm still out of shape. My powers are still raw. If I tell them now, they'll worry, or the PRT will get involved before I can even defend myself against my Mortal Enemy. I wait until I am strong. I wait until I am a real hero.

With a deep, peaceful breath, Greg Veder fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, unaware that far across the city, the gears of fate were slowly beginning to turn.

 

[Moares Sodantos]

I... Cannot read that

 

[Thegameaholic]

I... Cannot read that

Click to shrink...

sorry no idea why this stie does this to the sieze of the text there it's fixed

 

[Mechaman69]

sorry no idea why this stie does this to the sieze of the text there it's fixed

Click to shrink...

It's not fixed

 

[Thiccc Shaedy]

sorry no idea why this stie does this to the sieze of the text there it's fixed

Click to shrink...

The text colour. We can't read it on the white background.

 

[Thegameaholic]

The text colour. We can't read it on the white background.

Click to shrink...

uhhh lemme see

 

[Mgunh1]

The text colour. We can't read it on the white background.

Click to shrink...

Skill issue /s

 

[RookDeSuit]

Very generous with the ability limit. Though, I could see why as this is earth Bet.

 

[Thegameaholic]

Skill issue /s

Click to shrink...

seruously i can read it perfectly on my end

 

[Mgunh1]

seruously i can read it perfectly on my end

Click to shrink...

Some times the site can add colour where it shouldn't when copy pasting into the box.
Just select all, then click the three dots next to the underline button, click the colour pallet, and click the small eraser at the bottom of the window.
That should remove the random white colouring and restore it to site default.

 

[Thegameaholic]

The text colour. We can't read it on the white background.

Click to shrink...

better?

 

[Thegameaholic]

Some times the site can add colour where it shouldn't when copy pasting into the box.
Just select all, then click the three dots next to the underline button, click the colour pallet, and click the small eraser at the bottom of the window.
That should remove the random white colouring and restore it to site default.

Click to shrink...

oh ok thanks for the advice

 

[Thegameaholic]

At 5:30 AM, the shrill beep of Greg's alarm clock cut through the stillness of his bedroom. He didn't hit snooze. He swung his legs out of bed, his joints popping cleanly, feeling the lingering, deep heat of Son Gokū's core thrumming beneath his skin.

Twenty minutes later, he was at the quiet, misty edge of Lord Street Park. The damp grass soaked through the soles of his running shoes as he completed his hundredth squat, followed immediately by the final stretch of his six-mile run. Under the influence of [The Camper], he stood stock-still on the morning dew for ten seconds, feeling the emerald pulse of rapid recovery sweep through his lungs and hamstrings.

"Okay," Greg muttered, wiping sweat off his chin with his sleeve. "Phase two."

He stepped off the paved path, walking deep into a thick grove of oak trees where the morning fog hung heavy. Settling into a low stance, he closed his eyes and began stepping through the Shotokan karate katas imprinted into his muscle memory. His hands moved in crisp, fluid arcs—blocking imaginary strikes, driving palms forward, pivoting on his heels with sudden, snapping speed.

After an hour of physical forms, he sat cross-legged on a flat stone beneath a towering oak, dropping his hands to his knees.

Tap into the Kyoi no Hado. Harness Ki.

Greg drew a long, slow breath, letting the chaotic background noise of his mind filter out. For a guy with unmedicated ADHD and autism, his brain had spent sixteen years feeling like a forty-channel TV playing all at once. But with the [Scholar] trait quietly organizing his thoughts, the rhythm of his breathing took over.

He didn't try to force the energy. He simply listened.

Deep in his chest, beneath the roaring volcanic furnace of Son Gokū's lava spirit, he found a smaller, incredibly pure spark. It was cool, rhythmic, and perfectly aligned with his heartbeat. Ki. The spiritual essence of his own martial discipline.

A profound, weightless calm washed over him. The wind rustling through the autumn leaves sounded crystal clear. The gentle patter of dew dropping from oak branches sounded like soft music.

Ding.

The Gacha UI flickered silently in his dark vision:

Feat Accomplished: Achieved Spiritual Stillness and Tapped into Inner Ki Reserves via Meditation. Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

Feat Accomplished: Disciplined Mastery of Martial Kata. Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

System Helper: Look at you, floating in spiritual enlightenment. Who knew that under all that PHO posting lay the soul of a Zen master? Rolling your tickets now.

Greg opened one eye, chuckling quietly as the tickets resolved in a quick flash of bronze and silver light.

[Ripen] | Common Ability | Allows you to ripen and mature organic objects that cannot or do not resist.

Greg stared at the floating description, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "Ripen? What am I gonna do with this? Make an avocado soft when I'm at the grocery store?"

System Helper: Congratulations, host. If the Slaughterhouse Nine ever attacks Brockton Bay, you can threaten them with perfectly soft bananas. Truly a terrifying combat capability.

"Shut up," Greg muttered, shaking his head. He clicked on the Bronze item pull.

[XII - The Hanged Man] | Common Item | Tarot Card - Allows you to absorb all of the wounds and ailments of a target while lessening their intensity by 20%. 120 Hour Cooldown.

A heavy, dark card lined with silver foil materialized in Greg's hand. The artwork depicted a figure suspended upside-down from a wooden gallows, surrounded by a faint, shimmering halo.

Greg ran his thumb over the smooth cardstock. "Absorb someone else's injuries... and reduce the damage by twenty percent..." He paused, his gaze softening. "If I was on a team, I could take a hit for a teammate. If someone got shot or crushed, I could pull the damage onto myself... and with my [Durable] trait and [Health Insurance], I could handle it."

He tucked the card safely into his pocket, leaning back against the tree trunk.

A team... Greg thought, staring up at the gray morning sky through the canopy. Do I even want to join a team?

The obvious choice for a brand-new cape in Brockton Bay was the Wards. Regular pay, PR training, gear, protection. But Greg remembered the horror stories on PHO. He remembered how the PRT handled red tape, how bureaucrats ran the show, and how heroes were forced into strict corporate molds. Besides, he didn't trust the government—especially not with his chaotic, unpredictable multi-system powers.

What about New Wave? They were independent, family-focused, and didn't wear masks. But Greg didn't have a cape family. He was just a weird kid from Winslow.

I'll figure it out later, Greg decided, pushing himself up off the stone. Right now, I just need to get stronger.

By Sunday evening, Greg was back at the Brockton Bay Community Health Club.

Despite his terrifying [Menacing] aura making the bench press area clear out the second he walked in, Greg didn't let it break his focus. He loaded three plates onto the barbell, focused his Ki, and blew through his sets with ruthless, mechanical precision.

When he finished his final set of heavy deadlifts, the Gacha chime echoed inside his mind.

Feat Accomplished: Maintained Strict Physical Training Consistency Across Multiple Days. Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Ticket.

System Helper: Look at that—two days in a row without slacking off. The universe is genuinely shocked. Enjoy your Gold Ticket, workout warrior.

Greg smiled through his sweat, tapping the shimmering topaz box.

[Tome of Rennala] | Elite Item | Elden Ring - A tome containing the research and magic of the Carian Royal family, allowing those who study it to learn and wield the Carian Sorceries. Spell List: Magic Glintblade, Glintblade Trio, Glintblade Phalanx, Carian Phalanx, Greatblade Phalanx, Magic Downpour, Loretta's Greatbow, Loretta's Mastery, Rennala's Full Moon, Ranni's Dark Moon, Rellana's Twin Moons, Carian Slicer, Carian Greatsword, Carian Piercer, Adula's Moonblade, Lucidity, Carian Retaliation, Miriam's Vanishing.

A massive, leather-bound book decorated with intricate silver moon sigils materialized briefly in his hands before dissolving into brilliant blue particles that flowed directly into his forehead.

Greg's breath hitched. Thanks to his [Scholar] trait, the complex, astronomical calculations and magical incantations of the Carian Royal family arranged themselves instantly in his brain like an organized library catalog.

"Carian Sorceries..." Greg gasped, leaning against the gym wall. "Carian Slicer... Carian Greatsword... Loretta's Greatbow..."

His eyes lit up with wild excitement as his tactical mind connected the dots. "Wait! [Corpus Weapon] lets me imbue any weapon I hold with necrotic energy! If I summon a magic sword like Carian Slicer or a giant bow like Loretta's Greatbow... I can coat the magic blades in necrotic decay! A blue-and-green ghost sword that drains vitality!"

He caught himself before he laughed out loud in the middle of the gym. I need to find a way to upgrade my mana pool soon, though, Greg noted internally. These high-tier moon spells are gonna cost a fortune in energy.

He walked out of the gym, the cool autumn air hitting his damp face. As he walked down the quiet sidewalk toward home, his gaze drifted toward the system menu—specifically, the dark, pulsing icon of the Curse Wheel.

His inner degenerate gambler practically started screaming.

One more spin, his brain whispered. Come on, Greg. Look at what you've gotten so far! Legendary Karate, a Tailed Beast, Carian Magic! Just one more spin!

Host, the system helper warned, the text popping up in bright, glaring yellow. I strongly advise against this. You currently have a Severity 18 target actively bound to your soul, waiting to obliterate you the moment you cross paths. Your survival instincts are dangerously low.

"Oh, come on, System!" Greg argued internally, biting his lip. "Higher risk means higher reward! What's the worst that could happen? Another scary guy?"

He grabbed the handles of the wheel and gave it an absolute, reckless spin.

The wheel shrieked as it spun, the runes flashing a dangerous, blinding crimson. The needle blurred past 5... past 10... past 15... and slammed into 18.

[Horrible Night] | Severity 18 | Your entrance into the world will be in very bad circumstances, whether that is having been kidnapped by a cult, in the middle of a terrorist attack or owing a lot of debt to some bad people. Your start to the world is not a good one. | Resolve: No resolve, one and done deal. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Legendary Ticket.

Greg froze dead in his tracks on the sidewalk. The color drained completely from his face.

"Severity... Severity 18 again?!" Greg shrieked in his head, clutching his hair. "GODDAMN IT, MY SURVIVAL INSTINCTS REALLY ARE ZERO! I'M GONNA DIE! I'M GONNA BE KILLED BEFORE I EVEN GET A COSTUME!"

Calm down, host, the system helper text appeared, sounding almost exasperated. Read the mechanical parameters of the curse. This specific curse was engineered for dimensional reincarnators entering a new universe at spawn. Since you are already native to Earth-Bet, the system logic will adjust.

Greg stopped hyperventilating, blinking through his panic. "A-adjust how?"

The curse will activate upon your official debut as a cape. When you make your first public appearance as a hero or villain, you will be thrown directly into catastrophic, worst-case-scenario circumstances.

Greg blinked. He processed the information.

"Wait..." Greg muttered, rubbing his chin. "So... my debut is just going to be... super dramatic? Like dropping into the middle of a massive disaster or a villain attack?"

Correct.

"Honestly?" Greg let out a long sigh of relief. "That... doesn't sound so bad! That's just standard hero origin story stuff! Every main character debuts during a crisis!"

He turned his eager eyes toward his inventory, where the Random Legendary Ticket was pulsing with breathtaking, cosmic violet light.

"Roll it!" Greg commanded. "Show me what Severity 18 paid for!"

The ticket exploded into a magnificent storm of dark, starlit energy and golden embers. A roar, vast and majestic, resounded in the depths of Greg's mind.

[Shagaru Magala] | Epic Familiar | Monster Hunter - Shagaru Magala is an Elder Dragon and the Mature Species of the Gore Magala. It has immense physical strength contained in its large frame and 6 limbs. The Shagaru Magala has the ability to scatter its minuscule scales like pollen to more accurately perceive its surroundings and inflict the Frenzy Virus, which it can also do with its breath attacks. The Frenzy Virus can induce Berserk in bestial creatures and render humanoid ones unable to heal naturally. The range of Shagaru's scales is large enough to cover the mountain it roosts in. In addition, if the host is compatible enough, the scales of a Shagaru Magala can act like eggs and use the host as a hatchery to spawn infants of its kind.

A dark, spatial rift opened in the alleyway beside Greg.

Out from the darkness stepped a magnificent, terrifying beast. It was a colossal, golden-scaled Elder Dragon with sweeping, majestic horns and six powerful limbs—including two massive, wing-arms folded like a regal cape over its back. Its eyes glowed with an ancient, terrifying intelligence, and a fine, faint mist of glittering golden scales drifted off its hide into the night air.

Greg backed up against the brick wall, his breath catching in his throat. "Holy... crap..."

The terrifying, apocalyptic Elder Dragon looked down at Greg. The creature that could cover an entire mountain in a bio-hazard plague leaned its massive, golden head down... and let out a soft, low chuffing sound, lolling its giant pink tongue out like an oversized, affectionate golden retriever.

It gently nudged Greg's chest with its snout, nearly knocking the teenager off his feet.

Greg wheezed, patting the cold, metallic-hard golden scales on the dragon's nose. "Whoa... okay! Good boy! Or good girl! Good dragon!"

He quickly pulled up the familiar's stat sheet, reading through the details of the Frenzy Virus.

Airborne scale pollen... drives beasts berserk... completely disables natural healing in humans... can use hosts as hatcheries...

Greg swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his back.

"Holy shit," Greg whispered, staring at his giant, affectionate dragon who was currently trying to lick his shoulder. "This isn't just a dragon. This is a walking, flying Nilbog nightmare fuel bio-weapon..."

He looked up into the glowing eyes of Shagaru Magala, then back at his own hands. Between Son Gokū's lava, Carian magic, necrotic energy, and a plague dragon, Greg Veder was no longer just a kid trying to survive high school.

He was becoming an absolute calamity.

---

Every single joint in Greg Veder's body screamed in absolute agony the moment his eyes opened.

It felt as though a steamroller had driven back and forth over his ribcage, parked on his thighs, and then reversed over his shoulders for good measure. His Severity 9 [Out of Shape] curse was exacting a heavy toll for his intense Saturday routine. Every muscle fiber he had torn during his six-mile run and two-hour weightlifting session was rebuilding itself, leaving him feeling stiff, heavy, and bruised.

"Oh... god..." Greg groaned into his pillow, his voice raspy.

Deep within his spirit core, a soft, reverberating purr echoed through his consciousness. It was Shagaru Magala. The massive Elder Dragon was currently resting peacefully inside Greg's dimensional inventory, crooning like a giant, golden cat waiting for its morning walk.

Hold on, buddy, Greg thought back, wincing as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. I can't exactly summon a golden plague dragon into the suburbs. I need to find an abandoned warehouse or something near the Docks first. And... I need to give you a real name.

He stroked his chin, mentally picturing the dragon's regal, golden scales and Cape-like wing-arms. Aurelius. Yeah. Aurelius fits you.

A happy, rumbling chuff echoed in his mind as Aurelius accepted the name.

Greg swung his legs off the bed and stood up. His knees cracked like pistol shots, but he forced himself through his morning routine. He dropped to the floor, gritting his teeth through 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 100 squats,he did his run followed by his morning meditation and Shotokan katas. By the time he finished, [The Camper]'s rapid-recovery aura had washed over him, smoothing out the worst of the muscular inflammation.

He walked over to his desk, where the Four Dark Devas of Destruction were waiting near their cardboard maze. He pulled out a bag of organic sunflower seeds and fresh carrots.

"Breakfast time, boys," Greg whispered.

Jum-P, the fat gray hamster, wiggled out of his cozy sock and immediately began stuffing whole seeds into his massive cheeks. Cham-P executed a giddy backflip off a wooden block before taking a carrot slice, while San-D and Maga-Z sat side-by-side, chewing rhythmically.

As he fed his pets, Greg's thoughts drifted to his other familiar—the Mimic.

Deep inside his mental vault, he could feel the shapeshifting chest sloshing around in dark, watery displeasure. The Mimic was hungry for flesh. More importantly, Greg remembered reading its description: They also get larger and stronger the more you feed them flesh... they may even get smarter if you feed them brains.

I need you smart if you're gonna help me on patrol, Greg conveyed mentally to the creature. But feeding you human brains is completely off the table. I'm a hero, not a serial killer.

The Mimic let out a wet, sulky GULP in his mind, its lid snapping shut in a clear display of moodiness.

Son Gokū, by contrast, remained completely silent, a quiet, monumental mountain of volcanic heat resting dormant in Greg's soul core.

After showering and putting on clean clothes, Greg went downstairs. He ate a large bowl of fresh fruit salad—pineapple, apples, and bananas—under the approving eyes of his mother, said a quick goodbye to his parents, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

---

For the first time in his entire academic life, Greg Veder arrived at Winslow High School twenty minutes before the warning bell.

The courtyard was nearly empty, save for a few sleepy teachers and early-arriving students huddled by the front doors.

DING.

A bright blue system screen materialized directly in front of his face:

Feat Accomplished: Arrived at Educational Institution Notably Ahead of Schedule (Unprecedented Personal Record). Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

System Helper: Stop the presses. Greg Veder is early for school. A historic day in human achievement. Shall I roll your pity Bronze, my punctual host?

Greg rolled his eyes, keeping his lips barely moving as he whispered under his breath. "Hey... can anyone else see these floating screens? Like, if a teacher walks by right now, do they see a giant glowing UI hovering in front of my nose?"

The helper box popped up with an prompt response, the text practically dripping with dry condescension:

Negative, User. The interface is projected directly onto your optic nerve via multiversal spiritual resonance. Unless someone in your immediate vicinity possesses high-tier spatial-cognitive perception or exotic clairvoyance, you look like an idiot staring intensely at empty air.

"Good to know," Greg grumbled. "Roll the ticket."

The Bronze Ticket spun and settled with a soft metallic click.

[Chameleon Hide] | Common Ability | As long as you stand still, you become invisible by bending light around yourself.

Greg's eyes widened in sheer delight. "Invisibility? While standing still?!"

His tactical mind immediately pieced the synergy together. [Chameleon Hide] required him to stand completely still to bend light—which was the EXACT same requirement for [The Camper], which granted him rapid stamina regeneration, health recovery, and massive damage resistance whenever he stayed within a ten-centimeter circle!

If I ever get overwhelmed in a fight, Greg realized, I can just stop moving, turn completely invisible, and regenerate all my energy right in front of the enemy! They won't even know where I am!

Excited, Greg immediately opened his expanded Ability Menu and slotted [Chameleon Hide] into his 7th open slot.

By lunchtime, the dismal, oppressive atmosphere of Winslow High was in full swing.

Greg walked into the noisy, crowded cafeteria carrying a tray with a turkey sandwich, a bottle of water, and an apple. He scanned the room and spotted his best friend, Sparky, sitting alone at a rickety laminate table near the back windows, tinkering with a broken mechanical pencil.

Sparky was one of the very few people in Brockton Bay who actually understood Greg. They had been friends for years, bonding over video games,Aleph fantasy novels, and late-night voice calls.

Greg slid into the seat across from him. "Hey, Sparky."

Sparky looked up, blinked, and then stared at Greg in complete bewilderment. He looked at Greg's clean, fitted hoodie, his sharp posture, and the clear, calm focus in his blue eyes.

"Whoa," Sparky said, dropping his pencil. "Greg? Is that... you? What happened to you over the weekend? Did you get a haircut or something? You look... different. Like you actually sleep."

Greg let out a soft chuckle. "Just making some changes, man. Eating better, hitting the gym."

Oddly enough, Sparky didn't flinch. He didn't recoil, pale, or look terrified.

Greg realized why instantly: the Severity 7 [Menacing] curse specifically stated that it made him come across as scary to regular people and strangers. Because Sparky knew Greg on a deep, personal level as a harmless dork, the curse's supernatural intimidation aura completely slid off him. Sparky just saw his buddy looking healthier.

"Good for you, man," Sparky grinned, leaning back. "Honestly, it's about time. You were looking like a zombie last week."

Before Greg could answer, a shadow fell over their table.

It was brute from the sophomore class—a heavy-set bully named Frankie who frequently made a sport of shoving Greg into locker banks or knocking his lunch tray onto the floor. Frankie stomped up, a sneer on his face, opening his mouth to deliver some canned insult.

"Hey, Veder, give me your—"

Frankie caught Greg's eye.

The moment Greg turned his head, the [Menacing] aura flared like an invisible pressure wave. In Frankie's eyes, Greg's casual glance suddenly looked like the cold, calculating stare of an apex predator deciding where to slit a throat. The ambient temperature around the table seemed to plunge.

Frankie's sneer froze mid-word. His face drained of all color until he looked like a walking corpse. His knees visibly buckled, a drop of cold sweat rolling down his temple.

"I... I mean... nice weather today, sir," Frankie squeaked out, his voice cracking horribly. He backed away so fast he nearly tripped over a folding chair, turning around and sprinting out of the cafeteria entirely.

Sparky blinked, watching Frankie flee. "What the heck was that about? Did Frankie just call you 'sir'?"

Greg took a calm bite of his apple, hiding a satisfied smirk.

DING.

Feat Accomplished: Terrorized Established School Tormentor Through Pure Unspoken Intimidation. Reward Granted: 1x Random Bronze Ticket.

Feat Accomplished: Established Unbulliable Reputation Across Local Cafeteria Environment. Reward Granted: 1x Random Silver Ticket.

System Helper: The local food chain has been thoroughly disrupted. Rolling your loot now.

Greg mentally commanded the Bronze Ticket to roll first.

[Louden] | Trash Ability | Allows you to increase noises to non-destructive levels that, while obnoxiously loud won't cause damage.

Greg tilted his head. "Trash ability? Are you kidding me? If I'm trying to escape a squad of E88 goons or create a massive tactical distraction, I can make a metal trash can sound like a flashbang grenade! That's super useful!"

He held off on equipping it for now. Next, he clicked the Silver Ticket.

The interface spun... and locked onto [Louden].

Duplicate Detected: [Louden] (Trash Ability). System Protocol Engaged: Duplicate pulls are automatically refunded. Rerolling Silver Ticket...

The Silver Ticket spun again, glowing with a deep, emerald-green light.

[Sapling] | Uncommon Ability | You are able to create, communicate with, and control plants in your range. You can make grass grow on fertile dirt, make roots dig through concrete, ripen plants, change their shape slightly, make trees grow fast enough to create natural barriers, and harvest the bounty of nature.

Greg gasped internally, nearly choking on his apple slice. "Plant manipulation?! I can make roots shatter concrete and talk to trees?!"

Notice: Total Acquired Active Abilities has reached ten (10). System Upgrade Triggered: Ability Capacity expanded to twelve (12) slots!

Greg pumped his fist beneath the table. Twelve slots!

Without hesitating, he immediately slotted [Sapling] into Slot 8.

Current Active Loadout (8/12):

2. [Drake Form]
3. [Corpus Weapon]
4. [Horns] (Inactive)
5. [The Camper]
6. [Iron Manipulation]
7. [Chameleon Hide]
8. [Sapling]
9. [EMPTY]

Greg sat back, chatting with Sparky about a new video game release, but half his brain was buzzing with excitement. He looked at Sparky's genuine, laughing face and felt a sudden, powerful urge to tell his best friend the truth.

Should I tell him? Greg wondered, leaning his chin on his hand. I have a dragon. I have Carian magic. I have a Tailed Beast. Sparky would lose his mind... but no. It's too dangerous right now. Not until I handle my Mortal Enemy.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

Greg walked down the crowded, noisy hallway toward his afternoon history class, carrying his binder under his arm. Sparky had headed off toward the metal shop, leaving Greg to navigate the hallway alone.

As he rounded the corner near the girl's locker rooms, the ambient noise of the hallway suddenly shifted.

A group of students had formed a loose ring near the drinking fountains, whispering and pointing. Inside the circle, three girls were cornering a tall, thin girl with wild, curly dark hair and oversized, thick-framed glasses.

It was Taylor Hebert.

Greg froze in his tracks. His breath hitched in his chest.

Taylor was Greg's long-time, unconfessed crush. While most guys at Winslow or across Brockton Bay drooled over flashier girls like Victoria Dallon, Rune, or Miss Militia on the news, Greg had always thought Taylor was special. She didn't wear makeup, she didn't chase popularity, and to others, she was considered plain—maybe even ugly. But to Greg, her quiet intensity, her sharp mind, and her striking, deep hazel eyes were genuinely beautiful.

And right now, she was being tormented.

Standing over Taylor were the "Bitch Trio": Madison Clements, Emma Barnes, and Sophia Hess.

"Look at her," Emma spat, her voice dripping with venomous malice as she stepped close to Taylor's face. "Still wearing those pathetic, cheap clothes. Does your dad even care about you, Taylor? Or is he too busy wishing he'd died in that car crash instead of your useless mother?"

"Leave my mother out of this!" Taylor sobbed, her voice trembling with raw, agonized pain.

"Or what?" Sophia sneered, taking a step forward.

With a sudden, violent shove, Sophia slammed her palm against Taylor's shoulder. Taylor lost her balance, stumbling backward and crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. Her thick glasses flew off her face, skittering across the dirty tile, leaving her blinking blindly through tears.

Madison giggled, kicking Taylor's fallen binder across the floor, scattering loose homework papers into the dirt. The surrounding crowd of students just watched—some sneering, others looking away in uncomfortable silence. Nobody moved to help her.

Old Greg Veder—the pathetic, timid loser from last week—would have lowered his head, felt a sickening wave of helpless pity in his gut, and kept walking to avoid becoming the next target.

But the old Greg Veder was gone.

Deep within his chest, Son Gokū's volcanic core surged with a sudden, protective heat. Aurelius let out a low, predatory growl in his spirit mind.

Greg's heart thumped violently against his ribs. His hands clenched into tight, heavy fists at his sides. He didn't think. He didn't calculate. He stepped straight through the crowd of onlookers.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Greg's voice roared through the hallway.

It wasn't a whiny, cracking teenage yell. Fueled by his [Menacing] curse and his inner martial Ki, his voice hit the hallway like a thunderclap, vibrating the metal lockers.

The entire hallway went dead silent.

Emma, Madison, and the surrounding students whirled around. The moment their eyes landed on Greg, the full, crushing weight of his [Menacing] aura washed over them.

Madison gasped, stumbling backward into a locker, her face turning pale as paper. Emma took two involuntary steps back, her hands trembling, absolute terror flashing in her eyes as she stared at Greg's shadowy, brooding expression. The surrounding crowd recoiled, several students backing away in genuine fear.

Even Taylor, sitting helpless on the cold floor, looked up through her tear-blurred vision, shrinking back slightly at the terrifying, dark intensity radiating from Greg.

Except for one person.

Sophia Hess didn't back away.

The second Greg's aura hit her, Sophia's eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. Her shoulders dropped into a tight, low stance, her weight shifting smoothly onto the balls of her feet. Her hands twitched near her sides, her chest rising and falling in controlled, combat-ready breaths. She didn't look panicked—she looked like a trained predator encountering an unexpected threat.

Greg's razor-sharp [Scholar] mind registered her reaction instantly.

Wait... Greg thought, his blue eyes locking onto her stance. She didn't run. She dropped into a defensive guard. Trained people are on guard against the curse... Sophia is trained. She's not just a track star. She knows how to fight.

Sophia stepped in front of Emma, sizing Greg up with dark, murderous contempt.

"Well, well," Sophia sneered, her voice cold and mocking, though her muscles remained tightly coiled. "Look what we have here. What is a fat retard like you doing getting in the way of our fun, Veder? Want me to break your nose again?"

Greg's jaw set into stone. He felt the trembling in his fingers, but he forced it down into his feet, grounding his stance on the linoleum floor just like his Shotokan muscle memory demanded.

He didn't yell. He didn't whine. He narrowed his blue eyes directly at Sophia, his voice dropping into a low, icy promise:

"Leave. Taylor. Alone."

Sophia started laughing—a harsh, barking laugh that carried zero genuine warmth. "Or what, loser? You think because you cleaned up your hair you're a tough guy now?"

Greg knew the reality of his situation. His Severity 9 [Out of Shape] curse meant his physical cardio and raw human stamina were terrible. In a long, drawn-out brawl, he would gas out quickly.

But I have [Durable], Greg reminded himself, his determination turning to steel. I can take punishment that would knock an ordinary guy out. And I have Impulse.

With a quick mental command, Greg slotted [Impulse] into his 9th active slot, priming his nervous system for explosive, lightning-fast reflexes.

Sophia lunged forward without warning.

Her palm slammed brutally against Greg's chest in a heavy, practiced martial strike intended to knock him off his feet and humiliate him in front of the hallway.

BANG!

Thanks to his [Durable] trait and dense physical frame, Greg didn't crash to the floor. The impact felt like a heavy thud against an iron plate. He merely absorbed the blow, stepping back two feet to stabilize his center of gravity, his boots gripping the tile.

Sophia's eyes flashed with a flicker of genuine shock as her hand recoiled from his chest.

"What the hell...?" Sophia muttered, staring at him. She sneered, raising her fists in a professional kickboxing guard. "What are you gonna do now, loser? Huh?! What are you gonna do?!"

Greg looked down at Taylor, who was still cowering on the floor, clutching her broken glasses, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. He looked at Emma and Madison hiding behind Sophia in fear.

Then, Greg looked back at Sophia Hess.

He slowly raised both hands, dropping his weight into a deep, perfectly balanced, classical Shotokan Karate fight stance. His left hand extended forward in a open-palm guard, his right fist chambered tightly at his hip, his eyes burning with absolute, unbroken resolve.

Sophia didn't hesitate. The moment she saw Greg drop into a traditional Shotokan Karate stance, her dark eyes flashed with cold, predatory intent. She exploded forward, launching a lightning-fast jab-cross-hook combination straight at his jaw.

Greg's [Impulse] ability kicked in instantly. Electrical signals surged through his nervous system at double speed, slowing his perception of the hallway. In his mind, Sophia's flying fists moved like underwater strikes. But his heavy, debuffed body struggled to keep pace with his heightened reflexes. He threw up a crisp outer block (soto-uke), sweeping her lead jab aside, and pulled his head back from the cross, but her surprise left hook clipped his cheek with brutal force.

BANG!

Thanks to his [Durable] trait, the punch felt like a heavy smack rather than a jaw-shattering knockout blow. Greg stood his ground, pivoting his hips to drive a sharp front kick (mae-geri) into her stomach. Sophia checked the kick with her shin, sliding back two feet on the slick linoleum before springing right back into a low, vicious roundhouse kick aimed directly at his lead thigh.

THWACK!

Pain shot up Greg's leg, but his dense physical frame absorbed the shock. He snapped a quick jab forward, catching Sophia on the cheekbone and forcing her to step back and re-evaluate her target.

Sophia's expression hardened. Realizing he wasn't folding like a normal teenager, she shifted her footwork, bouncing on her toes with aggressive, practiced rhythm. She feinted a left jab, dropped low, and drove a vicious double-leg takedown straight into Greg's waist.

Greg reacted on instinct, dropping into a deep forward stance (zenkutsu-dachi) to lower his center of gravity. Her shoulder slammed into his midsection like a battering ram, the force clanging Greg's back hard against the metal lockers behind him. The air rushed out of his lungs, but he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, leveraging his superior physical weight to push her off before she could take him to the ground.

Sophia snapped back, unleashing a punishing flurry of knee strikes to his ribs. THUD. THUD. THUD. Each blow rattled Greg's teeth, but his [Durable] trait held his frame together.

Sensing an opening, Greg brought both forearms up in an x-block (judan-juji-uke), trapping her rising knee, then snapped a sharp palm-heel strike (teisho-uchi) straight at her chest. The strike connected, driving Sophia back four feet and forcing her to cough, her eyes wide with sudden shock.

"You piece of shit!" Sophia hissed, circling him like a wounded tiger. She sprang forward again, stepping off a locker to throw a spinning back kick directly toward his neck.

Greg barely managed to raise an elbow block (hijiatama-uke) in time. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his arm, forcing him back three steps. Sophia landed cleanly and immediately followed up with a sweeping leg kick, trying to take his feet out from under him. Greg leaped over the sweep by an inch, landing heavily, but the sudden exertion triggered his debuff with terrifying intensity.

His Severity 9 [Out of Shape] curse struck back with absolute vengeance.

Greg's lungs felt as though they were filled with boiling oil. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs like a sledgehammer, and his legs turned into heavy, leaden bags of wet sand. Black spots danced wildly across his vision as his terrible baseline stamina ran completely dry. He stood frozen, gasping, his hands dropping an inch from his guard.

Sophia noticed his ragged breathing immediately. A cruel, vicious grin spread across her face. "Gassing out already, fat boy?" she taunted, stepping in close to rain down a relentless barrage of elbow strikes and hooks against his defensive guard.

THUD. BANG. CRACK.

Greg took the punishment, using every ounce of his Shotokan discipline to block what he could, but his body was failing him fast. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. His vision swam. He was taking a beating that would have hospitalized a normal person, surviving solely on his passive durability and pure, stubborn refusal to drop in front of Taylor.

Sophia pulled her right fist back, preparing a flying knee strike aimed straight at his nose to end the fight for good. "Stay down, loser!"

If she hits me now, I'm done, Greg thought through the roaring haze of agony. I have one second.

With a desperate surge of willpower, Greg reached deep into his soul core, pulling a microscopic, fraction-of-a-percent droplet of Son Gokū's volcanic strength into his right fist. He paired it with [Impulse], firing every nerve in his body at absolute maximum speed.

As Sophia launched into the air, Greg slipped under her rising knee, pivoted his weight into a deep, immovable horse stance (kiba-dachi), and drove a crisp, textbook Shotokan reverse-punch (gyaku-zuki) directly into her chin.

CRACK!

The force of the strike, even suppressed to the bare minimum, carried the physical weight of a falling boulder. Sophia's head snapped back violently, her eyes rolling up into her head instantly. She collapsed onto the floor like a sack of bricks, completely knocked out cold.

Silence descended over the hallway like a heavy blanket.

Greg stood over her, his arms trembling violently, gasping for air so hard his throat burned. Sweat and blood dripped off his chin onto the linoleum floor. He couldn't move. He couldn't even flex his fingers. His body was completely spent.

Emma and Madison stared at Sophia's limp body in absolute, hysterical terror.

"Sophia!" Emma shrieked, her voice cracking in pure panic. Overridden by fear, Emma and Madison grabbed Sophia by her arms and shoulders, desperately dragging her unconscious body down the hallway toward the administrator's office as fast as their legs could carry them.

DING.

A brilliant, shimmering platinum UI screen materialized directly in Greg's blurred vision:

CRITICAL MILESTONE ACCOMPLISHED: Standing Against the Shadows. You confronted the tormentors, refused to yield against a trained combatant, and protected the fundamental protagonist of this world's tragic narrative.

System Helper: I have no jokes. No backhanded compliments. That was nothing short of extraordinary, host. You fought through pure physical agony, refused to let a hero-turned-bully tear down an innocent soul, and claimed victory against all odds. I am genuinely impressed.

Reward Granted: 1x Random Platinum Ticket.

Greg was far too exhausted to even process the system calling Taylor a "protagonist." His legs gave out completely. He slid back against the metal lockers, his shirt scraping down the cold steel until he was sitting heavily on the linoleum floor, wheezing like a broken engine.

A soft rustle of paper sounded beside him.

Taylor Hebert slowly crawled over, holding her shattered, bent glasses in her lap. She sat down directly next to him against the lockers, her wild dark hair framing her pale, tear-streaked face.

She stared at Greg for a long, quiet moment, her hazel eyes filled with a mixture of utter disbelief, shock, and confusion.

She opened her mouth, her voice barely a whisper: "Why...?"

Greg leaned his head back against the locker, taking slow, ragged breaths as he tried to stop his lungs from burning. He couldn't tell her about the Gacha system. He couldn't tell her about his dragon, his magic, or his tailed beast.

He turned his head toward her, giving her a tired, slightly goofy, dorkish smile.

"I don't know..." Greg panted softly, rubbing the back of his bruised neck. "I guess... I was just tired of being a useless, helpless autistic loser. And..." His smile softened, his blue eyes locking onto hers with genuine warmth. "I'll protect you from now on, Taylor. I promise."

Taylor's breath hitched in her throat. Her lips parted, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks as she stared at him, completely speechless.

While catching his breath, Greg used his mental interface to roll his new Platinum Ticket.

The ticket dissolved into a magnificent burst of shimmering emerald and jade light.

[Bloom] | Rare Ability | You are a chlorokinetic, allowing you to create, communicate with, and control plants in your sensory range. You can make branches crawl out of the ground and snare your enemies, make trees break through concrete, create and grow plant life on fertile soil, manipulate vines as whips, or simply grow an apple tree to get a ripe apple.

Whoa, Greg thought, a tired grin spreading across his face. Chlorokinesis... that's going to pair insanely well with my [Sapling] ability.

Footsteps echoed down the hall as Sparky finally rounded the corner, completely shellshocked.

"G-Greg?!" Sparky stuttered, running up to him with wide eyes. "Dude! Did you just... did you just knock out Sophia Hess?!"

"Help me up, man..." Greg wheezed, extending a shaky arm.

Sparky quickly grabbed Greg's arm, pulling his exhausted friend up and slinging Greg's arm over his shoulder to help support his dead weight. Together, the two boys slowly began limping down the hallway toward the exit.

Greg was completely unaware of Taylor Hebert sitting on the hallway floor, holding her broken glasses, her eyes fixed entirely on his retreating back with a look of profound wonder.

 

[Hector white]

Please fix the font

 

[Thegameaholic]

Please fix the font

Click to shrink...

i've tried

 

[Francis]

don't color the font

 

[Bluesnowman]

Try went copy/pasting to paste without formatting or paste as plain text

 

[xihute]

Sorry, still almost unreadable.

 

[Thegameaholic]

Try went copy/pasting to paste without formatting or paste as plain text

Click to shrink...

Ok i'll try that today

 

[Commander72]

I'm not having any trouble reading using blackened high contrast. What are you all using?

 

[WebNovelDaoist]

I get what you are trying to do, but it seems you are just nerfing him for the plot.

I mean, let's be real, Legendary karate skill roll (super op in normal fights) + let's call it a smidge of Son Goku "physical density" + Impulse (super op in normal fights) + Durable - Severity 9 Out of Shape (which already should be somewhat diminished, since training with The Camper, should allow him several trainings a day)?

Even if he could only do 5 strikes, it should have been taken care of in 2, a feint or blow to cripple her defense and some kind of head blow to send her straight to dreamland, not this kind of strike trading with a 16 year old girl, no matter how well trained she is.

In my opinion, in a Chaos Gacha fic with such liberal Ticket gain, you fuck the plot and go big, or you go home.

 

[Thegameaholic]

I get what you are trying to do, but it seems you are just nerfing him for the plot.

I mean, let's be real, Legendary karate skill roll (super op in normal fights) + let's call it a smidge of Son Goku "physical density" + Impulse (super op in normal fights) + Durable - Severity 9 Out of Shape (which already should be somewhat diminished, since training with The Camper, should allow him several trainings a day)?

Even if he could only do 5 strikes, it should have been taken care of in 2, a feint or blow to cripple her defense and some kind of head blow to send her straight to dreamland, not this kind of strike trading with a 16 year old girl, no matter how well trained she is.

In my opinion, in a Chaos Gacha fic with such liberal Ticket gain, you fuck the plot and go big, or you go home.

Click to shrink...

yeah ofc skills and stuff can loosen the grip of Out if Shape but it still drastically affects him don't worry next chapter is different

also he didn't add any of Son Goku's physicals until the last strike

 

[Thegameaholic]

don't color the font

Click to shrink...

Sorry, still almost unreadable.

Click to shrink...

Try went copy/pasting to paste without formatting or paste as plain text

Click to shrink...

is it good now?