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?

 

[xihute]

is it good now?

Click to shrink...

2nd threadmark looks good, the 1st remains unchanged.

 

[Thegameaholic]

2nd threadmark looks good, the 1st remains unchanged.

Click to shrink...

alr should be good now

 

[xihute]

alr should be good now

Click to shrink...

Everything works. There's no red text any longer but everything is readable.

 

[Nitrouscurve223]

When I think of what dragon form would look like it would be a red dragon that is very chunky but somehow still intimidating you know like

Themberchaud​

View: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=NnLrG6vSr0s&ra=m
Oh Themberchaud could be his cape name lol

 

[Heavenly Mark]

Huh nice

 

[Thegameaholic]

Taylor sat on the edge of her bed, the needle in her hand threading a thick strand of black spider-silk through the reinforced forearm of her costume. Outside her bedroom window, thousands of tiny, vibrating wings hummed in the evening air—a silent, buzzing choir of beetles, spiders, and flies waiting for her signal.

She pulled the thread tight, tied off the knot, and let out a long, shuddering breath. Her gaze drifted away from her suit toward the small, cracked desk mirror sitting beside her workbench.

If someone had told Taylor Hebert a month ago that her personal hero—her literal, physical protector—was going to be Greg Veder, she would have assumed it was some sick, cruel joke engineered by Emma.

Greg Veder.

The chubby, hyperactive kid with the terrible bowl cut who spent half of freshman year gushing endlessly about capes, video games, and powerscaling logic. Back then, Taylor had secretly found him exhausting. Whenever he tried to talk to her in the hallways, she had offered polite, strained smiles while internally rolling her eyes, wishing he would just go away.

A heavy coil of guilt twisted in Taylor's chest.

She felt like an absolute piece of shit now. Finding out through Sparky that Greg was neurodivergent and dealing with severe ADHD had hit her like a punch to the gut. All those times she had internally judged him, dismissed him, or categorized him as just another annoying dork... he had just been a lonely, misunderstood kid trying his best to connect with people. And despite how dismissive she had been, when Taylor was lying on the cold linoleum floor with her glasses shattered, crying while Emma and Sophia tore her soul apart, Greg was the only person in the entire school who stood up for her.

He hadn't just stood up for her. He had laid Sophia Hess out cold.

Since that day, Greg had effectively glued himself to her side. He had turned himself into her personal, immovable bodyguard.

The change to her daily life at Winslow was staggering. For months, Taylor's lunch period had been a nightmare of survival tactics—running to the third-floor girl's bathroom, slipping into the farthest, dirtiest stall, and eating a squashed sandwich over a foul-smelling toilet while praying Madison or Sophia wouldn't hear her breathing.

Greg had put an absolute stop to that on day one.

He didn't ask. He simply grabbed her elbow, took her lunch bag, and marched her right into the middle of the bright, noisy cafeteria, pulling out a chair for her next to him and Sparky. When Taylor tried to shrink into herself, terrified of being seen, Greg had taken them all up to the roof, propping the heavy metal access door open so they could eat in the fresh air under the open sky.

The bullying hadn't just decreased; it had virtually vanished.

The school was flat-out terrified of Greg. Whatever had shifted inside him the day he fought Sophia had left him radiating a dark, brooding aura that made people drop their eyes whenever he walked past. When a few of the Track Team guys tried to corner Taylor near her locker last week, Greg had merely turned his head, narrowed his sharp blue eyes, and stepped into their path. The three athletes had turned pale as sheets, stammered out apologies, and practically tripped over each other running away.

Sitting on the roof over the past few weeks, Taylor had actually made real, genuine friends. Sparky was surprisingly sweet, funny, and clever when he wasn't taking apart mechanical pencils, and Greg's relentless, energetic enthusiasm was infectious.

At first, Taylor had been deeply apprehensive. She knew Greg's crush on her was painfully obvious—he practically tripped over his own feet whenever she smiled at him. Part of her had worried he was only protecting her because he wanted to date her. Back then, Taylor had told herself she wouldn't date Greg Veder if he were the last guy on Earth. It was almost funny, considering she was a tall, gangly, frizzy-haired girl who considered herself miles away from attractive. But Greg had just seemed like too much.

Then, the last few weeks happened.

Greg's transformation was nothing short of terrifyingly fast. Whatever insane workout routine he had started was completely reshaping his entire body. The soft, extra weight had melted away in a matter of days, replaced by broad shoulders, a trim waist, and thick, dense muscle. He had ditched the awful bowl cut, letting his hair grow out into thick, golden-blonde locks that fell casually around his neck and framed a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite.

His oversized Winslow uniform had hung off his new frame like a bedsheet for two days, until he showed up on Thursday wearing a custom-fitted hoodie that showed off his broad chest and tapered back.

Taylor remembered the way her throat had gone dry when he leaned over her desk to hand her an apple, his shoulder brushing against hers, smelling faintly of soap and fresh cedar wood.

Wait... since when did Greg Veder become actually... attractive?

Taylor felt a sudden, hot flush creep up her neck, her cheeks burning bright crimson in the dim light of her bedroom. She buried her face in her hands, groaning softly.

"Stop it, Taylor," she muttered out loud, shaking her head violently to scatter the thought. "No time for romance. Get your head in the game."

She couldn't afford distractions. Not tonight.

She pushed her romantic confusion aside, reaching out to touch the dark, thick armor of her finished costume. It was woven from layers of black spider-silk, lightweight yet tough enough to stop a knife. Her gray bug-eyed visor sat on the edge of the desk, gleaming in the lamplight.

Tonight was the night. Her first real patrol as a cape.

She was going to step out into the dark streets of the Docks, prove to herself that she wasn't a victim anymore, and start making Brockton Bay a safer place.

She pulled the dark suit over her shoulders, feeling the comforting, electric hum of thousands of insects fluttering in a broad perimeter around her house. She strapped on her armor, adjusted her mask, and stepped toward the window, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and absolute determination.

Taylor Hebert was going out to be a hero.

Greg stood in front of his bathroom mirror, wiping a towel over his sweat-drenched neck, staring in absolute disbelief at his reflection.

He pressed his fingers against his midsection. It wasn't soft anymore. It wasn't a pale, squishy roll that spilled over his waistband. Beneath a light sheen of sweat, six crisp, hard, clearly defined ridges of muscle flexed against his skin. His shoulders had filled out, his chest sat broad and solid, and his waist had tapered down into the athletic V-shape of a young martial artist in prime physical condition.

Four weeks of brutal, relentless discipline. Four weeks of morning katas, heavy deadlifts, six-mile runs, and high-protein meals.

Suddenly, the air in front of his face rippled with a warm, golden radiance.

CURSE ABSOLVED: [Out of Shape] (Severity 9) Status Condition Purged: Baseline physical stamina, cellular endurance, and metabolic efficiency restored to optimal human potential.

Greg let out a long, heavy breath that felt like releasing a weight he had carried his whole life. A strange lightness rushed through his limbs. The constant, throb of exhaustion in his lower back was completely gone. His lungs expanded fully without burning, and his heart beat with a slow, powerful, effortless rhythm.

He was finally free of it.

He closed his eyes, dropping his hands to his waist. He sank his weight into a deep, perfectly balanced zenkutsu-dachi stance right there on the bathmat. He took a slow breath, sinking his mind past his ribcage, past the roaring volcanic core of Son Gokū, down into that pure, crystalline pool of martial Ki he had cultivated over weeks of morning meditation.

He brought his hands back to his hip, cupping his palms together.

Focus the Ki. Align the breath. Drive the spirit forward.

He thrust his palms straight toward the empty shower curtain.

HADŌKEN!

A vibrant, translucent orb of crackling blue spiritual energy burst from his hands, shooting across the bathroom with a sharp, concussive WHOOSH of displaced air. The shower curtain blew back violently, the plastic rings rattling on the metal rod as the orb dissipated harmlessly into a burst of harmless, warm light before touching the tile wall.

Greg stood there, his palms still extended, his jaw hanging wide open.

"I... I actually did it," Greg whispered, his eyes wide with absolute wonder. "A literal Hadōken..."

DING.

Feat Accomplished: Completely Purged Severity 9 Physical Curse Through Sheer Force of Will and Daily Discipline. Reward Granted: 1x Random Diamond Ticket.

Feat Accomplished: Mastered Spiritual Energy Manipulation within Martial Discipline (Unlocked Hadōken). Reward Granted: 1x Random Platinum Ticket.

System Helper: Well, well, well. Look at you, host. You went from a heavy, wheezing teenager who couldn't climb two flights of stairs without needing an oxygen tank to firing literal energy blasts out of your hands while showing off a six-pack. I suppose congratulations are in order for surviving your first curse. Don't let it go to your head, Zen Master Veder. Shall we roll the big loot?

Greg chuckled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Heck yeah. Roll the Diamond Ticket first!"

The Diamond Ticket materialized in his vision, shimmering with a pristine, blinding crystal light that cast prismatic reflections across the bathroom tiles before shattering into a shower of diamond dust.

[Kudoku] | Elite Ability | Kudoku allows you to expel a very weak poison from your body, either through your pores, your nails, or your mouth. While Kudoku is in an active slot, you can ingest and be inflicted with poisons, and as long as you survive those poisons, the potency of Kudoku will be increased proportionally to their potency and gain more effects that you can imbue into your own venom. Cultivate your poison from a mild paralytic to a godslaying Venom. Starting rating is Trash. Kudoku also provides poison resistance scaling with its own potency when slotted in.

Greg leaned against the sink counter, scanning the floating blue text three times over.

"A poison cultivation ability...?" Greg muttered, his mind instantly whirring with tactical possibilities. "It starts out super weak, but if I ingest toxins and survive them, my body absorbs their properties and makes my own venom stronger? And it gives me passive poison resistance?!"

His thoughts immediately connected back to his passive [Venomous] trait.

"This works in absolute tandem with my venomous bite!" Greg realized, grinning brightly. "If I cultivate this up from a weak irritant to something serious, any toxin I digest gets added straight into my arsenal. I just need to start small... maybe harvest some wild poison ivy, toxic mushrooms, or nightshade from the woods near the park!"

He nodded to himself, clicking on the Platinum Ticket next.

The Platinum Ticket spun in a swirling vortex of liquid silver light, locking in with a heavy, metallic ringing sound.

[Gunpowder Manipulation] | Rare Ability | Allows you to conjure and manipulate Gunpowder and control it telekinetically, shaping it into constructs or detonating it on command. The higher volume of Gunpowder you control, the more energy you expend.

Greg tapped his chin, looking at the floating description. "Gunpowder Manipulation... huh. So I can summon black powder out of thin air, move it around, and spark it whenever I want?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "I guess that's pretty useful! If I run into normal gang members with guns, I can manipulate the powder inside their bullets to jam their magazines, or conjure a trail of black powder across a street and set off a controlled explosion to block off a getaway vehicle. Plus... pairing gunpowder blasts with Son Gokū's fire..."

Greg opened his expanded system interface and slotted both new abilities into his open loadout.

Current Active Loadout (10/12):

[Drake Form]

[Corpus Weapon]

[Horns] (Inactive)

[The Camper]

[Iron Manipulation]

[Chameleon Hide]

[Sapling]

[Bloom]

[Kudoku]

[Gunpowder Manipulation]

[EMPTY]

[EMPTY]

With ten out of twelve slots active, Greg felt a deep, harmonious thrum of power echoing through his body.

He dried off, put on a simple black shirt, and walked into his bedroom. Sitting on his bed, he stared out the window into the cool, dark Brockton Bay night.

Now that he was physically fit, mastering martial Ki, and holding a mountain of versatile powers, a heavy question pressed against his mind.

My parents... Greg thought, leaning his elbows on his knees. I need to tell Mom and Dad the truth. I can't keep hiding all of this from them forever. And tomorrow... I should tell Sparky and Taylor, too. If we're really going to be a team or if I'm going out there as a cape, they deserve to know who has their back.

He looked out at the glowing city skyline in the distance. The streetlights flickered against the damp pavement, and the quiet temptation of the night tugged at his chest.

"I really want to go out tonight, though..." Greg murmured aloud. "Just a quick run. Could taking a short flight really hurt?"

System Helper: Allow me to refresh your remarkably short memory, my ambitious host. Have you perhaps forgotten about the Severity 18 curse [Horrible Night] sitting inside your soul? The one that explicitly triggers a catastrophic, worst-case disaster scenario the exact second you make your official debut as a cape?

Greg rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand through the air. "Oh, come on, System! That's for my official hero debut! Going out for a quick midnight flight in my monster form isn't a cape debut! Nobody is even gonna recognize me! I'm literally just taking my Drake Form out for a test spin to stretch my wings!"

System Helper: Famous last words. If you end up falling into a supervillain meeting or an Endbringer cult initiation, I am going to write 'I told you so' across your optic nerve in neon pink letters.

"Yeah, yeah," Greg chuckled quietly.

He waited patiently in his dark room for another hour until the rhythmic, heavy sound of his father's snoring echoed down the hallway, signaling that both his parents were fast asleep.

Greg stepped into the center of his room. He opened his mind, reaching for Slot 3 and Slot 1.

Activate [Horns]. Trigger [Drake Form].

A sudden, surging wave of primal draconic energy exploded through Greg's bloodstream.

It was entirely painless, but the physical sensation was overwhelming. Two thick, jet-black obsidian horns sprouted sweeping backward from his temples. Deep crimson scales rippled out across his skin like armor plates, covering his arms, chest, legs, and jaw in hard, shimmering red scales. His feet shifted, his boots dissolving into spatial storage as heavy, broad, three-toed draconic talons gripped the hardwood floor.

A thick, muscular, red-scaled tail whipped out from his lower spine, balancing his weight effortlessly. His jaw elongated slightly, filling with rows of razor-sharp draconic fangs, and his eyes burned with a fierce, molten-gold reptilian glow. Finally, with a heavy THRUP, two massive, leathery red wings burst from his upper back, unfurling in the dim bedroom light.

He looked like a terrifying, nine-foot-tall red dragon-man—a living, breathing mythological beast.

Greg flexed his new taloned hand, admiring the dark, sharp claws tipping his crimson fingers. "Man... I don't even need a costume in this form. Nobody on Earth-Bet would ever guess this is Greg Veder."

He quietly unlatched his bedroom window, pushing it wide open.

Crouching low on the wooden sill, his massive red wings folded tightly against his back, Greg looked down at the empty, silent street below. He took a deep breath of the crisp midnight air, tasting the faint salt of the bay on his tongue.

With a powerful push from his draconic legs and a heavy, sweeping flap of his broad wings, Greg launched himself into the night sky, soaring up into the clouds high above Brockton Bay.

The wind roared past Greg's ears as he soared high above the sprawling cityscape of Brockton Bay.

It was an intoxicating, absolute sense of freedom. Up here, thousands of feet in the chilly night sky, he wasn't the awkward kid in the back of the classroom or the boy struggling under the weight of system curses. He was a creature built for the open air. The wide, dark span of his draconic wings caught the updrafts effortlessly, sending him gliding through the low-hanging clouds like a silent shadow.

Inside his soulscape, a low, resonant rumble vibrated against his mind.

I know, big guy... I know, Greg thought back gently, sending a reassuring pulse of mental warmth into his inner core.

Aurelius, his colossal, 2,187-centimeter Golden Elder Dragon, shifted restlessly within his soul. The magnificent Shagaru Magala whined softly in Greg's mind, longing to break free, spread his shimmering wings, and eclipse the stars. But summoning a sixty-foot Virus dragon in the middle of a heavily monitored cape territory would spark absolute, city-wide pandemonium. The PRT would trigger an S-class alarm before Aurelius could even roar.

Aurelius grumbled in acquiescence, curling back down into the warm, golden light of Greg's core, content for now to share his host's senses.

Greg's golden, reptilian eyes swept over the darkened streets of the Docks below. Thanks to his heightened draconic senses, the murky night looked as bright as dusk. He could track the heat signatures of scampering alley cats, hear the distant sloshing of gray water against the harbor piers, and catch the faint rustle of garbage paper miles away.

Then, a sharp, terrified cry sliced through the ambient hum of the city.

"Help! Someone, please—!"

Greg's wings flared out instinctively, stalling his momentum in mid-air. His pupils slitted into narrow needles, zooming down toward a dim, dead-end alleyway four blocks away.

Thermal vision flared in his sight. Three heavy-set muggers had a young woman pinned against a rusted dumpster, one holding a glinting pocketknife to her throat while another aggressively tugged at her purse straps.

Not on my watch.

Greg tucked his massive red wings tightly against his back and went into a steep dive.

He plummeted toward the earth like a fallen meteor, opening his broad wings at the very last second to check his momentum.

BOOM!

His heavy, three-toed draconic talons smashed into the asphalt of the alleyway with enough force to crack the pavement, sending a shockwave of dust and loose gravel flying against the brick walls.

The three muggers froze, their jaws dropping in absolute, paralyzing terror as they stared up at the massive, nine-foot-tall, red-scaled dragon-man looming over them in the dark. Crimson scales armor-plated his chest, twin obsidian horns swept back from his head, and molten-gold eyes burned down on them with predatory intensity.

"What the... WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!" the guy with the knife shrieked, his voice cracking violently.

Before the man could even raise his weapon, Greg moved. Enhanced by [Impulse], his massive, taloned hand flashed forward, snatching the pocketknife cleanly out of the mugger's grip and crushing the metal blade into a flat coin with a single squeeze.

Greg stepped forward, slamming his palm into the mugger's chest. The man flew backward fifteen feet, crashing hard into a stack of wooden pallets before slumping unconscious.

The other two muggers dropped the woman's purse and scrambled toward the alley exit in pure, unadulterated panic. Greg simply whipped his heavy, red-scaled tail across the ground, sweeping their legs out from beneath them. They slammed face-first into the concrete with sickening thuds, groaning in pain before fleeing on all fours like terrified dogs into the main street.

Greg let out a huff of warm air, turning toward the trembling victim. He held up his claws in what he hoped was a friendly, calming gesture, taking a slow step forward.

"A-Are you okay?" Greg asked, trying his absolute best to sound gentle and heroic.

Unfortunately, his passive [Menace] aura was flared at maximum, and his hybrid vocal cords transformed his words into a deep, gravelly, demon-like growl that vibrated through the bricks.

The young woman gasped, her eyes practically bulging out of her head as she stared at the terrifying red monster towering over her. "DEMON!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs, scrambling up from the floor, abandoning her purse, and running out of the alleyway as if the devil himself were chasing her.

Greg stood alone in the dim alley, his hand still awkwardly raised in the air.

He slowly lowered his arm, his tail drooping behind him as he let out a long, heavy sigh that vented a tiny puff of harmless grey smoke from his nostrils. "Man... I really need to practice my hero voice..."

DING.

A shimmering Silver UI box materialized right in front of his face.

MINORITY ENCOUNTER RESOLVED: Alleyway Salvation. You successfully thwarted a mugging, protected an innocent citizen, and terrified three low-life thugs into early retirement.

System Helper: * Bravo, host! A truly inspiring display of chivalry. You saved the damsel in distress, crushed a knife with your bare hands, and then scared her so badly she left a brown trail all the way down 4th Street. Your romantic charm truly knows no bounds. Here is your reward for... whatever that was.*

Reward Granted: 1x Silver Trait Ticket.

"Oh, quiet," Greg muttered, tapping his claws together to activate the ticket.

The Silver Ticket dissolved into a flash of soft, metallic grey light, solidifying into a new trait description:

[Nothing Strange] | Uncommon Trait | There is nothing strange about you. People try to normalize your weirdness or oddities, like why you keep skipping out on class, how you speak weirdly, or how it's weird to kiss your relatives in the mouth. Just the normal stuff.

Greg scanned the text twice, his golden eyes widening in immediate tactical appreciation.

"Whoa... okay, wait, this is actually useful as HELL!" Greg said aloud, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "If people naturally normalize my odd behavior, my parents won't question it if they hear me sneaking back into my room at night! And if I ever need to skip class to handle a cape emergency, nobody's even gonna think twice about it!"

Then, the second half of the sentence registered in his head.

Greg froze, staring blankly at the floating box. "...Wait. What the absolute HELL was that last bit?!"

System Helper: Ah. The system's skill description database draws from an infinite multiversal pool of trait templates, host. Some of those templates are heavily optimized for... shall we say... far more 'lewd' or 'adult' worlds. It builds character!

Greg gave the UI screen an absolute, unblinking deadpan stare for three solid seconds. "...I'm ignoring that."

He slotted the trait into his system, kicked off the asphalt, and launched himself back up into the night sky, leaving the quiet alley far behind.

He drifted effortlessly through the air currents above the Docks, letting the cool wind chill his scales. The city felt quiet now, peaceful and still under the blanket of midnight.

Then, three rooftops over, a flash of subtle movement caught his eye.

Greg tilted his wings, dropping lower to get a better look. Someone was moving along the lip of a five-story warehouse, jumping cleanly from one roof ledge to the next. The figure was draped in a sleek, dark-armored suit woven from pitch-black fabric, wearing a gray, bug-eyed visor that gleamed softly under the moonlight.

Another cape? Greg thought, his cape-nerd brain firing up instantly.

The dark color scheme of the costume blended almost perfectly with the pitch-black night, making the figure nearly invisible to normal human eyes. But Greg's enhanced draconic vision saw her with crystal clarity.

As the cape landed softly on the edge of a gravel roof, Greg's eyes inadvertently locked onto her silhouette. The form-fitting armor hugged a distinctly slender, curvy frame.

Whoa... okay, yeah, definitely a girl, Greg thought, his face warming up slightly beneath his red scales. No guy's ass looks that sharp in body armor.

He instantly shook his head violently, slapping his own cheek with a clawed hand. No! Stop it, Greg! You're not some hyper-perverted anime protagonist! Focus!

Still, he couldn't help the slight flush in his chest. He was a red-blooded, hormone-ridden teenage guy, after all. But more than that, he was a massive cape geek—and he knew every single registered cape in the Bay by heart. Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Velocity, Dauntless, the E88 capes, the ABB, the Undersiders...

He had never seen this costume in his life.

Wait a second... Greg realized, his golden eyes sparking with excitement. Is tonight her first night out too?!

A huge grin spread across his draconic face, revealing rows of sharp fangs. Another brand-new hero out on her very first patrol! What were the odds?

I should totally drop in, say hi, and offer to patrol together!

Folding his massive red wings back against his spine, Greg swooped quietly down through the night air toward the dark warehouse roof.

The night air over the Docks was cold, sharp, and smelling faintly of salt water and rotting wood. From three stories up, leaning against the cold brick edge of a commercial warehouse roof, the city looked almost peaceful.

To Taylor, peace was a foreign concept.

Even through the dark tinted lenses of her bug-eyed visor, the world didn't come to her through light and sound alone. It came through millions of tiny, vibrating leg joints, chemical signals, and delicate, paper-thin wings. Within a radius of three whole blocks, every cockroach crawling through the dumpster sludge, every orb-weaver spinning webs beneath the eaves, and every moth circling a yellowing streetlight was an extension of her own nervous system.

It was an intoxicating, overwhelming sensation. For months, Taylor Hebert had been nothing—a ghost glided past by former friends, a punching bag tucked into dark bathroom stalls, a girl who didn't exist unless someone wanted to spill juice down her shirt. But wrapped in her home-stitched, black spider-silk armor, surrounded by a silent, crawling army awaiting her command, she was someone else. She was a cape.

She adjusted the tight straps on her forearm guard, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. This is it, she told herself, taking a slow, measured breath. My first patrol. No bullies. No Winslow. Just helping people.

She took two steps toward the ledge, preparing to leap across the narrow alley to the adjoining roof.

Then, the sky split open above her.

A massive, terrifying shadow plunged straight out of the low cloud cover, descending directly onto her location like a falling airliner.

CRASH!

The roof shook under the impact. Gravel exploded outward in a violent shower, striking the shins of her silk suit. Dust whipped through the air, momentarily blinding her visor.

Taylor stumbled back, her hand flying instinctively to her utility belt as her bug-senses screamed in unison. Through the swirling dust cloud, a shape rose to its full, staggering height—and Taylor's heart instantly stopped.

Standing barely ten feet away from her was an absolute nightmare incarnate.

It was a monstrous, nine-foot-tall red dragon-man. Massive, obsidian horns swept backward from its thick skull like a crown of dark glass. Crimson scales, thick as military armor plating, covered its broad chest, arms, and heavy legs. Molten-gold eyes burned with an terrifying, predatory light in the gloom, and two broad, leathery wings flexed behind its back, casting a towering shadow over her slender frame.

Lung, her brain shrieked in absolute, blind terror. It's Lung! Oh god, he's fully transformed, he found me, he's going to incinerate me—

Panic seized her throat. The cold, suffocating memory of every brutal beatdown she had ever endured rushed into her mind, blending with the terrifying reality of standing face-to-face with the ruler of the Asian Bad Boys.

She didn't think. She reacted.

With a desperate, silent command, Taylor pulled every single insect within three blocks toward her location in a massive, choking wall.

A deafening, terrifying roar of buzzing wings filled the night air as hundreds of thousands of black flies, biting midges, thick hornets, and heavy beetles surged over the roof edge like a black tsunami. The cloud enveloped the red dragon-man in a split second, seeking out his eyes, his open nostrils, his ears, and the gaps between his crimson scales to bite, sting, and blind.

"EEEEEP!"

A ridiculously high-pitched, squeaky shriek echoed from the depths of the roaring swarm.

It was a sound so profoundly un-dragon-like, so utterly absurd coming from a nine-foot demon of rage, that Taylor's brain momentarily short-circuited.

Before she could process it, the dragon-man leaped violently backward, his broad leathery wings flaring out with a heavy THRUP to create fifty feet of distance in a single, desperate jump. He landed near the far edge of the roof, his giant tail whipping around frantically as his clawed hands swatted at the air.

HAHHH!

He threw his head back and exhaled a wide, roaring cone of bright, blinding yellow-and-orange fire straight into the air.

The heatwave hit Taylor like a physical punch. Even fifty feet away, the blistering thermal draft singed the air in front of her mask, making the air ripple violently. The intense, flash-incineration destroyed her insect cloud instantly, turning thousands of bugs into a fine, descending mist of black ash. Taylor winced behind her visor, pulling back as the sharp, metallic tang of burnt chitin filled her nostrils.

She reached back into the surrounding streets, preparing to summon her backup wave—thousands of orb-weavers, black widows, and heavy subterranean centipedes crawling up the rain gutters—to suffocate the beast before he could charge her.

"WAIT! WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! TRUCE! I SURRENDER!"

The dragon-man threw both of his massive, red-scaled hands high into the air, hopping up and down on his heavy, clawed feet in a frantic, universal 'time-out' gesture. His tail wagged behind him in a nervous, sweeping arc, scraping noisily against the roof gravel.

Taylor froze, her mind reeled. What...?

"Please don't throw any more bugs at me!" the monster pleaded. The voice coming out of that massive, fanged jaw was deep, gravelly, and reverberated through the brick floor, but the actual inflection was... absurdly chipper, panicked, and hyperactive. "I'm friendly! I swear I'm a friendly! Total hero vibes! White hat guy!"

Taylor kept her guard up, her hands hovering near her sides, though she halted the advancing march of her spider reinforcements. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice muffled slightly behind her visor. "Are you with the ABB?"

"What?! The ABB? No way!" The dragon-man waved his large clawed hands in dramatic denial, taking a careful, exaggerated step back to prove he wasn't attacking. "Gross! Absolutely not! Man, this is actually my very first night out as a cape! I was just flying around, stretching my wings, you know? And then my dragon-vision picked you up moving across the rooftops!"

He leaned forward slightly, resting his heavy, clawed hands on his knees, his molten-gold eyes shining with genuine, childlike excitement. "And I was like, 'Whoa, another cape!' I'm kind of a massive cape geek, to be honest. I know every costume registered in the Bay from Armsmaster to Dauntless, but I've never seen your outfit before! So I figured, hey, maybe it's her first night out too! I was just dropping in to say hi and see if you wanted to patrol together!"

Taylor stared at him through her yellow lenses, completely speechless.

The contrast was breaking her brain. Standing before her was a creature that looked like it had been torn straight out of a heavy-metal dark fantasy novel—a nine-foot, scale-armored, fire-breathing monster capable of ripping a city bus in half. Yet he was talking to her with the breezy, unfiltered, slightly dorky enthusiasm of...

Greg.

The realization hit her like a cold splash of water. The rapid-fire pacing, the unashamed geekiness, the hyperactive posture... he sounded just like Greg Veder ranting about video game lore or cape tiers during lunch on the school roof.

A sharp spike of fear and confusion threatened to overwhelm her. Is this a trap? Is he insane? How am I supposed to handle a guy who looks like Lung but talks like a freshman high school dork?

Remembering her recent training, Taylor took a deep breath and deliberately pushed her soaring panic, confusion, and fear outward—routing the emotional noise straight into her bug network.

Across a two-block radius, thousands of cockroaches, flies, and ants twitched and skittered in unison, absorbing the raw brunt of her anxiety. Instantly, Taylor's mind cleared, dropping into a cold, tactical, hyper-focused calm.

She evaluated her situation with clinical precision.

She was a loner. She had always been a loner. Even now, with Greg and Sparky eating lunch with her every day, her baseline instinct was to shrink away, rely entirely on herself, and keep everyone at arm's length. She didn't know this cape. She didn't know his powers, his motives, or if his dorky demeanor was just a cover.

On the other hand... she looked down at her own thin, silk-armored arms. She was a master-type cape with zero inherent physical durability. If she ran into a brute, a vector-controller, or a gang squad armed with automatic weapons tonight, she could get killed before her bugs could even disable them.

This dragon-man was an absolute walking tank. He had taken her entire swarm without a scratch, leaped fifty feet in a single bound, and breathed plasma. Having a giant, fire-breathing brute standing next to her as muscle would instantly solve every single physical safety issue her costume had.

She met his glowing gold eyes.

"Yes," Taylor said flatly.

Her voice came out through her bug-senses in a eerie, perfectly flat monotone that lacked any trace of her lingering nervousness. "We can patrol together."

The dragon-man practically bounced on his heels, his massive red wings flaring out in delight. "Awesome! Yes! Team-up on night one! That is so hype!"

He raised a clawed hand to rub his scaly chin thoughtfully, his heavy obsidian horns tilting as he pondered. "Oh, wait, introductions! I'm... uh..." He stopped, tapping his fangs with a claw. "Man, coming up with a cool name on the spot is hard. Okay, okay... Call me High Roller!"

Taylor blinked behind her mask. High Roller?

It was a profoundly strange, almost absurd name for a nine-foot red dragon-man. It sounded more like a cape who manipulated dice, owned a casino, or had luck-based thinker powers. But she wasn't about to argue with a fire-breathing giant who seemed genuinely thrilled to be here.

"High Roller," Taylor repeated softly in her flat tone.

"Yep! High Roller!" He gave her a thumbs-up with his sharp black claws. "So, what about you? What's your hero name, fellow vigilante?"

Taylor flinched inwardly.

A sharp wave of embarrassment washed through her, which she quickly dumped into a cluster of beetles crawling under a nearby drainpipe. Truthfully, she hadn't managed to settle on a name. Every single title she had brainstormed over the last three weeks while stitching her suit had sounded utterly horrifying. Skitter. Swarm. Pestilence. Arachne. Infestation. They all sounded like the names of villainous monsters who belonged in a maximum-security birdcage, not a hero trying to save people.

"I... don't have one yet," Taylor admitted quietly, her shoulders slumping an inch. "Every name I come up with sounds... creepy. Or villainous."

High Roller tilted his massive head, his tail flicking behind him like an inquisitive cat's. "Really? Why? What's the full scope of your power? Is it just controlling all types of insects?"

Taylor shook her head slightly. "Not just insects. I can control bugs, arachnids, centipedes, crustaceans... basically all arthropods within my range. I have absolute, perfect multitask control over every single one of them."

High Roller's golden eyes went wide as saucers. He gasped—a sound like a bellowing furnace—and stepped forward, clapping his massive, scale-armored hands together with a heavy CLANG.

"Bro! That is so insanely cool!" High Roller gushed, his voice bubbling over with genuine, unfeigned awe. "Absolute range-based arthropod telepathy with parallel processing?! That's a high-tier Master/Thinker classification! You're basically an omnipresent battlefield director! That's not creepy at all, that's incredible!"

A sudden, intense heat flushed up Taylor's neck.

Beneath her gray visor, her cheeks burned a bright, violent crimson. She pulled her chin down into her collar, utterly stunned by the sudden, overwhelming praise. Nobody had ever called her cool. Nobody had ever looked at her abilities—abilities born from the darkest, filthiest night of her life—and seen something awesome.

She hurriedly routed the blushing warmth straight out into her swarm, making a group of street flies drop into a quick, erratic dance.

"I... thank you," Taylor stammered softly, her monotone slipping for a fraction of a second.

High Roller paced back and forth across the gravel, his tail sweeping behind him as his cape-geek brain whirred at maximum speed. "Okay, okay, let me think. Villainous names are out. You need something that sounds powerful, noble, and heroic... Something that commands respect!"

He suddenly froze, snapping his claws together with a sharp crack that produced a tiny blue spark.

"Monarch!" High Roller declared proudly, pointing a claw right at her. "How about Monarch?!"

Taylor stopped. She repeated the word silently in her head.

Monarch.

It carried an immediate, powerful weight. It referenced the Monarch butterfly—a insect known for beauty, endurance, and incredible migrations—while simultaneously invoking images of royalty, authority, and supreme command. It turned her bug control from a disgusting, creepy plague into a sovereign domain.

"Monarch..." Taylor murmured, feeling a strange, wonderful warmth settle into her chest. "I... I actually really like that."

"Right?!" High Roller grinned, revealing a row of gleaming white fangs. "It's perfect! Regal, powerful, and total hero material! Man, you should totally tweak your suit a bit to match it later! Keep the black spider-silk armor—because that silk weave looks super tough and slick—but add some gold or bright orange accents! Maybe a light cape shaped like subtle butterfly wings or an imperial high collar! You'd look absolute grand, like a true queen of the night!"

Taylor looked down at her dark, plain silk armor, imagining the design tweaks in her head. Black silk inlaid with striking, golden-orange butterfly patterns... an imperial collar framing her dark hair... a regal silhouette standing atop the buildings of Brockton Bay.

It sounded... grand. It sounded magnificent. It sounded like the hero she had always dreamed of becoming when she was a little girl reading news articles about Alexandria.

She looked back up at the giant red dragon-man standing beneath the moonlight, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years.

"Monarch," Taylor said firm, letting a faint, genuine smile form beneath her mask. "My name is Monarch."

"Heck yeah it is!" High Roller cheered, throwing his arms out wide. "Now come on, partner! The night is young, and Brockton Bay isn't gonna protect itself!"

Greg had originally snuck out of his bedroom window with one simple goal: stretch his wings, enjoy the midnight breeze, and get a feel for his new dragon form. He definitely hadn't planned on stumbling into a full-fledged night patrol. But as he glided alongside Monarch above the dark roofs of the Docks, he couldn't help the stupidly grin on his face.

Hey, at least I'm patrolling with a cute girl, Greg thought cheerfully. Sure, she's wearing a bug mask and creepy spider-silk armor, but still—first official cape team-up!

DING.

A warm, golden light flared softly in his vision, catching him by surprise.

FEAT ACCOMPLISHED: Formed a Genuine Alliance with a Fellow Parahuman. Reward Granted: 1x Random Gold Item Ticket.

"Oh, nice!" Greg muttered under his breath, tapping the ticket in his mind interface before Monarch could notice.

The ticket dissolved into a shower of gleaming amber sparks, solidifying into a detailed item description:

[Bellowing Dragoncrest Ring] | Rare Item | Dark Souls - A special ring granted to only the most accomplished sorcerers at the Vinheim Dragon School. The ring is engraved with an everlasting dragon and boosts the strength of magic cast by its wearer.

Greg perked up, his golden eyes sparkling with pure giddiness.This is amazing!it's going to crank the raw output of my Carian Glintstone sorceries through the roof!

With a quick mental command, he equipped the thick, brass-and-emerald band onto his heavy, clawed ring finger. A subtle, humming surge of latent mystical energy rippled down his arm, settling into his core.

Beside him, Monarch suddenly skidded to a halt at the edge of a three-story roof.

Ahead of them lay a wide, fifteen-foot alley gap separating two industrial warehouses. While Greg could fly over it with a single lazy flap of his wings, Taylor didn't have flight. She crouched low, eyeing the distant brick ledge with obvious hesitation. Her spider-silk suit was tough, but it didn't give her superhuman agility, and a fifteen-foot jump over a dark drop was a massive risk.

Greg landed heavily beside her, his claws scraping the roof gravel. He tilted his horned head. "Why not just make a platform of bugs?"

Monarch's head snapped toward him, her yellow visor locking onto his face with sharp intensity. "What?"

"Yeah," High Roller chuckled, gesturing toward the open gap with a clawed hand. "You've got parallel processing and millions of hard-shelled arthropods in your range, right? Just weave a dense carpet of beetles, roaches, and spiders. Pack them tight enough, and you can make a floating platform or a bridge to walk across."

Monarch stood completely still for three seconds. Behind her mask, her brain was wildly recalibrating. A bug platform...? Can I... actually do that?

She closed her eyes, extending her mind out into the surrounding streets. Within seconds, a massive, dark tide of hard-backed Japanese beetle, stag beetles, and thick orb-weavers poured out from rain gutters and brick crevices. Under her precise, parallel command, hundreds of thousands of insects linked legs, weaving their hard chitinous bodies into a dense, solid mat that spanned the fifteen-foot gap between the buildings.

Monarch stepped forward, her heart in her throat. She nervously extended one black boot, placing her weight onto the crawling, squirming platform.

It held. Shockingly, it felt as solid as a wooden plank.

She took another careful step, then another, casually walking across her makeshift bug bridge to the next rooftop without a single tremble. As she landed safely on the concrete, the bug bridge dissolved, dispersing back into the shadows.

She turned back to High Roller, offering him a silent, deeply appreciative nod through her mask.

High Roller let out a booming, deep laugh, waving a clawed hand dismissively. "Haha, no big deal at all! Just thinker-style tactical advice from your friendly neighborhood dragon!"

As they resumed walking along the roof ledge, Monarch quieted down for a moment before turning her visor back toward him.

"High Roller..." she began, her tone carrying a faint trace of hesitation. "Why did you pick that name? It doesn't really... sound like a name for..." She gestured broadly with her hand toward his massive red scales, obsidian horns, and trailing dragon tail. "...you know. This."

Greg chuckled, scratching the back of his neck with a sharp claw. He knew he couldn't drop the full truth about the Gacha system or multiversal ticket rolls—she'd think he was completely insane or suffering from a severe master-thinker delusion.

So, he served up a heavily watered-down, cape-logic version.

"Ah, well, it's because of how my power actually works!" High Roller explained cheerfully, puffing out his scaled chest. "I'm basically a super high-level Trump! My power is a total gamble. Every so often, my power lets me 'roll' for completely random abilities, gear, or traits. I never know what I'm gonna get—could be fire-breathing, could be a magic ring, could be a total dud!"

Behind her gray mask, Taylor's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her jaw dropped open in absolute, unfiltered shock.

A Trump power that randomly hands out permanent, high-tier abilities and items?! she thought, her mind practically screaming. That is absolute, unadulterated bullshit! How is that even fair?!

High Roller continued, completely oblivious to her internal panic. "And it gets even crazier! I can actually choose to take on severe debuffs or 'curses' on purpose! My power sets a specific condition I have to fulfill to break the curse. The worse the debuff I accept, the higher the tier of the reward I get when I gamble on the roll!"

Taylor stopped walking again, looking at him with deep apprehension. "You... you can intentionally curse yourself for more power?"

"Yep! It's like a high-risk, high-reward wheel spin!"

Taylor hesitated. "Can you... give me an example?"

"Sure! Watch this," Greg said brightly.

In his mind, Greg called out to the system: Hey System Helper! Let's hit the Curse Wheel right now for an example!

System Helper: Anything for the hoes, huh Greg? Very well, spinning the wheel of terrible choices for your lovely new audience...

The golden wheel spun in his mind's eye, locking into place with a dark, sinister CLICK.

CURSE ACCEPTED: [Sadism] | Severity 11 | You really like hurting people; you are not a serial killer or anything, but hurting people just triggers that good part of your brain. And the more you refrain from abusing people, the more restless and uncomfortable you get. | Resolve Condition: Acquire Adept or above Discipline, OR acquire a Rare-rank or above mental/mind-strengthening trait. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Platinum Ticket.

Greg blinked, reading the floating box. "Oh. Huh." He shrugged his massive, scale-armored shoulders. "That's not so bad."

He turned to Taylor and explained the situation in layman's terms. "Okay, so I just took a Severity 11 mental debuff called [Sadism]. Basically, my power is artificially nudging my brain to enjoy causing physical pain, and I'll get restless if I don't vent it. But to purge it, I just need to cultivate high-level mental discipline or roll a rare mind-shielding trait! And in exchange, I just scored a high-tier Platinum Ticket that can give me a random item, ability, minion, trait, or skill!"

He used the word "minion" deliberately, knowing "familiar" sounded too fantasy-oriented for Earth-Bet's Master terminology.

Taylor stared at him in utter horror. "That sounds horrible!" she gasped, her voice losing its monotone completely. "High Roller, that's insane! What if the debuff overwhelms you before you can fix it?! What if you turn into a brutal, sadistic villain?!"

"Nah, don't worry about it! My baseline willpower is super solid," Greg insisted breezily. "Now, let's see what the Platinum Ticket gave us!"

He activated the Platinum Ticket in his mind.

The ticket burst into a blinding, magnificent aura of liquid platinum and shimmering ruby light that coalesced into a heavy, legendary artifact:

[Power of the Dragon Father] | Epic Item | Heroes of Might and Magic III - An armor crafted from the corpse of a mighty dragon. Wearing it imbues the wearer with great physical might and extreme resistance to magic, thanks to the everlasting scales of the dragon.

Greg's golden eyes flared with pure, unadulterated joy. He omitted the fantasy "magic resistance" parts when explaining it to Taylor, focusing on the raw physical stats.

Equip [Power of the Dragon Father]!

FLASH!

A terrifyingly majestic set of deep crimson dragon-scale armor materialized over his Drake Form. Heavy, spiked pauldrons shaped like dragon skulls clamped onto his shoulders, a reinforced chestplate covered his torso, and glowing purple runes pulsed along the armored greaves on his legs.

The moment the armor settled onto his frame, an absolute, overwhelming surge of raw, primal strength flooded every muscle in Greg's body. His physical power doubled instantly. He felt so dense, so absurdly strong, that he felt like he could punch through a skyscraper.

Holy crap... Greg thought, his breath catching in his throat. If I stack this armor's physical stat boost with Son Gokū's strength and my Shotokan Ki... I might actually be able to square up with Alexandria herself!

He struck a heroic pose under the moonlight, flexing his spiked, crimson gauntlets. "So... Monarch! How do I look?!"

Taylor looked at the nine-foot, double-armored dragon-god standing in front of her, practically radiating a crushing aura of raw physical power.

She slowly raised a single hand and gave him a faint, bewildered thumbs-up. "You... look like you could destroy a tank with your pinky."

"Heck yeah!" High Roller grinned, his tail swishing happily behind him.

The two new partners continued their trek, making their way deeper into the heart of the Docks. As they approached the lower bay districts, the surrounding environment deteriorated rapidly. The bright streetlights faded, replaced by broken glass, rotting wooden piers, and crumbling brick structures. There were enough abandoned warehouses and rundown apartment complexes here for even the most destitute citizens to find shelter—meaning the only people lingering on the dark streets at this hour were unconscious drunks, street workers, and gang scouts.

Specifically, the Asian Bad Boys.

Up ahead, near a dark shipping container loading zone, a group of armed gang members was gathered.

While the typical ABB thugs were just Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Chinese teenagers forcibly recruited from Brockton Bay's high schools and impoverished neighborhoods, the gang was notorious for being led by extremely dangerous parahumans.

Taylor crouched low on the roof ledge, peering into the pitch-black shadows of the loading bay. "I can't see what's happening down there," she whispered, her bug-senses picking up a large cluster of bodies but unable to discern details. "High Roller... can you see them?"

"Yeah, hang on," High Roller replied, leaning over the ledge.

He focused his glowing gold draconic eyes, using his enhanced night vision to pierce through the thick gloom of the alleyway.

He saw twelve armed ABB thugs carrying submachine guns and machetes. But as his vision zoomed past them, locking onto the tall, imposing figure standing in the center of the shadow, Greg's heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Standing in the alley was a heavily muscled Asian man with a bare chest covered in intricate dragon tattoos, wearing an ominous metal oni mask.

Greg's red dragon face drained of color so fast it turned a pale, sickly ash-grey beneath his crimson scales. A cold, suffocating wave of pure dread washed over him.

Taylor turned her visor toward him, instantly sensing the sudden, terrifying shift in his posture. "High Roller? What is it? What's wrong?"

Greg swallowed hard, his throat going completely dry as he uttered three words that made Taylor wish she had never left her bedroom tonight:

"Lung is here."