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.

 

[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.

 

[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."

 

[Thegameaholic]

A/N:soooo my ass has been doing the curse wheel wrong

i gave Greg a tier ticket entirely based on vibes on what i THINK he should get but apparently the CORRECT way was this

Minor Curse - 1x Gold Random Gacha Ticket

Medium Curse - 1x Advantage Gold Random Gacha Ticket

Major Curse - 1x Gold Choice Gacha Ticket(Allows you to pick the category of the ticket)

Severe Curse - 1x Platinum Random Gacha Ticket

Ultimate Curse - 1x Platinum Choice Gacha Ticket

it will be like lower down though since i already wrote part of the chapter before finding this out so onwards to the story

---

Cold, suffocating panic clamped down on Taylor's chest, dropping her core temperature by ten degrees. Beside her, High Roller looked completely frozen, his glowing gold reptilian eyes wide with genuine alarm.

"Is... is Oni Lee down there too?" Taylor whispered desperately into her collar, routing her trembling breath into a clump of subterranean beetles beneath the gravel.

High Roller focused his dragon senses, sweeping his slitted eyes through the shadows, listening for the distinct, papery rustle of ash or the sudden displacement of air that signaled the teleporting serial killer.

"No," High Roller rumbled softly, his deep voice barely a whisper against the wind. "As far as I can tell, Oni Lee isn't down there. It's just Lung and about twelve heavy-set mooks."

Taylor let out a tiny, shaky exhale, but Greg was far from relieved.

Even with all my current rolls... Greg thought, his heart hammering against his dragon-scale chestplate. Even with Power of the Dragon Father, Impulse, and a fraction of Son Gokū's power... if Lung ramps up completely, if he turns into a thirty-foot pyrokinetic demon covered in metallic scales, I don't know if I can beat him. I need more. I need an emergency button.

Desperate, Greg called out to the system in his mind: System! Spin the Curse Wheel! Give me another roll right now!

System Helper: You are playing with fire in every literal sense tonight, host. Spinning the wheel of misfortune...

The mental wheel spun wildly, snapping to a stop on a pitch-black marker.

CURSE ACCEPTED: [Uh Oh] | Severity 9 | This is not good. | Resolve Condition: None. A one-and-done deal. |

Reward Granted: 1x Random Platinum Ticket.

Greg stared at the floating blue text, a sudden spike of icy paranoia shooting through his veins. "This is not good"?! What does that mean?! What is "not good"?! Is an Endbringer coming?! Is the roof going to collapse under me?! A cold sweat broke out across his scaled forehead, his eyes darting frantically around the dark roof as his brain spiraled into pure, unadulterated paranoia.

Focus, Veder! Use the ticket!

He jammed his clawed thumb into the Platinum Ticket.

[Portal Creation] | Epic Ability | Allows you to create portals to anywhere in your sensory range or anywhere you have stepped foot into. The size of the portal can be altered, but the portal cannot be closed while something is inside of it.

Greg's jaw nearly hit his chest armor. YES! Holy crap, YES!

Without missing a beat, he opened his ability loadout, swapping out [Sapling] to equip [Portal Creation]. With [Bloom] already in his kit, Sapling was completely redundant anyway. Now, if this entire confrontation went completely to hell, he could tear open a dimensional doorway straight back into his bedroom in a fraction of a second.

Down in the loading bay, Lung began to speak.

His deep, resonant voice carried a thick, commanding accent that vibrated through the damp brick walls. Monarch couldn't make out the words through the wind, but the tone alone made her skin crawl. High Roller's enhanced draconic ears, however, picked up every single syllable with horrifying clarity.

Down below, one of the gang members drew a silver butterfly knife from his pocket, flicking it open with a sharp clack. Another thug placed a heavy hand casually on his waistband. Between the thick gloom and the fact that they were standing half a block away, Monarch couldn't see clearly, but a dark, hard shape stood out starkly against his green t-shirt.

A gun handle.

Greg felt Monarch's pulse spike through the air between them as she caught sight of the weapon, her posture stiffening in terror.

A gun? Greg thought, suppressing a grim chuckle despite his paranoia. She's scared of a hand-cannon? Lung is more dangerous than fifty guys with automatic rifles.

"We need a better angle," Taylor breathed, her gray visor fixed on the alley. "We can't hear what he's saying from here."

"Right," High Roller agreed softly. "Compromise between curiosity and self-preservation."

Without waiting, Greg wrapped a massive, scale-armored arm gently around Monarch's waist, flared his broad red wings, and silently swept both of them through the dark air, landing without a sound on a lower warehouse roof directly above the loading bay.

The moment they settled, Greg's right hand twitched violently.

A sudden, dark surge from the [Sadism] curse flared in his brain. A nasty, phantom itch crawled along his spine, screaming at him to leap off the ledge, drive his dragon claws into the nearest thug, and listen to the sweet sound of snapping bones.

Greg ground his razor-sharp fangs together so hard a spark popped in his mouth. Dammit all... I really shouldn't have rolled the Curse Wheel...

Down below, Lung was snarling. The surrounding mooks stood in absolute, deathly silence as their leader spoke.

"...the children, just shoot," Lung growled, his voice laced with terrifying calm. "Doesn't matter your aim, just shoot. You see one lying on the ground? Shoot the little bitch twice more to be sure. We give them no chances to be clever or lucky, understand?"

A low, unified murmur of assent rose from the gang members.

Taylor froze. Her hands flew to her mouth behind her mask.

Children?

They weren't talking about rival gang enforcers. They were planning to execute kids.

A wave of pure, white-hot fury erupted through Greg's chest. Part of it was the [Sadism] curse begging for a violent outlet, but most of it was pure, unadulterated heroic rage. These scumbags were ordering a hit on teenagers.

We need the PRT, Greg realized frantically. We need Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and five squads of PRT troopers down here right now!

Greg reached down toward his waist, only to remember with a sickening jolt that his half-drake form didn't have a single pocket. He had left his phone sitting right on his wooden desk at home.

He whipped his horned head toward Taylor, his golden eyes wide with panic. "Monarch!" he whispered urgently. "Give me your phone! Quick! We need to call 911!"

Taylor turned her gray visor to him. Even behind the dark lenses, Greg could practically see the blood drain from her face, a wave of sheer, suffocating embarrassment and shame washing over her.

She didn't own a cell phone.

Greg stared at her blankly for one agonizing second, his tail drooping onto the gravel.

"Oh, fuck all kinds of duck..." Greg wheezed.

---

Taylor's POV

I felt a chill run straight down my spine. A part of me deeply wished I had thought to get my hands on a disposable cell phone before stepping out into the night, especially as my new partner panicked beside me, trying to figure out how to contact the PRT.

I didn't have a full utility belt yet, but the spade-shaped section of armor hanging over my spine hid a few essentials: two EpiPens, a small pad with a stubby pencil, a keychain tube of pepper spray, and a zippered pouch of chalk dust. I could have easily fit a cheap burner phone back there. With a phone, I could have alerted the real heroes to the fact that Lung was currently planning to take a score of his armed flunkies to hunt down and execute children.

At least, that was what I had just heard. I was still in a state of quiet disbelief, turning the words over in my head, desperately searching for some alternative context that would make sense of them. It wasn't even the fact that Lung was capable of something so monsterous—I just had a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that anyone could say those words out loud and mean them.

Down in the loading bay, Lung answered a question for one of his men, lapsing briefly into Japanese. He reached out, grabbing one of his minion's wrists and twisting it at an awkward angle so he could get a look at the man's watch. I assumed it had something to do with their timeline or when they were moving out. The gang member winced in pain as Lung held him, but he didn't dare utter a word of complaint.

What was I supposed to do? I doubted I could find a single business in the Docks willing to open its doors to a masked figure to let me use their landline. If I ran all the way toward the Boardwalk, I wasn't sure if anything would still be open, and I didn't even have spare change for a payphone. It was another severe oversight I would have to correct before my next patrol: get a cell phone, carry spare change.

A dark sedan pulled up near the street entrance, and three more men dressed in ABB colors stepped out to join the crowd. Shortly after, the entire group—now twenty or twenty-five men in total—started marching north, passing directly below our roof ledge.

I was out of time to consider my options. As much as I didn't want to face what was coming, there was only one choice I could make that wouldn't leave me hollowed out by regret. I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath, and reached into the dark. I focused on every single bug in the neighborhood, including the massive, buzzing cloud I had gathered on my way into the Docks.

I took absolute control of every creature within my reach.

Attack.

It was dark enough that I could only track the target group through my power. That meant I couldn't tune out the sensory feedback if I wanted to retain any situational awareness. My mind was suddenly flooded with a dizzying, overwhelming volume of information—sensing every bite, every sting, every prickle of tiny legs. As thousands of insects and arachnids descended over the crowd, I could map out the solid outlines of each person simply by feeling where the bugs were crawling and where the empty air remained. I carefully held back the most venomous species for now; I didn't want a gang member going into fatal anaphylactic shock from bee stings or dying from a brown recluse bite before we even knew what was happening.

Beside me, High Roller grumbled, his heavy tail whipping against the gravel roof. "Dammit... guess we're doing this, huh?"

Before I could reply, the giant red dragon-man launched himself off the roof ledge with a deafening, echoing roar. He plummeted three stories, his massive wings flaring out at the last second to break his fall as he slammed into the pavement directly in front of Lung's advancing group.

"HALT!" High Roller bellowed, his voice coming out as a terrifying, demon-like guttural roar that rattled the surrounding brick walls, even as his words betrayed his sheer, nervous hesitation. "Uh—in the name of... heroics! Surrender peacefully, or suffer the righteous wrath of the law... and bugs!"

---

As a massive parahuman geek who had spent countless hours reading Parahuman Online threads and analyzing PGD battle reports, Greg knew one fundamental, terrifying truth about the leader of the ABB: Lung's power responded directly to danger. The greater the threat facing him, the faster, larger, and more untamed his escalation became. Right now, Lung was still in his human baseline, but the moment Greg stepped onto the field in his nine-foot crimson dragon form, the warlord's power was going to register a high-tier brute/blaster threat and crank his power into overdrive.

Greg had to clear the field immediately. If he let two dozen armed gang members flank them while Lung escalated, he and Taylor were going to get shredded.

"Monarch, keep your bugs on the grunts!" Greg barked, his voice vibrating with draconic resonance.

Without waiting for a reply, Greg triggered [Impulse], carefully tuning the speed boost to avoid burning out his nervous system. A electric hum surged through his limbs as time seemed to slow down around him. Drawing upon the proud, martial soul-strength of Son Gokū, Greg blurred across the concrete like a red lightning bolt.

He swept into the front rank of the ABB thugs before they could even raise their weapons. Blending classic Shotokan karate forms with raw, earth-shaking physical force, Greg drove a low palm heel into the nearest grunt's chest, the shockwave shattering the pavement beneath the man's feet. Drawing on Son Gokū's innate earth manipulation, Greg stomped his heavy boot onto the asphalt, causing jagged stone pillars to spike out of the ground beneath six thugs, knocking them airborne and disarming them instantaneously.

He darted between the falling bodies, channeling [Venomous] through his bites. With surgical precision, he delivered swift, non-lethal paralyzing strikes to the necks and shoulders of the remaining mooks. Men collapsed like sacks of flour, completely paralyzed from the waist down before their fingers could press a single trigger. Monarch's swarm swarmed over the perimeter, blinding any stragglers with thick sheets of crawling beetles and flies.

Within less than eight seconds, all twenty-five gang members were immobilized, disarmed, or unconscious on the ruined pavement.

Greg deliberately avoided using [Bloom] to trap the grunts—Lung was already radiating heat, and any dense vegetation would instantly catch fire and fill the alley with toxic smoke.

Greg turned to face the epicenter of the alley, settling into a low, wide Shotokan stance. " HALT, LUNG!" Greg bellowed, trying his absolute best to sound like a seasoned hero despite the knot of dread in his gut. "Surrender now! You're completely outnumbered and outmatched!"

Lung didn't surrender. He laughed—a deep, booming sound that felt like grinding tectonic plates.

The leader of the ABB had already grown two feet taller. Thick, silver-steel scales were rippling out from under his dragon tattoos, interlocking like heavy medieval plate mail across his massive chest and arms. Waves of scorching heat radiated from his body, creating a shimmering heat-haze that incinerated Monarch's approaching insects into fine white ash before they could even get within five feet of him. The paralyzing venom Greg's bugs had landed earlier was already being violently burned out of his system by his hyper-accelerated regeneration.

Lung raised his glowing, reptilian eyes to meet Greg's. His metallic face twisted into a look of absolute, narcissistic fury.

"A false beast..." Lung snarled, his voice distorted by growing fangs. "A pathetic worm dares wear scales in my city? I am the only Dragon of Kyushu! You are nothing but an insulting imitation!"

Oh, screw this guy! Greg raged internally, his eyes flaring with golden light. Just because you got dragon powers first doesn't mean you laid claim to the entire concept, you giant lizard freak!

"False dragon?!" High Roller roared back. "I'll show you who the real dragon is!"

Greg flooded his limbs with [Impulse], pushing his reflexes to their absolute limit while anchoring his core with Son Gokū's primal power. He charged forward, leaving a crater in the asphalt. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, unleashing an flurry of lightning-fast Shotokan strikes directly into Lung's chest.

Left jab! Right hook! Low kick to the knee!

Each blow landed with the force of a wrecking ball, cracking Lung's metallic scales. Greg gathered the raw, pulsing Ki in his core, channeling it down into his right fist.

"SHORYUKEN!" High Roller bellowed, driving a devastating, Ki-infused uppercut directly under Lung's chin!

The explosive kinetic shockwave launched the seven-foot metallic tyrant forty feet into the night sky like a rocket!

Lung crashed back down through the roof of an abandoned cargo container, obliterating it in a cloud of dust and twisted steel. But before the dust could even settle, the metal container burst into a fiery inferno.

Lung emerged from the rubble, standing eight feet tall now. His scales were turning from silver to obsidian black, and roaring jets of bright orange flame erupted from his spine and shoulders. The heat was so intense that the asphalt beneath his clawed feet was liquefying into black sludge. Monarch's bugs couldn't get anywhere near him—they were vaporized instantly by the ambient thermal shockwave.

Lung let out an earth-shattering roar and charged forward like an engine of pure destruction, tearing through the street toward Greg.

Greg planted his feet, thrusting his hands backward, palms cupped together as blue, spiraling Ki condensed between his claws. "HADOKEN!" he screamed, throwing his hands forward and releasing a brilliant orb of concentrated energy straight at Lung's face.

Lung, reacting with terrifying speed, leaned his massive body to the left, dodging the energy blast by mere inches.

Gotcha! Greg grinned through his fangs.

With a rapid mental command, Greg activated [Portal Creation]. A shimmering spatial portal snapped open directly in front of the flying Hadoken down the street, while its twin opened point-blank in front of Lung's exposed stomach.

The Hadoken vanished into the first portal and instantly burst out of the second, slamming straight into Lung's torso at point-blank range!

BOOM!

A massive explosion of blue fire and shockwaves blasted Lung backward. The raw kinetic energy punched a gaping, fist-sized hole directly through his iron scales and torso. Lung let out a howl of agony, stumbling backward.

"Now! Keep the pressure on!" Greg yelled.

Using [Iron Manipulation], Greg ripped three abandoned sedans off the street, alongside heavy steel girders from a nearby construction site. With a sweep of his clawed hands, he slammed the crushed cars into Lung from both sides like a giant metal nutcracker, pinning the tyrant in place.

Before Lung could tear through the crushed steel, Greg tapped into Son Gokū's supreme elemental authority. He slammed both gauntlets into the cracked pavement.

"EARTH RUPTURE!"

The ground beneath Lung split wide open. A colossal, blinding pillar of roaring molten magma erupted straight out of the earth, engulfing Lung in a geyser of liquid fire! To make it even more brutal, Greg generated four spatial portals around the lava column, looping the molten flux through space so that the superheated magma blasted Lung from every conceivable angle in a omnidirectional hellstorm!

As the magma column began to cool, Greg didn't take any chances. He activated [Bloom], unleashing a massive, surging forest of thick ironwood roots and thorn-covered briars that wrapped tightly around the cooling lava rock, binding Lung in a twenty-foot-tall vegetal prison. He immediately followed it up with another burst of [Iron Manipulation], dragging every piece of loose metal in the bay to coat the wood, sealing Lung inside a massive, reinforced tomb of crushed steel and ironwood.

The alley fell completely silent, saved for the crackle of distant embers.

Greg's panting as steam rolled off his crimson armor. The sheer strain of stacking Impulse, Ki, Earth Manipulation, Portals, and Iron Manipulation simultaneously was threatening to fry his brain.

Taylor came sprinting up beside him, her bug-silk suit covered in soot. She placed a trembling hand on his armored shoulder, her gray visor wide with disbelief. "High Roller... oh my god... are you ok?!"

Greg looked up at the towering metal-and-wood tomb, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth to reply, a faint, exhausted smile forming on his snout.

Did he win?

...No. He did not.

the first clue was the silence of the Gacha the second?

A deep, sickening THUMP echoed from within the iron cage.

Then came the smell—not the smell of wood smoke, but the terrifying odor of metal literally turning into vapor. The surface of the steel tomb began to glow a bright, blinding shade of white-orange. The ironwood briars turned to ash instantly, and the thick steel plates melted into liquid slag that poured onto the street like water.

KABOOOM!

The prison exploded outward in a violent detonation of molten shrapnel and roaring plasma.

Standing in the center of the crater was a monstrous, bipedal beast standing twelve feet tall. His body was a nightmare of overlapping black-and-gold metallic armor, eight-inch claws, and thick, swept-back dragon horns. Massive, wings of solid fire flared from his back, and his tail whipped through the air, melting the brick walls around him just from proximity.

The towering dragon-demon opened his cavernous, tooth-filled maw and released a roar so loud, so guttural, that it shattered every glass window within a three-block radius and vibrated right through Greg's ribs.

Greg stared up at the twelve-foot engine of extinction, his golden eyes shrinking to pinpricks.

"Goddamn it all..." Greg whispered.

The monster standing before them had ascended past the threshold of human comprehension. Standing fifteen feet tall, Lung was a terrifying monolith of jagged obsidian scales, glowing metallic seams, and a jaw that split open into a maw of pure, churning plasma. Two massive, leathery dragon wings flared outward from his shoulder blades—magnificent and sweeping, though Greg's cape-geek brain remembered reading that Lung's wings were purely aesthetic, far too heavy to grant the beast true flight.

Lung leaned back, his chest expanding like a furnace bellows, and opened his mouth. His voice was a guttural, wet distortion of garbled iron and fury.

"I-ILL... OUUUU!"

A roaring tsunami of white-hot fire erupted from Lung's jaws, incinerating the air and turning the brick warehouse behind them into liquid glass in a fraction of a second.

"Get behind me!" Greg screamed. Tapping frantically into [Bloom] and Son Gokū's earth manipulation, he slammed his clawed gauntlets into the asphalt. A towering, five-foot-thick wall of dense ironwood roots and reinforced granite surged out of the ground, intersecting the stream of plasma just in time. The thermal shockwave rattled Greg's teeth, the heat searing through the back of his crimson scales.

He turned his horned head toward Taylor, whose gray visor was wide with panic. "Monarch! Run! Find a payphone and call the PRT! Tell them Lung is escalating out of control!"

"I'm not leaving you to fight this thing alone!" Taylor protested, her voice shaking through her collar.

"I can buy time in the air, you can't!" Greg roared back over the deafening crackle of the flames. "GO! NOW!"

Taylor gritted her teeth, hesitated for a single heartbeat, and turned on her heel, sprinting into the dark alley as fast as her legs could carry her.

The instant her black boots vanished into the shadows, Greg's earth-and-wood barrier buckled under the unrelenting inferno, disintegrating into white-hot ash. Greg flared his broad red wings, sweeping his body high into the night sky, hovering fifty feet above the burning street.

Lung looked up, his burning golden eyes locking onto the airborne target. The warlord opened his maw to release another column of flame—but Greg was already weaving his hands, channeling the latent, energy flowing through his [Bellowing Dragoncrest Ring].

The brass-and-emerald ring flared with brilliant, blinding light, amplifying his magical output two-fold.

A colossal, frigid sphere of dark cosmic moonlight materialized directly above Greg's head, radiating an aura of absolute cold that chilled the humid night air to sub-zero temperatures. With a sweep of his hand, Greg launched the massive dark moon straight down at the 15-foot dragon-god.

From the description of the spell, Ranni's Dark Moon possessed the unique property of absorbing and dispelling all sorcery it touched while stripping away the magical and elemental defenses of anything it struck.

Lung's jet of white-hot fire struck the descending moon and was instantly swallowed whole, sucked into the icy cosmic vortex. Lung's eyes widened in rare, instinctual shock a split second before the Dark Moon slammed point-blank into his metallic face.

KABOOOOOM!

A blinding explosion of frost, starlight, and spatial shockwaves detonated against Lung's head. The force of the blast tore off half of the warlord's face, stripping away scales, flesh, and metallic plating to expose white-hot bone beneath. Lung released a deafening howl of agony that rattled the surrounding bay, stumbling backward as the Dark Moon's lingering aura completely stripped away his innate elemental resistances.

"I'm not giving you a second to breathe!" Greg snarled.

He extended his hands, summoning a towering, spectral greatbow made of shimmering glintstone.

Four massive, glowing magical great-arrows manifested along the bowstring. Greg immediately imbued the conjured ammunition with [Corpus Weapon], coating the starlight arrowheads in a thick, dripping aura of dark necrotic energy. He released the string.

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

The four necrotic-infused great-arrows streaked through the sky like green-and-blue comets, slamming directly into Lung's chest, shoulders, and exposed neck. The dark decay magic seeped into the monster's bloodstream, clashing violently with his hyper-accelerated regeneration. The necrotic energy began eating away at his vitality from the inside out, causing his metallic scales to rot and flake off as Lung screamed in sheer, unadulterated agony.

Greg folded his wings and plummeted toward the earth like a falling meteor. In mid-air, he conjured a giant, icy greatsword of shimmering glintstone in his right gauntlet, once again imbuing the blade with the dark, rotting aura of [Corpus Weapon].

He swept past Lung in a blinding blur, delivering two massive, overlapping slashes across the tyrant's chest in a giant 'X'. A wave of freezing frost and necrotic rot erupted from the cuts, instantly extinguishing the fires raging along Lung's spine and freezing his metallic hide solid.

Even under the brutal assault of double-boosted Carian sorcery and decay magic, Greg could see the terrifying silver seams along Lung's wounds flexing, fighting viciously to heal the damage.

"Stay down!" Greg yelled, raising his gauntlet toward the sky.

"MAGIC DOWNPOUR!"

A swirling, dark blue crest formed above Lung's head, unleashing a relentless, crushing torrent of dense glintstone bolts that rained down like a heavy machine-gun barrage. The magical rain battered Lung's head and shoulders, chipping away at his obsidian hide as the giant dragon desperately raised his thick, scale-armored arms to shield his exposed face.

Taking advantage of the suppression, Greg summoned Adula's Moonblade a second time. Swinging the massive frost blade low to the ground, he executed a sweeping horizontal strike that cleaved cleanly through both of Lung's massive legs at the knees!

Lung let out a wet, gurgling roar as his lower legs detached, his massive torso falling forward toward the cracked pavement.

"Son Gokū... give me everything!" Greg roared, his golden eyes flashing with blinding Ki.

He stacked every drop of physical power he possessed: the doubled physical might of the [Power of the Dragon Father] armor his Shotokan Ki, and a massive surge of dark necrotic energy channeled into his right claw.

Greg dropped low, uncoiling his body like a steel spring as Lung dropped to eye level.

"SHOOOOO-RYUKEN!"

Greg exploded upward, driving a devastating, Ki-and-Necrotic-infused uppercut directly into Lung's remaining jaw!

CRACK-SHATTER!

The explosive shockwave snapped Lung's head backward with sickening force, shattering his metal-reinforced teeth and blasting the 15-foot beast thirty feet into the air! Even with his Drake physiology and his passive Durable trait, Greg felt a sickening, throbbing ache shoot through his right fist from hitting a skull that felt like solid titanium. But he gritted his fangs and ignored the blinding pain, riding the momentum of his jump straight to the apex of his leap.

Hovering at the crest of his trajectory, Greg spread his arms wide, spending the absolute last drops of his magical reserves.

Two magnificent, overlapping celestial moons materialized in the sky, shimmering with brilliant, ethereal moonlight. With a decisive downward slam of Greg's gauntlets, the twin moons plunged toward the earth like falling stars, crushing the airborne Lung beneath their weight.

BOOM!

KABOOOOOOOM!

The twin moons struck the pavement one after the other, detonating in violent, earth-shaking seismic explosions that shattered the surrounding streets and pulverized two empty warehouse facades into dust. A colossal mushroom cloud of gray concrete dust, smoke, and debris erupted into the night sky, completely burying the crater where Lung had landed.

Greg fell out of the sky, landing heavily on his feet before his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cracked concrete, gasping in ragged, painful gulps. Thick clouds of steam rolled off his crimson armor, and his mana reserves were completely dried up. He felt lighter, his dragon form flickering slightly from sheer exhaustion.

Footsteps hurried down the alley.

Taylor came sprinting back into the loading bay, completely out of breath after running six full blocks to find a working payphone and return. She skidded to a halt beside Greg, her hands resting on her knees as she panted heavily.

"High... High Roller!" she wheezed through her mask. "I... I made the call! The PRT dispatch said Armsmaster and a full strike team are on their way right now!"

Greg, still panting heavily, slowly turned his horned head toward her, his back facing the towering wall of swirling dust debris. "Good... job, Monarch..." he managed to rasp out, giving her a weak thumbs-up with his swollen right fist.

Taylor looked past him, her gray visor reflecting the apocalyptic destruction of the alleyway. The entire loading bay had been reduced to a pulverized crater of shattered concrete and twisted rebar, enveloped in a thick, impenetrable blanket of gray dust.

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling in absolute, disbelief-fueled shock. "High Roller... did... did you actually beat Lung?!"

Greg froze.

A cold, paralyzing drop of pure dread pooled in the bottom of his stomach.

His eyes darted to his peripheral vision. There was no floating golden text. No chime. The Gacha System hadn't popped up with a quest completion banner, victory reward, or ticket grant.

Nothing.

Oh no... Greg thought, his heart stopping. Oh fuck no...

Before Greg could even open his mouth to yell at Taylor to get back, her bug-senses flared in absolute terror. "HIGH-ROLLER!" she shrieked.

A massive, six-foot-wide metallic tail swept through the dust cloud like a scythe, traveling at terrifying speed.

Before Greg could raise a arm to block, the blow struck him square in the side with the force of a high-speed freight train.

BOOM!

The impact shattered his crimson scales, sending Greg flying sideways like a ragged ragdoll. He crashed straight through the brick wall of a four-story apartment building, disappearing into the dark, crumbling interior as the dust cloud parted—revealing a towering, monstrous silhouette standing right back up inside the burning crater.

Lung was still in the fight.

 

[Thegameaholic]

A/N:Rewrote this chapter like 5 different times lmao hope you enjoyed

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The world exploded into a blinding blur of shattering brick, twisting rebar, and pulverized concrete.

When Lung's massive, six-foot-wide tail struck Greg's side, it felt less like a physical blow and more like being broadsided by a runaway locomotive traveling at terminal velocity. The kinetic shockwave caved in his crimson dragon-scale chestplate, driving the jagged fragments of his own armor deep into his ribs. He blew straight through the reinforced exterior wall of a four-story apartment building, smashing through three interior structural columns before coming to a violent stop buried under a mountain of collapsing masonry.

Pain—pure, white-hot, agonizing pain—flooded every single nerve ending in Greg's body.

He lay crushed under hundreds of pounds of rubble, coughing up dark, metallic blood that hissed and bubbled as it hit the cold stone. His vision swam in and out of focus, flickering between dark gray shadow and blinding crimson light. Every breath felt like inhaling shattered glass; he could feel his shattered ribs scraping against his lungs with every ragged gasp.

Deep within his core, his half-drake physiology was working overtime, burning through his remaining reserves to knit shredded muscle and re-align fractured bones. But the damage was too severe. His body was trembling violently, trapped in a state of traumatic shock.

Monarch... Greg thought desperately, his mind swimming in a sea of agony. If I don't get up... Lung is going to tear her apart...

He tried to force his arms to push the heavy concrete slab off his chest, but his muscles refused to respond. He could activate his Full Drake form—tear through his human limits and expand into a massive, fire-breathing beast—but in his current ruined state, transforming right now would just spread the internal injuries across a larger frame. He'd be a gigantic, bleeding target for a thirty-foot tyrant who was escalating by the second.

I need time... Greg gritted his fangs, blood spilling over his lips. I just need a few minutes for my regeneration to fix my ribs so I can go Full Drake...

He reached into the absolute depths of his spirit, opening his Gacha system loadout and locking onto his highest-tier minion slot.

Aurelius... Greg mentally commanded, his soul roaring through the system link with absolute, frantic authority. Go! Protect Monarch! Show that fake, wannabe dragon what a REAL Elder Dragon looks like!

A golden, celestial crest flashed in the dark depths of his subconscious, answering his call with a resonant, booming pulse of pure, predatory energy.

Out on the ruined street, Taylor had never known true terror until this exact moment.

Not even the dark, suffocating nightmare of the biohazard locker—where she had been trapped amidst filthy, rotting waste—could compare to the sheer, existential horror looming over her right now.

High Roller was gone. He had been swatted away like a harmless fly, blasted straight through a brick building by a single, casual strike of Lung's massive tail. She was completely, utterly alone.

And standing in the center of the burning loading bay was a nightmare given physical form.

Lung had escalated far past the fifteen-foot mark. He was now a towering, thirty-foot tall engine of absolute apocalyptic destruction. His body was no longer remotely human; he was a bipedal behemoth clad in thick, overlapping plates of white-hot, gold-and-black metallic armor. Roaring jets of plasma shot out from every seam in his scales, melting the asphalt beneath his feet into a bubbling lake of glowing magma.

To make matters infinitely worse, a second pair of massive, fiery dragon wings had sprouted from his lower back, flaring outward alongside his primary wings like four roaring Promethean sails.

The grotesque dragon-man slowly turned his golden, glowing eyes toward Taylor. He took a heavy, deliberate step forward, his massive clawed feet cracking the bedrock.

STOMP.

The earth shook violently beneath Taylor's boots. Panic seized her entire body. Her mind went completely blank as raw, primal survival instinct took over.

Scrambling backward on her hands and knees across the sharp, broken concrete, Taylor tore open her power's range, seizing every single insect, spider, and fly remaining within three blocks. A dense, dark cloud of millions of bugs swarmed out of the night sky, descending upon the thirty-foot tyrant in a desperate, frenzied wave.

It did nothing.

Before the swarm could even get within ten feet of Lung's body, the sheer radiant heat bleeding off his metallic scales incinerated them instantly. Millions of tiny lives vanished in a fraction of a second, reduced to drifting clouds of fine white ash. The mental feedback snapped through Taylor's mind like a whip, burning her skull with phantom pain.

She dropped her head to the pavement, tears spilling freely behind her gray visor, washing tracks through the soot on her face.

She was going to die.

Why? her mind screamed in broken, hopeless anguish. Why is this happening?!

Her life had finally been looking up. The relentless, suffocating bullying at Winslow had finally stopped. She had made real friends. She had met Greg, and Sparky, and High Roller—people who actually looked at her, spoke to her, and treated her like a human being instead of a pathetic, miserable joke. For the first time in years, she had felt a tiny, flickering ember of hope in her chest. She had actually believed that she could step out into the night, wear a mask, and make a real difference in this dark, broken city.

Instead, on her very first night as a hero, she was going to be slaughtered on a dirty alley street, burnt to a crisp before anyone even knew her cape name.

I was so stupid... Taylor sobbed, her fingers digging hopelessly into the hot asphalt. Why did I ever think I could be a hero? Why did I think life would finally go my way? I'm nothing... I've always been nothing. Just a pathetic punching bag for the world to beat on...

She closed her eyes tightly, her voice cracking as she whispered her final, tearful goodbyes into the empty night air.

"I'm sorry, Dad... I'm sorry, High Roller... Greg... Sparky... I'm so sorry..."

She drew a shuddering, terrified breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"I'm coming home to meet you, Mom..."

The radiant heat rolled over her like a blast furnace. Lung was standing directly in front of her now, his massive shadow blotting out the moon. The air was so hot it scorched the back of her throat just breathing it in.

Through her blurred vision, she watched as the towering dragon-god slowly raised a massive, four-clawed hand, the obsidian steel fingers glowing white-hot as he prepared to bring it down to crush her into a red smear on the pavement.

Taylor squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the end.

FLASH!

A blinding, heavenly flare of liquid gold light tore through the dark clouds overhead, illuminating the entire bay in a divine, iridescent glow!

Before Lung's claw could descend, a massive golden blur descended from the upper atmosphere like a divine thunderbolt, slamming directly into the thirty-foot tyrant's side with catastrophic kinetic force!

BOOOOOOM!

The impact shockwave sounded like a thunderclap, shattering every remaining piece of concrete for two blocks! Lung let out a shocked, strangled roar as his thirty-foot frame was violently hurled through the air, plowing through three heavy steel shipping containers before skidding two hundred feet down the street in a cloud of sparks and pulverized brick!

Taylor's jaw dropped open behind her mask. Her eyes widened in absolute, stunned disbelief as she sat frozen in the dust and debris, her mind struggling to process the sheer scale of the creature towering before her. It wasn't just big; it was regal. Where Lung was a crude, jagged furnace of molten iron and screaming metal, this beast was a divine, sculpted masterpiece of celestial war. Its scales were plates of polished white gold that reflected the ambient firelight in brilliant, shimmering hues. Its head, crowned with swept-back, elegant horns, exuded an aura of absolute, uncontested dominance.

And then there were the wing-arms.

Massive, double-jointed, and thick with dense muscle and spiked armor, they slammed down onto the cracked asphalt on either side of its golden chest. The sheer weight of the landing shattered the road for fifty feet in every direction, sending spiderwebbing fissures through the foundation of the surrounding warehouses.

From the creature's maw and the gaps between its gold-and-white hide, a dense, ethereal mist began to roll out. It wasn't smoke, nor was it steam. It was a swirling, pale-purple fog, drifting in lazy, heavy clouds across the alley floor. Where the purple mist touched the lingering embers of Lung's inferno, the flames didn't extinguish—they turned an eerie, dark violet, sputtering as if the very heat was being consumed from the inside out.

CRACK-SHATTER!

The golden Elder Dragon planted its titanic wing-arms heavily onto the ruined pavement, the sheer weight of its body cracking the concrete like thin ice. A dense, swirling cloud of shimmering pale-purple mist—the lethal, hyper-evolutionary Frenzy Virus—began to roll off its golden hide in thick, majestic waves, saturating the entire loading bay in an eerie, glowing violet fog.

The majestic beast threw its crown-horned head back toward the heavens, expanded its massive, golden wing-canvas to catch the wind, and let out an unearthly, deafening roar that vibrated through the very bedrock of Brockton Bay!

"ROOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

The sheer sonic force of the roar blew away the smoke and flames, echoing for miles across the coast.

Aurelius—the Heavenly Revolving Dragon, Shagaru Magala—had arrived.

​

​

Three hundred feet down the street, inside the ruin of a steel shipping container he had been hurled through, a terrifying, guttural roar erupted.

BOOOM!

The corrugated steel exploded outward in a shower of white-hot shrapnel. Lung burst from the rubble, his thirty-foot frame surging forward in a frenzy of pure, unadulterated fury. His transformation had escalated even further under the threat—his dark, metallic hide was now studded with row upon row of jagged obsidian spires, and his second pair of wings flared out behind him, fanning an inferno that turned the night sky into a screaming orange hellscape.

"GGRRRRR... KKKK-LLLL... OUUUUU!"

Lung's voice was no longer human in any capacity. His mind had drowned entirely beneath the feral instincts of his power. He couldn't form words, only a garbled, wet distortion of iron grinding against molten rock—an incoherent, guttural screech of absolute kill-intent.

Lung sprinted forward, his massive, clawed feet tearing up chunk after chunk of bedrock. With a terrifying burst of speed that defied his thirty-foot scale, the warlord propelled himself into the air, his four flaming wings beating the atmosphere into a sonic boom as he plunged toward the golden dragon, both of his glowing, white-hot claws cocked back to disembowel the intruder.

Aurelius didn't flinch. The Heavenly Revolving Dragon, Shagaru Magala, simply narrowed its luminous, slit-pupiled eyes.

With a movement so fluid it seemed effortless, Aurelius executed a sudden, immense backward leap that cleared fifty yards in a heartbeat. The wind displacement from his wing-canvas caught Taylor's cape, shielding her completely from the incoming heat wave.

CRASH!

Lung's double-claw strike slammed directly into the spot where Aurelius had been standing a split second before. The impact cratered the street down to the sewer lines, sending a geyser of liquid pavement and shattered pipe thirty feet into the air.

Before Lung could even pull his clawed hands out of the molten earth, Aurelius answered.

Lowering his head near the ground, Aurelius let out a low, resonant growl and unleashed a Sliding Spit. Three compressed orbs of dense, dark-purple frenzy energy erupted from his maw in rapid succession. The energy balls skimmed along the shattered surface of the street, sliding across the asphalt like skipping stones of volatile plasma before detonating directly against Lung's chest and shoulders!

THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!

The triple blast didn't just knock the thirty-foot tyrant backward—it coated his upper body in a thick, sticky layer of dark purple fog.

Lung roared, a garbled, choking noise rising in his throat as he shook his massive head to clear his vision. He flexed his massive chest, expecting his hyper-accelerated, shard-driven regeneration to instantly knit the scorched, cracked scales where the purple energy had detonated.

Normally, a wound like that would heal in less than a second. Flesh would knit, scales would harden, and Lung would grow larger, stronger, and hotter in response to the pain.

Nothing happened.

The scorched scales remained cracked. The flesh beneath stayed dark, raw, and bleeding a strange, dark-violet ooze.

Deep within Lung's bloodstream, the Frenzy Virus had taken hold.

It was an absolute biological paradox to his power. The virus was not poison, nor was it thermal damage it was a hyper-evolutionary, cell-altering pathogen engineered by nature to turn Beasts into raving, self-destructive husks while forcibly overriding their cellular mechanics. The moment the virus entered Lung's bloodstream, it latched onto his rapidly dividing cells and paralyzed them. His natural regeneration was completely, utterly shut down.

Lung felt it instantly. For the first time since he had triggered his body was refusing to heal.

A look of genuine, chaotic confusion flashed in his glowing golden eyes. "RRR-RAGH?! KKK-HHH... N-NGHH!" he gurgled, his voice a broken, raspy mess as he clutched at his unhealing chest.

Aurelius gave him no time to comprehend his own mortality.

The Shagaru Magala raised its titanic frame onto its hind legs, spreading its colossal wing-arms until they blocked out the stars overhead. Sparkles of brilliant, pale-gold and dark-violet energy danced across its jaw as it unleashed a Ground Blast.

Aurelius slammed his head downward, spitting a massive, concentrated orb of pure Frenzy energy straight into the pavement directly at Lung's feet.

K-K-K-BOOOOOOM!

The energy orb didn't just explode upward; it detonated sideways, creating a cascading wall of vertical purple explosions that rippled outward in a devastating, linear shockwave! The blast tore beneath Lung's legs, throwing the thirty-foot beast entirely off balance and blasting off several large plates of his metallic hide.

Lung screamed—a wet, guttural howl of pain that echoed across the bay like tearing metal.

Inside the crumbling interior of the apartment building four hundred feet away, Greg lay pinned under a six-hundred-pound slab of reinforced concrete.

Blood dripped from his mouth, staining his chin, but his golden, reptilian eyes were wide open. He could feel everything Aurelius felt through their spiritual, system-forged bond. He could feel the cold, divine arrogance of the Shagaru Magala, the raw power humming through its gold-plated veins, and most importantly, he felt the exact moment Lung's regeneration failed.

It worked... Greg thought, a wet, bloody grin carving across his face. The Frenzy Virus... it completely neutralizes his regeneration... He's taking permanent damage now...

Greg gritted his teeth, his muscles twitching violently. His own Drake physiology was slowly fighting back against the trauma of his shattered ribs. The deep, burning ache in his chest was turning into a warm, thrumming heat as his draconic heart pumped fresh, empowered blood through his veins. Bones were popping back into alignment with sickening, muffled crunching sounds beneath his skin.

I just need a little more time... Greg forced himself to stay still, focusing his mind entirely on directing Aurelius through their link. Aurelius... don't let up for a single microsecond! Crush him!

Out on the street, Aurelius answered his master's intent with brutal, calculated perfection.

Lung, screaming in incoherent frustration—"SSS-RRRR... D-DIEEEE-GGGH!"—tried to force his body to ignite a massive, hundred-foot pillar of fire. He opened his jaws, drawing in a massive breath to unleash a localized supernova.

Aurelius didn't wait. The golden dragon swept forward in a lightning-fast Heavy Melee Attack. One of his massive, clawed wing-arms swiped across the sky like a falling guillotine, the blunt-force weight of the wing-arm striking Lung square across his snout before he could unleash the flame!

CRACK!

The force of the strike shattered Lung's lower jaw, driving his head violently into the asphalt and choking back the fire in a shower of black sparks. Utilizing the rare, lethal variation of the strike, Aurelius immediately followed through with a second, backhanded swing of his opposing wing-arm, catching Lung in the ribs and sending the thirty-foot titan tumbling across the concrete like a skipped stone!

Lung skidded to a halt, coughing up gouts of thick, dark blood that sputtered harmlessly on the street. He scrambled to his feet, his mind rapidly drowning in the maddening influence of the Frenzy Virus lingering in his system. His instincts screamed at him to fall back, to adapt, to heal—but his shard was screaming back in absolute panic as its cellular commands were repeatedly blocked by the viral corruption.

"GGRRRR-AAAAGH! ME... KIILLL! ALL... MEEEEE!" Lung gurgled

Lung lunged forward in a desperate, mad Charge, his remaining two wings flaring as he attempted to tackle the golden god and sink his white-hot teeth into Aurelius's neck.

Aurelius didn't even bother dodging. As Lung closed the distance, Aurelius executed a a sudden, brutally heavy sideways jump that slammed his entire armored shoulder directly into Lung's chest.

The kinetic differential was ludicrous. Lung felt as though he had run full-speed into a moving mountain. The collision halted his charge instantly, snapping his spine back with a sickening pop.

Before Lung could fall, Aurelius utilized his momentum Harnessing the rotational force of the shoulder-bump, Aurelius spun his long, heavy tail around in a sweeping, devastating arc. The spiked, golden tip of his tail struck Lung's knee joint like a wrecking ball!

SHATTER!

Lung's left knee gave way completely, the metallic joint crushed flat. The thirty-foot tyrant collapsed onto one knee, letting out a horrific, screeching gurgle of pain.

Taylor, watching from behind a fallen dumpster fifty feet away, held her breath in absolute, stunned silence. This wasn't a fight. This was an execution.

Aurelius spread his divine, gold-and-white wings wide, shifting his stance. He stood up on his hind legs, his head reaching forty feet into the night sky. The pale-purple light in his jaw deepened, shifting into a dark, blinding violet stream of raw, unadulterated energy.

Aurelius swept his head downward, firing a massive, continuous beam of screaming purple Frenzy energy directly into the earth in front of Lung. The beam ignited the asphalt, cutting through the ground like a hot knife through butter, before sweeping violently from side to side across Lung's body!

VRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMM!

The laser-like energy beam tore through Lung's obsidian armor, carving massive, glowing violet trenches across his chest, shoulders, and arms. Concrete, steel, and molten metal erupted into the air as the beam swept back and forth, dragging Lung across the ruined street like a ragdoll.

Lung shrieked, a high-pitched, metallic squeal of agony as his fiery aura sputtered wildly. The continuous bombardment of pure Frenzy energy saturated every single cell of his body.

Aurelius cut the beam, lowered his massive front wing-arms back to the earth, and took a deep, resonant breath. Then, he launched himself into the night sky.

With a single, mighty stroke of his golden wings, Aurelius ascended three hundred feet into the air in the blink of an eye. He hovered above the burning loading bay like a dark, golden sun, his shadow casting a pall of absolute doom over the entire district.

Deep within his chest, the Frenzy Virus reached a critical state of concentration. Aurelius opened his maw and threw his head back toward the moon, entering his fully enraged state.

Aurelius let out a prolonged, echoing roar that vibrated through the clouds. From his open jaw and the glowing seams of his wings, dozens upon dozens of dark, compressed orbs of pure Frenzy energy shot upward into the heavens before raining down across the entire neighborhood like an orbital artillery strike!

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The night sky turned purple as the energy rain descended. Each drop that struck the ground exploded in a vertical pillar of violent, dark-violet energy. Lung was trapped in the absolute center of the barrage. Pillar after pillar of Frenzy energy slammed directly into his body, smashing him deeper and deeper into the earth until his metallic scales were stripped away piecemeal and his four fiery wings were shredded into useless tatters of burning ash.

Hovering amidst the dark clouds, Aurelius locked his eyes on the broken, smoking form of the tyrant below. The dragon folded his wings and dove.

Aurelius plummeted toward the earth like a falling star, trailing a massive comet-tail of dark purple energy. As he descended, he fired three rapid-fire energy bursts to the ground ahead of him before slamming his entire, multi-ton golden body directly onto Lung's chest upon landing!

THOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The force of the landing created a localized shockwave that blew away every scrap of smoke, dust, and fire within five blocks. The ground caved in fifteen feet deep, forming a colossal impact crater in the middle of the loading bay.

When the dust finally began to settle, Aurelius was standing proudly atop Lung's chest, his colossal, clawed wing-arms pinned firmly onto the tyrant's shoulders, crushing them into the dirt.

Lung was beaten. His body, once thirty feet of terrifying, unstoppable metallic muscle, had shrunk down to under twelve feet. His metallic scales were dull, rotted, and flaking off like rusted iron. His wounds were weeping dark purple fluid, completely unable to heal under the unrelenting oppression of the Frenzy Virus.

He couldn't move. He couldn't burn. He couldn't heal. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a pathetic, wet wheeze: "k-khhh... n-no..."

Aurelius lowered his crown-horned head until his glowing golden eyes were inches from Lung's ruined face. The dragon let out a low, vibrating growl, a cold, dark fog oozing from his jaw—a lingering Dark Fog that wrapped around Lung's head, smothering any remaining sparks.

BOOM!

A hundred feet away, the front wall of the crumbling apartment building exploded outward.

A tall, crimson-scaled figure stepped out from the dust and rubble, coughing slightly as he dusted off his gauntlets. Greg was back. His chest plate was still cracked, but his ribs had fully knit together under his half-drake regeneration.

"Monarch!" Greg called out, his voice strong and steady as he jogged over to her. "You okay?!"

Taylor spun around, her eyes widening behind her visor. "High Roller! You're... you're alive! I saw you get hit through a building!"

"Takes a lot more than an oversized tail to keep a dragon down," Greg grinned, rubbing his side. He turned toward the crater where Aurelius held the broken warlord down. "Told you I'd buy us some time."

"You... you KNOW that thing?!" Taylor gasped.

He didn't think. He didn't plan. In a fit of pure, suicidal, animalistic desperation, Lung ignited every remaining drop of thermal energy in his core all at once!

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH-KKKKKK!" Lung shrieked—a completely unintelligible roar of feral agony.

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

A blinding, violent ring of white-hot plasma detonated directly off Lung's skin in a three-hundred-degree shockwave! The raw kinetic force and blistering heat melted the surrounding pavement into liquid glass instantly. Lung thrashed like a wounded, dying beast, swinging his heavy spiked tail and clawing madly in every direction.

One of his massive, flaming claws managed to catch Aurelius across the lower chest, while the explosive blast of superheated air slammed into the Elder Dragon's underbelly.

Aurelius let out a startled, deep growl, using his massive wings to catch the backdraft. The golden dragon was forced to leap backward a hundred feet, digging his wing-claws deep into the concrete to anchor himself as the blinding thermal wave dissipated.

Lung stood in the center of the molten crater, chest heaving, dark purple fog still clinging to his rotting, unhealing scales. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and completely devoid of human thought—he was a mindless, cornered predator waiting to burn out.

BOOM!

A hundred feet away, the front wall of a crumbling apartment building exploded outward.

A tall figure stepped out from the dust and rubble. Blood dripped from his chin, but his golden, reptilian eyes were burning with raw, untamed power.

Greg pulled himself free from the debris. Through their spiritual bond, he had felt everything—Aurelius's assault, the lingering paralysis of Lung's regeneration, and the wild, desperate flame-burst that had momentarily pushed the Elder Dragon back.

He's at his limit... Greg thought, his heart thumping like a war drum in his chest. No more holding back. It's time to end this myself.

Greg gritted his teeth as his draconic bloodline surged into overdrive. The minor cracks in his ribs popped back into place as a deep, primal heat flooded his veins.

"Monarch! Stay back!" Greg shouted, his voice dropping several octaves, vibrating with a heavy, subterranean rumble that shook the loose glass in the surrounding streetlights.

Taylor, crouching behind a fallen dumpster, gasped. "High Roller... what are you doing?!"

Greg didn't answer with words. He threw his arms wide and opened the floodgates of his power, shedding the last remnants of his human constraints.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Thick, crimson-and-black scales exploded across every inch of Greg's skin, layering over his body like heavy plate armor. His human frame expanded violently, swelling in height and width. His chest widened, his limbs thickened into dense, muscular, clawed dragon legs that smashed through his gauntlets and rooted deep into the cracked asphalt.

His spine extended with a wet, sickening crunch, a long, heavy crimson tail sweeping out behind him, studded with razor-sharp dorsal spikes that whipped through the air. His jaw split and elongated outward into a noble, terrifying draconian snout, lined with rows of serrated, ivory fangs. Sweeping back from his brow, two massive, jagged horns curled into a grand, menacing crown of crimson blood-steel.

ROAR!

With a deafening tear of expanding muscle and tissue, two colossal, leather-and-scale wings of deep, fiery scarlet erupted from Greg's shoulder blades! Spanning over forty feet from tip to tip, the massive crimson sails beat against the atmosphere, blowing away the lingering heat and purple ash in a violent gale!

Greg was no longer a half-drake. He was no longer a human wearing power.

He was a Full Drake.

Standing fifteen feet tall on four heavy, armored legs—a massive, magnificent, crimson dragon of pure destruction—Greg planted his front claws into the street, stepping directly beside Aurelius. His golden, slit-pupiled eyes burned with the fury of an ancient apex predator, locking onto the wounded, thrashing tyrant in the crater.

Beside him, Aurelius lowered his golden head, spreading his four massive wings wide, his golden scales gleaming under the moonlight as pale-purple Frenzy energy crackled between his horns once more.

Taylor pressed herself flat against the dumpster, her mouth open in absolute, stunned silence. Two massive dragons—one a divine, gold-and-white Elder Dragon, the other a terrifying, blood-red Drake—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, completely dwarfing the ruined street.

Side by side, Greg and Aurelius threw their heads back in unison, letting out a pair of twin, sky-shattering roars that shook the very foundations of Brockton Bay!

"ROAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

Lung let out a garbled, incoherent screech—"GGRRRR-AAAAGH!"—and charged forward in a final, suicidal frenzy.

The sound that tore through the industrial district was not the voice of any human being, nor was it the mechanical whine of parahuman technology. It was a primordial, earth-shaking dissonance—a twin roar born from the darkest depths of ancient fantasy and the golden heights of celestial divinity.

The glass remaining in the surrounding warehouse windows shattered into dust. The lingering fog off the bay was blasted violently backward by the sheer kinetic weight of the soundwaves, leaving a barren, superheated void in the middle of Lord Street.

Taylor pressed herself into the dirt behind the melted carcass of an industrial dumpster, her hands clamped over her ears beneath her visor. Even with her senses dampened by her costume, her skull rattled against her spine. Her bugs—the few thousand that hadn't been vaporized by Lung's lingering heat waves—were dying by the hundreds every second, their tiny nervous systems overloaded by the sheer atmospheric pressure generated by the two leviathans standing before her.

To her left stood the Heavenly Revolving Dragon, Shagaru Magala. Aurelius's scales glistened like polished ivory and spun gold under the blood-moon sky, his swept-back horns radiating an ethereal, pale-purple aura. His massive wing-arms were anchored into the bedrock, five-toed claws sinking six inches into solid concrete like hot knives through butter.

To her right stood High Roller—or whatever Greg had become.

Through their shared mental link, Greg felt no fear. The human panic that usually cluttered his thoughts—the anxious chatter, the constant calculation of parahuman rankings, the worry of what his mother or his classmates would think—was drowned out by a roaring ocean of pure, unadulterated draconic instinct.

His vision had shifted. The world was no longer rendered in simple colors and shapes; it was an intricate matrix of thermal heat signatures, scent vectors, and pressure gradients. He could smell the burning copper of Lung's blood, the sweet, metallic ozone of Aurelius's Frenzy Virus, and the acrid stench of boiling ocean water wafting off the docks. He could feel the pulse of Aurelius's mind alongside his own—a cold, arrogant, beautiful intelligence that viewed the world not as a home, but as a territory to be dominated.

Crush him, Aurelius's presence whispered into Greg's consciousness—not in words, but in a wave of dark, absolute intent. The false drake dares to bleed in our presence. Scatter his ashes to the sea.

Together, Greg answered, his voice echoing in his own mind like a falling mountain.

​

​

Three hundred feet away, standing in the glowing, slag-filled crater of his own making, Lung looked up.

The warlord of the Brockton Bay ABB was barely recognizable as a parahuman. The Frenzy Virus coursing through his bloodstream had turned his inner biology into a warzone. His hyper-accelerated regeneration—the tool that had allowed him to fight the Endbringer Leviathan to a standstill in Kyushu—was screaming in absolute panic. Every time his shard attempted to knit his flesh, the dark purple viral particles latched onto the nascent cells, forcing them to mutate, burst, and decay before they could form solid tissue.

His body was a map of open, weeping horrors. His chest was carved with deep, purple-crusted trenches from Aurelius's energy sweeps. His lower jaw hung at a sickening angle, splintered by the Elder Dragon's wing-arm. His obsidian scales, normally an impenetrable armor, were flaking off in dull, grey sheets, exposing raw, black-red meat beneath.

Yet, he did not run.

Driven into an absolute corner by a threat it could not comprehend, the energy within him bypassed all biological preservation protocols. Lung's body began to force heat outward not as a weapon, but as a desperate, violent purge to burn the virus from his veins.

"GGRRRRRRRR-AAAAAAAGH!"

The sound that erupted from Lung's shattered maw was completely unintelligible. It was a wet, choked gurgle of pure, feral madness—a dying animal's promise to take the entire world down with it.

A column of roaring, blinding orange plasma launched Lung forward like an artillery shell. The ground beneath him didn't just crack—it vaporized, sending a shockwave of liquified dirt and white-hot air cascading outward in a fifty-foot ring.

"LOOK OUT!" Taylor screamed, though her voice was completely swallowed by the roar of the inferno.

Lung crossed the three hundred feet in less than a second, his glowing, three-pronged claws outstretched, aiming straight for Greg's throat. His intent was simple: tackle the crimson beast, sink his fangs into its neck, and detonate his core point-blank.

Greg didn't try to dodge. His new physiology screamed for close-quarters brutalization.

With a deep, guttural growl that rattled his own ribcage, Greg dropped his center of gravity, DIGGING his front ivory claws deep into the road. As Lung hit him, the collision sounded like two speeding freight trains slamming head-on into each other.

CRACK-BOOM!

The kinetic force blew out the foundations of the warehouse to their left, causing two thousand tons of corrugated steel and brick to collapse in a shower of sparks and dust.

Greg grunted as Lung's immense weight slammed into his chest. The superheated heat off Lung's scales scorched Greg's crimson hide, turning his outer armor black, but Greg's draconic resistance held the line. Instead of giving ground, Greg snapped his massive, jawed snout forward, his serrated ivory fangs locking onto Lung's left shoulder with the crushing force of a hydraulic press!

CRUNCH!

Black, superheated blood spurted from Lung's shoulder as Greg's teeth sheared through his remaining metallic scales, crunching straight into the bone beneath.

Lung shrieked—a terrifying, metallic gurgle—and swung his free right arm, his claws carving five deep, glowing red gouges across Greg's ribs. Heat flooded into the wounds, searing Greg's flesh, but the pain only fed the Drake's fury.

Greg whipped his heavy, spiked tail around in a blind, violent arc.

THWACK!

The serrated scythe at the tip of Greg's tail slammed directly into the side of Lung's unhealing knee joint. The joint buckled backward with a sickening snap. Lung roared in agony, his center of gravity collapsing.

Now! Greg communicated through the bond.

From above, a shadow fell over them.

Aurelius had launched himself twenty feet into the air the moment Lung had charged. Sweeping his golden wings downward, the Shagaru Magala descended like a divine anvil. His massive, three-jointed wing-arms slammed down onto Lung's back, driving the warlord violently into the molten street!

BOOM!

Lung was pinned flat against the asphalt, crushed beneath the combined weight of two multi-ton monsters. Aurelius sank his wing-claws deep into Lung's spine, anchoring him to the earth, while Greg maintained his vice-like bite on Lung's shoulder, tearing sideways with a violent jerk of his head.

SHRED!

A massive chunk of black flesh and metallic scale was ripped clean off Lung's torso. Greg spat the burning meat aside, his jaws dripping with smoking, dark blood, and threw his head back, letting out a roar of absolute dominance.

Lung thrashed beneath them like a harpooned leviathan. The ground shook as his tail whipped frantically, smashing through concrete and steel support beams. Driven past the point of sanity, Lung's shard attempted a violent counter-surge.

"KKK-HHH... BURN! BUUUUUURNNN!"

it was the broken, desperate echo of a human mind being erased by its own power.

The temperature beneath Aurelius and Greg spiked exponentially. 1,000 degrees. 2,000 degrees. 4,000 degrees.

The asphalt around them ceased to be solid or liquid; it turned into a boiling, bubbling sea of white-hot vapor. The metal beams of the fallen warehouse behind them softened, drooping like wet noodles before melting entirely into glowing puddles of iron.

Aurelius hissed, his gold-and-white scales singing as the superheated air threatened to cook his lower belly. The Elder Dragon raised his head, his luminous eyes flashing with cold, ruthless efficiency.

Aurelius didn't pull back. Instead, he opened his jaw, drawing in a massive breath of atmospheric air. The pale-purple energy dancing between his sweep-back horns flared into a blinding, violet star.

Point-Blank Frenzy Nova.

Aurelius shoved his entire snout down into the small gap between Lung's neck and shoulder, right into the open wound Greg had just torn open, and unleashed a continuous stream of pure, unadulterated Frenzy Virus energy directly into Lung's internal organs!

VRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-THOOM!

The detonation was contained entirely within Lung's body.

A muffled, terrifying THUD echoed from inside the warlord's chest cavity. Lung's entire body swelled like a balloon as dark purple light erupted from his eyes, his mouth, his ears, and the thousands of micro-cracks in his scales. The pure, concentrated viral load bypassed his skin entirely, flooding his heart, his lungs, and his nervous system.

Lung's internal heat died instantly.

The white-hot glow in his chest sputtered out, replaced by a sickly, pulsing violet light. His internal organs were being rewritten on a cellular level, turned into slurry by a biological force that cared nothing for his parahuman origin.

Lung's body went limp for a fraction of a second, his eyes rolling back into his head as his brain suffocated beneath the viral shock.

Aurelius lifted his wing-arms, stepping back from the crater, his chest heaving as he exhaled a thick cloud of purple fog. The Elder Dragon looked down at his victim with supreme, unfeeling disdain. He had rendered the beast helpless. Now, the execution belonged to his master.

Greg stepped forward into the center of the crater. His crimson scales were scorched black in places, smoke rising from his ribs, but his golden eyes burned brighter than ever.

Lung lay in the pit, his body reduced from thirty feet down to barely nine feet. He was shrinking rapidy, his power retreating as his physical form failed. His metallic scales were gone, replaced by raw, charred skin that bled dark, viral slime. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow hitches.

Yet, as Greg loomed over him, the dying warlord's eyelids twitched open.

A single, bloodshot golden eye locked onto Greg's snout. There was no intelligence left in that eye—no thoughts of the ABB, no thoughts of empire, no thoughts of parahuman supremacy. There was only the raw, miserable, endless rage of a dying predator that refused to bow.

Lung's remaining arm twitched, his clawed fingers feebly scraping against Greg's front leg, trying to scratch the crimson dragon one last time.

"k-khhh..." Lung gurgled, a thin stream of black blood leaking from his lips. "die..."

Greg looked down at the man who had terrorized Brockton Bay for years—the monster who burned children, destroyed families, and ruled the docks through absolute, brutal fear.

No more, Greg thought. The voice was his, but it carried the absolute weight of his Full Drake ascension. You don't get to burn anything ever again.

Greg raised his right front leg. His massive, ivory-tipped claws glistened under the moonlight, slick with Lung's blood.

With a swift, terrifying trajectory, Greg drove his four claws straight through Lung's chest.

THWACK-CRUNCH!

The sound was shockingly simple. Bones snapped. Tissue tore. Greg's claws pierced through Lung's sternum, driving deep into his heart and lung cavity, anchoring the warlord to the bedrock beneath the city.

Lung's body convulsed violently. A single, sharp gasp of air escaped his throat, accompanied by a heavy spray of dark blood that coated Greg's chest. Lung's legs twitched once, twice... and then went completely still.

The superheated aura surrounding his body collapsed entirely. The air cooled rapidly, dropping from a suffocating blast furnace back to the crisp, chilly night breeze off the Atlantic Ocean.

In the silence that followed, Greg flexed his jaws, leaned down, and bit down on Lung's throat.

CRUNCH.

With a single, brutal jerk of his crimson head, Greg severed the warlord's neck, ending any theoretical possibility of parahuman resurgence, shard-recovery, or miraculous survival.

The Dragon of Brockton Bay was dead.

Silence descended over the ruined loading bay like a heavy woolen blanket.

The contrast was staggering. Seconds ago, the district had been an apocalyptic hellscape of blinding light, screaming metal, and earth-shattering explosions. Now, there was only the gentle, rhythmic crackle of dying fires, the hiss of cooling asphalt, and the soft, rolling drift of purple fog settling into the crater.

Taylor slowly raised her head from behind the melted dumpster.

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Her knees felt like water. She pulled herself up, leaning heavily against the twisted metal frame of the dumpster, her eyes wide as she took in the scene before her.

The entire street was gone. Where Lord Street had been, there was now a sprawling, fifty-yard crater lined with glassified, black slag. The surrounding warehouses were ruined hulls, their roofs collapsed, their steel frames bent like plastic drinking straws.

And standing in the absolute center of the carnage were the two monsters.

Aurelius stood tall, his gold-and-white wings folded elegantly along his back. The pale-purple aura around his horns was slowly fading, his brilliant golden eyes watching the surrounding rooftops for any lingering threats.

Beside him, standing over the decapitated, smoking remains of Lung, was Greg.

The Full Drake lowered his head, his long, heavy tail resting on the ground behind him. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. The crimson dragon looked vast, ancient, and terrifying—a creature that belonged in the dark pages of forgotten myth, not in a modern industrial city.

Taylor took a slow, hesitant step forward, her boots crunching on the shattered gravel.

"High... High Roller?" she whispered, her voice cracking with awe and sheer terror.

Greg's massive, horned head snapped toward her. His golden, slit-pupiled eyes locked onto her small, slender frame. For a horrifying second, Taylor wondered if the beast even recognized her—if the transformation had erased Greg completely and replaced him with a mindless monster.

Then, the Drake blinked.

A low, gentle rumble echoed from Greg's chest—a sound that vibrated softly through the ground beneath Taylor's boots. It wasn't a roar; it was a purr. A warm, reassuring sound that carried the unmistakable, goofy warmth of the boy she had sat next to in computer lab.

Greg nudged his massive snout toward her, stopping a few feet short, as if acutely aware of his own terrifying scale.

We did it, Monarch, his voice echoed softly in her mind—not through a system screen, but through the lingering, empathic spillover of his draconic presence. He's gone.

Taylor let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for an eternity. She sank onto one knee, resting her hand against the cool, glassified rim of the crater to steady herself. "You... you actually killed him. You killed Lung."

He wasn't going to stop, Greg's mental presence replied, carrying a heavy, somber weight. If we let him live, he would have come after you. He would have burned everything.

Beside them, Aurelius let out a low, musical growl. The Shagaru Magala raised its head toward the sky, spreading its golden wings one last time. As the pale-purple mist began to thin, the Elder Dragon's body began to shimmer, turning into millions of tiny, glowing golden particles that drifted upward into the night air, dissolving into the moonlight like falling stars.

Within ten seconds, the divine dragon was gone, leaving only Greg standing over the battlefield.

His fifteen-foot quadruped frame began to shift and condense. The massive extra bulk pulled inward, his extra weight receding as his skeleton realigned. His four heavy legs shifted back into a two-legged stance, his body straightening up to a towering seven feet tall. The massive dragon wings folded down, shrinking into sharp, armored crimson mantles over his shoulder blades.

When the transformation settled, Greg had shifted into his Hybrid Form.

He stood on two muscular, clawed legs, covered head-to-toe in glistening, crimson-and-black scale armor. Heavy dragon horns swept back from his brow like a dark crown, a thick, armored tail whipped lazily behind his legs, and his slit-pupiled golden eyes burned with quiet, controlled power. He was no longer a towering beast, but he was far from human—a terrifying, half-drake warrior standing proudly in the center of the carnage.

Beside him, Aurelius let out a low growl. The Shagaru Magala raised his head toward the sky, spreading his golden wings one last time before his body dissolved into millions of glowing, golden light particles that drifted into the night air.

Taylor slowly pulled herself out from behind the dumpster, stepping cautiously into the crater. Her visor reflected the ruined block and the crimson figure standing over the slain warlord.

"High Roller..." Taylor whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Is it... is it really over?"

Greg turned his head toward her, his Hybrid Form's tall frame casting a long shadow across the ash. He flexed his clawed gauntlets, wiping a smear of dark blood from his crimson snout.

"Yeah," Greg said, his voice deep, gravelly, and echoing with a rich draconic rumble. "It's over. Lung is dead."

Taylor stopped beside him, looking down at the charred, silent remains. "I can't believe it. The PRT, the Protectorate... nobody could put him down. And you just... you completely destroyed him."

"We destroyed him," Greg corrected, his golden eyes softening as he looked down at her. "You held the line with me, Monarch. We did this together."

Taylor felt a lump form in her throat beneath her mask, a feeling of immense relief washing over her. "Together."

A sharp whistle echoed from above.

Greg's golden, slit-pupiled eyes snapped upward, his nostrils flaring as he caught a wave of strange, acrid scents wafting down from the roof of the adjacent three-story apartment building.

Standing on the edge of the roof were three monstrous beasts—the size of vans, resembling a nightmare cross between lizards and tigers, with tangles of exposed muscle and bone where skin and fur should have been.

And riding atop those monsters were four teenagers.

Taylor shrank back, her bugs swirling defensively around her head, while Greg stood his ground in his hybrid form, his tail lashing out in immediate, hostile irritation.

The tall guy in the middle, dressed in black motorcycle leathers with a stylized, jet-black skull visor, slid off the back of his beast and approached the edge of the roof, looking down at the ruined street.

"You really saved us a lot of trouble," he told them. His voice was deep, masculine, but muffled by his helmet. He jerked his thumb over one shoulder. "When we got word Lung was aiming to come after us tonight, we were pretty freaked. We were arguing strategy for the better part of the day. We eventually decided, fuck it, we'd meet him halfway. Wing it. Not my usual way of doing things, but yeah."

Behind him, one of the girls—wearing a tight black and pale-blue suit with long, windblown dark blond hair—leaned over the ledge, looking at Lung's headless corpse and the massive crater.

"Lung got completely creamed," she grinned, a sharp, fox-like smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "The fuck did you two do to him?"

"Wasp and bee stings, fire ants and spider bites," Taylor blurted out automatically before she could stop herself.

"He's not holding up too well," the blond girl chuckled. "Considering he's...you know."

Greg's golden eyes narrowed into thin slits. The heat rising off his crimson scales spiked as pure, unadulterated anger flared in his chest. His tail slammed into a piece of rubble, shattering it to dust.

"You sat up there?" Greg growled, his deep, hybrid voice vibrating through the concrete, making the giant beasts on the roof let out low, uneasy growls. "You assholes sat on the roof and watched us fight a thirty-foot fire demon while you chatted?!"

The guy in the skull mask paused, looking at Greg's half-dragon form with a hint of newfound caution. "Introductions. That's Tattletale. I'm Grue." He pointed to a girl wearing a plastic rottweiler mask and a plaid skirt. "The girl with the dogs—we call her Bitch, her preference, but in the interests of being P.G., the good guys and media decided to call her Hellhound instead. Last and certainly least, we have Regent."

"Fuck you, Grue," retorted the boy in the renaissance shirt and coronet with a light chuckle.

Grue looked down at Greg's towering, scaled frame and Taylor's small, insect-covered outfit. "Hey, you okay? You hurt?"

"The reason she's not introducing herself isn't because she's hurt," Tattletale chimed in, leaning further over the roof ledge, her eyes scanning Greg's hybrid scales and Taylor's visor with sharp, uncanny intensity. "It's because she's shy."

Greg took a heavy step toward the base of the apartment building, his clawed gauntlets clenching into fists. "We almost got turned to ash down here, and you guys were just waiting to see if we'd die for you?!"

Before Grue could reply, Tattletale's fox-like smile suddenly faded. She turned her head toward the north, listening to something in the distance.

"Heads up," Tattletale warned, her tone shifting instantly. "We've gotta scram."

Bitch didn't hesitate. She let out one short whistle followed by two long ones. The three massive, skinless dog-beasts bounded off the roof, their heavy impacts shaking the alleyway as they landed in the darkness below.

Grue glanced down at Taylor and Greg one last time. "Hey, want a ride?"

Taylor looked at the snarling, bloodied monsters in the alley and quickly shook her head. Greg just let out a low, hostile growl from his throat, his tail lashing out again. "Get out of here before I turn those dogs into boots."

Tattletale seated herself just behind Bitch on the lead monster, looking back at Taylor with glittering, mischievous eyes behind her black domino mask. "Well, Bug, a cape is gonna show up in less than a minute. You did us a solid by dealing with Lung, so take my advice. Someone from the Protectorate shows up, finds two bad guys duking it out, they're not going to let one walk away. You should get out of here."

With a screech of metal on metal, the three massive beasts leaped over the fire escape and bounded off into the shadows of the docks, disappearing as fast as they had arrived

Silence returned to the alley, leaving Greg and Taylor standing alone in the crater.

Greg let out a heavy gust of smoke from his snout, his hybrid form tensing as he stared at the empty roof. "Unbelievable. Absolute freeloaders."

Taylor stood frozen, her stomach dropping as the full weight of what had just happened settled over her. The 'children' Lung had been talking about—the ones he had threatened to murder, the ones she had risked her life to save tonight—were bad guys. The Undersiders.

And they had walked away thinking Taylor and Greg were villains just like them.

The screech of custom tires broke the lingering silence of the Docks as headlights cut through the thick fog and rising smoke.

Sprinting down the street on a dark blue, high-tech Tinker motorcycle with a roaring turbine engine was Armsmaster.

Right behind his bike, three heavy PRT transport vans slammed their brakes, doors flying open as tactical troopers in full body armor spilled out with containment foam sprayers and assault rifles raised.

Disembarking from his motorcycle with practiced, formidable grace, Armsmaster held his six-foot mechanical Halberd at the ready, flanked instantly by the rest of the local Protectorate response team: Miss Militia with her shifting weapon, Velocity vibrating in place, Assault and Battery adjusting their armor, and Triumph scanning the high ground.

Armsmaster's V-shaped visor swept across the scene, diagnostic HUD scanning the glassified crater... and locking onto the nine-foot, headless corpse leaking purple-tinted fluid onto the scorched concrete.

Behind Armsmaster, Assault let out a low whistle. "Holy shit... Tell me I'm hallucinating. Is that Lung?"

Miss Militia lowered her rifle by a fraction of an inch, her eyes wide beneath her green bandana mask. "He's dead."

Armsmaster's jaw tightened beneath his mask. Two unknown capes—rookies, by their complete lack of PRT records—had just done what the entire Brockton Bay Protectorate had failed to do for five years. They had put down the Warlord of the Docks. Permanently.

"You gonna fight us?" Armsmaster called out, his deep, synthesized voice cutting through the hum of idling van engines and his motorcycle's cooling turbine.

The bug-controlling cape—standing nervously beside the seven-foot, crimson-scaled hybrid drake—flinched slightly at the stern tone, her gloved hands tightening into fists at her sides. "we... we're good guys," she blurted out, her voice raspy from smoke inhalation.

Armsmaster stepped closer, his heavy armored boots crunching against the shattered glass. He tilted his head, his visor fixing on her dark, hand-stitched insect suit, then panning to the terrifying, scale-draped hybrid dragon form standing beside her, its massive crimson wings flared wide behind its back. "You don't look like one."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "That's... that's not intentional," she responded defensively, her voice trembling slightly. "I was more than halfway done putting the costume together when I realized it was already looking more edgy than I'd intended, and I couldn't do anything about it by then."

A three-second silence stretched across the alley. Armsmaster's visor flickered as his built-in lie-detector suit processed her vocal cadence and heart rate.

"You're telling the truth," Armsmaster said definitively, relaxing his stance just a fraction. He looked the bug cape over, taking in her posture. "You need a hospital?"

"No," she muttered. "Don't think so. I'm... as surprised as you are."

"You're a new face," Armsmaster observed, his voice smoothing out into a practiced, authoritative calm. "Both of you."

"My partner gave me a name tonight," she offered awkwardly, gesturing toward the giant dragon-man beside her. "Monarch."

Armsmaster gave a short, warm chuckle—the kind of practiced, approachable laugh he used for media interviews. "A solid name. Better than trying to come up with one under pressure."

Monarch shifted her feet, visibly easing under the hero's gentle tone. "I... I almost died out here."

"That's why we have the Ward program," Armsmaster said smoothly, stepping closer. The subtle shift in his posture was intentional—closing the distance, establishing himself as the authority figure, offering a steady hand to a traumatized teenager. "The Wards offer structure, support, and training. You wouldn't have to face monsters like Lung alone."

"I... I thought about applying," Monarch confessed softly.

Armsmaster nodded approvingly. He glanced at the headless body of Lung, then back to her. "Lung was a menace to this city. But you need to understand the situation you've just created. You're young, inexperienced, and you've just thrust yourself into the deep end."

He took another step, his shadow falling over her.

"Lung has an extensive gang throughout Brockton Bay," Armsmaster explained, his tone dropping into a serious, paternal advisory. "More than that, he has two superpowered flunkies: Oni Lee, and a new Tinker named Bakuda. Bakuda specializes in high-yield, exotic explosives. She ran a terrorism campaign against Cornell University before Lung recruited her."

Monarch swallowed hard, her shoulders drawing in. "Bombs...?"

"Decades ahead of anything conventional," Armsmaster confirmed, nodding solemnly. "Now, I want you to consider the danger involved in taking credit for Lung's demise. Without a doubt, Oni Lee and Bakuda will be looking for vengeance. They will hunt down whoever is responsible. They are scary people. Scarier, in some ways, than their boss."

Monarch shrank back slightly under his towering presence. "So... what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you have two options," Armsmaster said, his voice dripping with reasonable, unyielding logic. "Option one: you join the Wards immediately. Under PRT protection, we can shield you from retaliation and give you the resources you need. Option two: you keep your head down. You don't take the credit. You let the Protectorate handle the fallout, process the scene, and claim the capture. You fly under the radar while you learn the ropes."

Monarch stared at him. Her mind was racing, exhausted from the battle, battered by adrenaline withdrawal. Let the Protectorate take credit? Keep my head down? It made sense. It was safe. Armsmaster was a veteran. He knew what he was doing. If she took credit, Bakuda might come after her. Her family could get hurt.

She opened her mouth, about to cave to the subtle, overwhelming pressure of the top hero in the city—

"Yeah, how about 'Option Three'?"

A deep, rumbling voice vibrated through the concrete, so heavy it rattled the loose glass on the street.

Armsmaster paused, his visor snapping over.

The giant dragon-man, standing Nine feet tall in his crimson hybrid form with his leathery dragon wings held high, stepped directly into the space between Armsmaster and Monarch. His spiked tail whipped through the air, cracking against the asphalt with a sharp, explosive THWACK. Smoke curled from his nostrils as his glowing golden slit-pupils glared down at the veteran hero.

"Option Three," he rumbled, his hybrid voice carrying an edge of sharp, mocking amusement. "Is where you stop trying to intimidate a tired girl into handing over her hard-earned credit."

Armsmaster's jaw tightened. "I am explaining the realities of cape politics. This is about safety—"

"This is about you wanting a victory for the evening news," the dragon-cape cut him off cleanly, leaning forward until his sweeping blood-steel horns were just inches from Armsmaster's visor. "You roll up fifteen minutes late on your fancy motorcycle, see a dead dragon, and immediately start running your PR script. 'Join our junior corporate club, or let us take all the glory while you hide in the shadows.' Is that how the Protectorate operates?"

Behind Armsmaster, Assault let out a low, quiet whistle. "Damn. Kid's got no chill."

"Unsanctioned capes operating without oversight face massive legal liabilities," Armsmaster said, his tone turning frosty and rigid as he tried to regain control of the conversation. "If you aren't joining the Wards, you don't even have a team or a legal standing."

"Who says we don't have a team?" the dragon-cape challenged, puffing his heavy, scale-armored chest out.

Monarch blinked behind her visor, looking up at him in utter confusion. We have a team?! Since when?!

Armsmaster's visor flickered as he cross-referenced PRT databases. "You aren't registered under any official faction."

The dragon-cape didn't hesitate for a single microsecond. He declared it loudly, his booming voice echoing down the street with absolute, unshakeable confidence:

"The name's High Roller, she's Monarch, and together we are the Chaos Brigade."

A/N: YES THAT'S FROM DXD YES I AM NOT CREATIVE AT ALL

Silence fell over the alleyway.

Monarch visually withered where she stood, burying her gloved face in her hands. The CHAOS BRIGADE?! Are you serious?! We sound like cartoon villains! Why would you make that up on the spot?!

Even Armsmaster seemed momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of the name, delivered with such absolute conviction. "The... Chaos Brigade?"

"You heard me," High Roller growled, his golden eyes burning bright. "And as for the credit for putting Lung in the dirt? It belongs entirely to us. To me and Monarch. The Chaos Brigade. If Bakuda or Oni Lee want a piece of us, tell them to line up. And if I catch the PRT trying to claim our win tomorrow morning, I'll make sure every reporter in the bay knows Armsmaster showed up late to sweep the floor."

Armsmaster's expression hardened into pure, repressed annoyance. His subtle, master-class manipulation had just been completely smashed to pieces. He hated losing control of a narrative, and he clearly hated giving up the biggest victory Brockton Bay had seen in years.

"Taking credit for Lung's death will make you a target," Armsmaster warned, his voice icy. "The PRT will not extend official protection to unsanctioned groups."

"Let 'em come," High Roller snorted, smoke puffing from his snout. "Lung thought he was hot stuff too, and look at him now."

Armsmaster's hands tightened around his Halberd until the metal gauntlets squeaked under the pressure. For a second, it looked like he wanted to press the issue, but Miss Militia stepped up beside him, placing a gentle, restraining hand on his armored shoulder.

"Armsmaster," she said quietly. "That's enough."

Armsmaster took a slow, sharp breath, swallowing his pride. "Very well," he said coldly. "The official PRT record will state that Lung was neutralized by an independent duo operating as... the Chaos Brigade."

"Good," High Roller grunted. "Glad we got that sorted out."

Armsmaster turned sharply on his heel. "Secure the perimeter! Get the bio-containment unit! Load up the body!"

The PRT troopers scrambled to obey, rolling out a reinforced steel cage and hoisting Lung's heavy, cooling corpse inside. Meanwhile, secondary squads began cuffing the dozens of ABB gang members scattered across the alleyway.

"Surprisingly," Assault noted as he snapped power-dampeners on a tattooed thug, "none of these cronies died during the fight. Lung was throwing twenty-foot fireballs and these guys just got knocked out cold."

Within minutes, the PRT loaded up the corpse, rounded up the thugs, and prepped their vehicles. Armsmaster mounted his Tinker motorcycle, the high-tech turbine roaring to life with a high-pitched whine. He gave High Roller and Monarch one last stiff, unreadable glance before twisting the throttle and speeding off into the night, the transport vans following close behind.

The alleyway fell quiet once again.

Monarch let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging. She turned to High Roller, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. "The... Chaos Brigade? Really?"

"Hey, it sounds cool and imposing," High Roller said, rolling his heavy shoulders, his tail giving a satisfied thump. "Besides, Armsmaster was trying to bully you into giving away our win. I wasn't gonna let him step on us."

Monarch looked at him, surprised by his protectiveness. "Thank you... for standing up to him."

"We're a team, right?" High Roller grinned, his sharp dragon fangs gleaming.

Before Monarch could respond, a bright, golden light flashed directly in front of High Roller's eyes.

Monarch didn't notice—the screen was completely invisible to her. High Roller blinked as a massive, neon-gilded Gacha notification popped up in his vision, glowing with ridiculous, rainbow-tinted intensity.

[GACHA SYSTEM NOTIFICATION!] [HOLY SHIT, HOST! IMPRESSIVE WORK!]

[SYSTEM PERFORMANCE EVALUATION:]

• Target Eliminated: LUNG (One of the strongest capes in the Bay! Permanently dead via a brutal 10/10 neck-snap! Who knew a socially awkward teenager had a spinal snap like that in him? Color me impressed!)
• Curse Status: SURVIVED [Horrible Night]! (Fought a boss-level nightmare threat on day one and somehow didn't end up as a greasy red smudge on the pavement! A literal statistical anomaly!)
• Limits Pushed: You threw literally EVERYTHING in your inventory at the wall, burned through your entire energy tank, and pushed past your absolute limits just to survive! Peak desperation turned victory!
• Partner Protection: Successfully shielded your partner, Monarch, using your familiar, Aurelius, while you played tank! Chivalry isn't dead, and luckily, neither is she!
• Gang Status: Severely crippled the ABB! Leaderless, broken, and currently running around like headless chickens! Great job ruining their weekend!
• Undersiders Status: Unintentionally saved their teenage villain asses! They currently view you with a healthy mix of awe, confusion, and absolute, pants-shitting dread!
• PRT Interaction: STOOD UP TO ARMSMASTER! Told the Bay's most insufferable corporate hero where to shove his PR script, refused to let him steal your kill, and named your team the "Chaos Brigade" with zero shame! (even if the team name is 100% pure, unadulterated cringe)!
• City Status: EVERYONE is gonna know you killed the big bad dragon by tomorrow morning! Hope you like having a giant, neon target painted on your back!

[CALCULATING REWARDS...] [REWARD GRANTED: 5x RANDOM LEGENDARY GACHA TICKETS!]

High Roller's jaw nearly dropped.

Holy shit... FIVE LEGENDARY TICKETS?!

Last time he got a high-tier pull, he got Son Gōku and Aurelius. Five Legendary tickets at once was mind-boggling.

"Are you okay?" Monarch asked, noticing him staring blankly into space.

High Roller snapped back to reality, quickly dismissing the floating screen. "Yeah! Totally fine! Just... exhausted."

He was dead on his feet. As tempted as he was to roll those five tickets right now, doing it in an alleyway while completely drained was a terrible idea.

"Hey," High Roller offered, gesturing with one of his massive dragon wings flared beside him. "You look pretty beat too. Want a ride home? I can just fly us back, or summon Aurelius again."

Monarch froze. Behind her visor, her face flushed bright red with pure teenage panic and embarrassment. The thought of being bridal-carried through the sky by a guy in dragon armor—or riding a giant golden dragon—sent her social anxiety into overdrive. What if neighbors saw? What if she looked ridiculous?!

"N-No!" she squeaked out, taking two rapid steps backward while waving her hands frantically. "No, thank you! I... I can walk! I'm totally fine! I need to go! Chaos Brigade out!"

Before High Roller could even utter a word, she turned on her heel and practically sprinted down the street, disappearing into the dark shadows.

High Roller stood there, scratching his horned head with a goofy grin. "Chaos Brigade out...? Man, she's an awkward dork."

Minutes later, High Roller was soaring high above Brockton Bay, his crimson dragon wings catching the cool night currents. The breeze washed away the lingering heat and tension of the fight.

He glided down toward his neighborhood, spotting his second-story bedroom window. He hovered outside, unlatched the glass with a clawed finger, and slipped inside.

Once safely in his room, his hybrid dragon transformation receded completely. The scales compressed, the horns and wings absorbed back into his body, and High Roller faded away, leaving Greg Veder in his scuffed hoodie and jeans.

In the corner of his bedroom, his cardboard maze sat on the desk. Inside, four tiny, furry hamsters were snuggled together in a sleeping pile, snoring softly.

San-D, Jum-P, Maga-Z, and Cham-P.

The Four Dark Devas of Destruction.

Greg couldn't help but chuckle softly at the snoring rodents. "Sleep well, dark lords. The dragon has been slain."

He stripped off his clothes, stepped into a steaming shower to wash off the soot and grime, and finally collapsed face-first onto his mattress. With five Legendary tickets waiting in his system inventory, Greg closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

What a wild night.

 

[Thegameaholic]

The morning sun had barely begun to scrape against the gloomy horizon of Brockton Bay when the alarm on Greg Veder's phone blared its obnoxious, chirping chime.

It was 5:30 AM.

Most fifteen-year-old high school students who had spent the previous night fighting a nine-foot dragon-man—decapitating him, stopping Armsmaster from taking advantage of his new partner, and founding a ridiculously named cape duo—would have hit the snooze button and slept until noon.

Not Greg Veder.

The moment his eyelids fluttered open, his body moved on pure, system-enforced habit. Despite the lingering mental shock of last night's brutal rumble at the Docks, his physical form felt surprisingly rested. He was a Drake—a lesser dragon hybrid, far from some mythical god, but sturdy and resilient nonetheless. A solid four hours of sleep was more than enough to leave him feeling ready to go.

He swung his legs out of bed, took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and dropped straight into his daily grind. Last night's chaos didn't mean he got to skip out on his morning routine.

"One... two... three..."

He began his push-ups. Nose touching the carpet on every single repetition, elbows locked at the top, core tight.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred."

Without pausing to catch his breath, he flipped over onto his back, locked his hands behind his head, and launched straight into sit-ups.

"Ninety-nine... one hundred."

He bounced up onto his feet instantly, widening his stance for squats.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred."

Greg wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead, threw on a dark grey hoodie, pulled on his running shoes, and slipped quietly out his bedroom window for the final leg of the daily grind: a full 10-kilometer (6.2-mile) run.

Greg took off down the pavement, his pace steady and brisk. He ran past quiet suburban streets, past boarded-up storefronts in the downtown sector, and along the perimeter roads overlooking the misty, industrial expanse of the Bay. He kept it at a natural, rhythmic jog that kept his lungs expanding and his blood pumping.

By the time he crossed his front lawn again, completing the loop, his watch read 6:40 AM. Exactly 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10-kilometer run. Completed without missing a beat.

He exhaled a long cloud of mist into the chilly morning air, feeling completely energized.

He slipped back inside through his window, grabbed a clean towel from his closet, ready to head straight to the bathroom for a hot shower and grab breakfast—

BAM.

It hit him like a physical jolt to his central nervous system. A sudden, overwhelming compulsion behind his eyes made his skin crawl. Greg froze mid-stride, his head snapping around to scan his bedroom.

His eyes locked onto his desk. An empty soda can sat near his keyboard. His blanket had a minor wrinkle. On his bookshelf, one volume of manga protruded roughly two millimeters farther than the rest.

The Neat Freak Curse.

"No... no, nonono, please," Greg whimpered, grabbing his head as the compulsion gripped his brainstem. "Not again! I cleaned yesterday!"

It didn't matter. The curse was absolute.

Before he could stop himself, Greg dropped his towel. He lunged for the empty soda can, throwing it into recycling. He grabbed a microfiber cloth and a bottle of spray, frantically wiping down his desk until the wood gleamed. He carefully aligned every single manga volume until the spines formed a straight line, then remade his bed with military precision, smoothing out every microscopic wrinkle.

"I hate this curse!" Greg hissed under his breath, vacuuming the carpet in precise, parallel rows while tears of sheer annoyance pricked the corners of his eyes. "Seriously! What kind of ridiculous drawback is this?!"

Twenty-five agonizing minutes later, Greg finally collapsed against his doorframe, panting, as the curse's mental grip finally receded. His room was so pristine it looked like a sterile surgical bay.

"Ugh... annoying..." Greg groaned, rubbing his temples.

He shook off the frustration and turned his attention to the desk corner, where a massive, multi-tiered cardboard maze sat beside a glass terrarium. He unlatched the top and carefully scooped up four tiny creatures.

San-D, Jum-P, Maga-Z, and Cham-P.

The Four Dark Devas of Destruction.

The four hamsters squeaked softly as Greg set them down at the entrance of their elaborate cardboard maze—a sprawling structure he had spent hours constructing, complete with tunnels, ramps, and obstacle courses.

"Alright, guys," Greg whispered, scattering sunflower seeds, dried papaya bits, and hamster pellets throughout the maze. "Breakfast time."

San-D darted through a cardboard tube toward the seed pile. Jum-P bounced over a small hurdle, while Maga-Z systematically stuffed three sunflower seeds into his cheeks at once. Cham-P marched through the center ramp, claiming the dried papaya bit for himself.

Greg watched them fondly for a few minutes, chuckling as they navigated the maze. Once the four little guys were happily munching away, Greg checked his watch.

7:48 AM.

"CRAP!" Greg gasped, his eyes going wide. "I spent way too much time cleaning!"

Winslow High School's first bell rang at 8:00 AM sharp. Taking the bus or running meant he'd be late.

Then, Greg blinked. He paused, raising a hand to his chin as a sudden realization hit him.

"...Wait a minute."

He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. Space itself buckled and warped in the middle of his bedroom, tearing open a glowing tear in reality—a dimensional gateway that opened directly onto the flat roof of Winslow High School.

(A/N: I ALMOST FORGOT HE HAD THAT ABILITY)

"Man, having so many system perks makes you forget the easy stuff," Greg chuckled to himself.

Without wasting another second, he grabbed his backpack, stepped straight through the swirling rift, and pulled the portal shut behind him.

The cool morning wind on the roof of Winslow High School whipped through Greg's hair as the portal closed with a soft pop.

He adjusted his backpack straps, unlocked the roof access door, and slipped down the concrete stairwell into the hallways of the third floor.

The corridors were packed with students shouting and slamming locker doors. Greg walked down the hall with his hands buried in his hoodie pockets.

Because of his active Menace Curse, an intangible, unsettling aura radiated off him. Students didn't even realize why they were doing it, but as Greg walked down the hall, the crowd naturally parted like the Red Sea. Teenagers instinctively swerved around him, giving him a wide berth. Nobody bumped into him; nobody even dared to step too close.

Greg barely paid attention to the space around him. His mind was racing.

Today's the day, he thought. After school, I'm telling Taylor and Sparky I have powers. No more keeping them in the dark. Sparky and Taylor deserve to know. Taylor doesn't know I'm High Roller yet, but telling them both I triggered is a good start.

A grin spread across his face as he thought about last night.

Speaking of last night... man, I wonder how PHO is reacting right now!

Lung was an untouchable warlord who had ruled the Docks for five years. And last night, High Roller and Monarch had taken him down—High Roller decapitating him and both of them standing up to Armsmaster when he tried to take advantage of Monarch.

The forums must be losing their minds right now, Greg thought.

Greg froze dead in his tracks.

The crowd of students behind him instinctively swerved around his stationary body due to his Menace Curse, keeping several feet of distance.

"...Oh shit."

He swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck.

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit OH SHIT!"

A wave of sheer panic slammed into Greg's brain.

GStringGirl.

He hadn't messaged GStringGirl. Not yesterday. Not last week. Not... not since he got his gacha powers.

THAT WAS ALMOST A MONTH AGO!

"No, no, no, tell me I didn't," Greg whimpered internally, grabbing his hair. "Please tell me I didn't just ghost her for an entire MONTH!"

GStringGirl wasn't just some random person on his friends list. Aside from Sparky and now Taylor, she was literally one of his only genuine friends. They had met on a gaming server two years ago, bonding over late-night matches, venting about life, and sharing hours of crazy conspiracy theories that she found endlessly amusing.

And he had completely ghosted her. For four straight weeks.

With trembling hands, Greg fumbled frantically through his hoodie pocket, whipping out his smartphone and pulling up the PHO app.

The moment the screen loaded, his heart plummeted.

There, sitting at the top of his direct messages, was her handle: GStringGirl.

Beside her name was a bright red counter: 47 Unread Messages.

"I am a monster," Greg whispered, his voice cracking.

He pressed her name, his eyes scanning down the messages she had sent him over the last month:

• [3 Weeks Ago] GStringGirl: Hey, idiot. You up? Me and the guys need a fourth for squad games. Get online.
• [2.5 Weeks Ago] GStringGirl: Void? You haven't been online in three days. Did your weird conspiracy theories finally come true?
• [2 Weeks Ago] GStringGirl: Seriously, dude. Send a message so I know you didn't get eaten by a Leviathan tidal wave or something.
• [1.5 Weeks Ago] GStringGirl: Look, if you're mad about that joke I made, I was just messing with you. You don't have to ignore me.
• [1 Week Ago] GStringGirl: Are you okay? You haven't posted any conspiracy threads either. This isn't funny anymore, Void.
• [4 Days Ago] GStringGirl: I guess you moved on or deleted the app. Fine. Whatever.
• [Yesterday] GStringGirl: Hey... just checking in one last time. I hope you're okay out there, Void. Truly. I miss our chats.

Reading that last message hit Greg like a ton of bricks. She genuinely thought he had abandoned her.

Before Greg could process his guilt, a blinding, neon-gold flash burst directly into his field of vision.

[GACHA SYSTEM NOTIFICATION!] [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: EMOTIONAL DAMAGE!]

[SYSTEM PERFORMANCE EVALUATION:]

• Target Neglected: GStringGirl (Your ride-or-die gamer buddy who actually tolerated your crazy ramblings!)
• Ghosting Duration: ALMOST A FULL MONTH! (27 days of radio silence!)
• Emotional Status: She thought you died, thought you hated her, and finally accepted that she was unwanted! Bravo, Host!
• Hypocrisy Level: OVER 9000! (Protected Monarch from Armsmaster, but left your best online friend out in the cold!)

[CONSOLATION PRIZE FOR YOUR SHAMEFUL BEHAVIOR:] [REWARD GRANTED: 1x RANDOM GOLD GACHA TICKET!]

Greg's eye twitched violently.

"NOT THE TIME!" Greg snapped furiously in his mind, slapping the floating UI window out of his vision. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE TICKET RIGHT NOW! SHUT UP!"

His thumbs transformed into a blurred frenzy over his phone's touchscreen as he poured his soul into a long-winded apology:

[TO: GStringGirl] [FROM: XxVoid_CowboyxX]

G-STRING! I AM SO SO SO SO SORRY! PLEASE DON'T HATE ME! I PROMISE I WASN'T GHOSTING YOU OR IGNORING YOU! I DIDN'T GET MAD AT YOUR JOKE! YOU'RE LITERALLY ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS IN THE WORLD!

I know this sounds crazy, but I swear to God I am telling you 100% the truth: ALMOST A MONTH AGO, I TRIGGERED. I GOT PARAHUMAN POWERS.

Everything in my life went completely insane overnight. I had to lay low while I figured out how my powers worked. My brain was so scrambled and stressed that I completely lost track of time and didn't even check my PHO messages. I know that's not a valid excuse, and I feel like trash right now, but I swear I never wanted to make you feel unwanted!

If you saw the news about Lung getting decapitated at the Docks last night by High Roller and Monarch... G-string, I am High Roller.

I know telling you my cape identity is a huge risk, but I trust you. Instinctively, I just know I can trust you with this. Please forgive me. I'm back now. I'm so sorry.

Greg stared at the text, his heart hammering against his ribs. He took a deep breath and hit SEND.

There was no immediate reply, as she was likely offline. Greg sighed, pocketing his phone as the warning bell for homeroom chimed overhead.

"Focus," Greg muttered to himself. "School first."

The rest of the school day passed in a blur.

During third-period English, he caught sight of Taylor sitting two rows over. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, staring blankly at her notebook. She had no idea that her awkward classmate Greg Veder was the crimson dragon hybrid who had fought beside her last night. To her, High Roller was a formidable cape partner, while Greg was just her awkward friend from school.

When the teacher turned to write on the board, Greg scribbled a note:

Hey. Meet me on the roof right after the final bell. - Greg

He passed the note down the row until it landed on Taylor's desk. Taylor blinked, read it, and looked over at Greg with a puzzled expression, wondering why he was calling a roof meeting. Greg gave her a simple, reassuring nod. Taylor nodded back slowly and tucked the note away.

At lunch, Greg met up with Sparky near the outdoor bleachers. Sparky was slouched back, munching peacefully on a turkey sandwich while balancing a wooden ruler on his nose.

Greg sat down beside him. "Sparky, after the final bell today, head up to the third-floor roof door. Meet me up there."

Sparky caught the ruler, looking amused. "The roof? Mystery meeting? Sure, man, I'm down."

RINGGGGGGGGGGG!

The final bell of the day rang. Greg packed his notebook and walked up to the third-floor roof access door. He unlocked the latch, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped out onto the gravel rooftop.

A minute later, the door creaked open behind him.

Taylor stepped out, pulling her jacket tightly around herself. "Hey, Greg. What's going on? Why the roof?"

Before Greg could answer, the door swung open again, and Sparky slouched out with a bag of chips in hand.

"Hey, guys," Sparky greeted them with a chill grin. "Nice day for a rooftop lounge."

Taylor blinked, surprised to see Sparky there, though her face quickly softened into a small smile. "Oh, hey Sparky. Greg invited you too?"

"Yeah," Sparky said, munching a chip. "Greg's running some secret agent operation up here apparently."

Taylor turned back to Greg, her curiosity piqued as she looked between her two friends. "Alright, Greg, you've got both of us up here. What's the big secret?"

Greg looked at Taylor and Sparky—his two actual friends in this place, standing side by side under the grey sky.

Greg took a deep breath, stepping forward with a confident, steady posture.

"Alright," Greg said softly. "No more secrets between us."

He raised his hand, letting a faint, crackling spark of raw power flicker across his fingertips.

"I have powers," Greg declared. "And I wanted you two to be the first to know."

The concrete floor of the Winslow High School rooftop was cold and dusted with fine sea-grit, but the air felt electrifying. Greg stood in the center, flanked by the old air conditioning units, looking between Taylor and Sparky.

"Alright," Greg said, his voice dropping into a steady, honest register. "No more secrets between us."

He raised his hand, letting a faint, crackling spark of raw blue and silver energy flicker across his fingertips.

"I have powers," Greg declared softly. "And I wanted you two to be the first to know."

Sparky paused mid-chew, a potato chip hovering inches from his mouth, while Taylor's eyes went wide behind her glasses. For the next fifteen minutes, the rooftop was silent save for Greg's voice. He spilled everything. He didn't hold back or sanitize it to make himself sound like some smooth, mysterious hero. He told them how he had literally walked into his bedroom almost a month ago and found a glowing, holographic slot machine floating near his closet—the Chaos Gacha.

He explained the mechanics: how he earned tickets from feats or daily tasks, how he drew randomized abilities, skills, items, and curses from across entirely different universes. He confessed that he was High Roller, the red-scaled dragon hybrid cape that had stormed the Docks last night. He described the frantic, bloody clash with Lung, how he had straight-up decapitated the nine-foot dragon-man with raw drake force, and how he had backed up his mysterious new cape partner, Monarch, when Armsmaster tried to pull a veteran-hero power move to claim all the credit.

When Greg finally finished, he took a deep breath, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "So... yeah. That's... that's basically it. That's why I've been acting like a lunatic for the past four weeks."

A heavy, absolute silence fell over the rooftop.

Sparky stared at Greg, his mouth slightly open, the potato chip completely forgotten. Taylor looked like her brain had halted, her hands clutched tightly against the front of her jacket, her lips parting as she tried to process the sheer, absurd magnitude of what she had just heard.

The endless silence stretched for five long seconds.

Then, Sparky broke it. He leaned back against the brick ledge, tossed the potato chip into his mouth, and looked at Greg with a deadpan grin.

"So... is Monarch hot?"

Taylor instantly choked on her own spit, letting out a loud, strangled sputtering sound. "W-What?!"

Greg cracked up, throwing his head back with a loud laugh. "Man, I don't even know her civilian identity! She was wearing this awesome, full-body spider-silk armor with a full helmet. But GODDAMN, she had to be something if her ass looked THAT fine in the suit!"

"Right?!" Sparky wheezed, clapping his hands together. "You gotta respect a cape with top-tier gear and top-tier aesthetic!"

The two boys broke into booming laughter, completely oblivious to the sudden, horrifying shift in atmospheric pressure taking place three feet away from them.

Taylor's face had gone from pale to a deep, nuclear, apocalyptic red. Her cheeks were burning so hot they could have melted lead. Her hands trembled, her eyes darting between Greg and Sparky in sheer, unadulterated humiliation.

Suddenly, a sharp, angry buzzing filled the air.

From the gaps in the roof tiles, from the air vents, and from the brickwork, a dense cloud of black beetles, yellowjackets, and biting flies erupted in a dark, swirling tornado. The swarm condensed into a menacing halo around Taylor's head, their wings vibrating with a low, menacing drone that sounded suspiciously like grinding teeth.

Greg and Sparky's laughter died instantly.

The two boys froze, their eyes slowly sliding toward Taylor.

Taylor stepped forward, her face practically glowing red, her teeth grit so hard her jaw ached. She raised one hand, and the dark cloud of insects instantly snapped to attention, hovering in perfect, militaristic formation around her fingers.

She glared at Greg with a look that could have stripped paint off a wall. She was not happy about the ass comment.

"I," Taylor choked out, her voice dangerously tight, "am Monarch."

Greg and Sparky stared into the absolute visage of death.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of them moved. The wind howled across the gravel. The bugs buzzed violently.

Greg's eyes were wide as saucers. Slowly, inch by inch, without moving the rest of his body, Greg turned his head toward Sparky.

"...I take it back," Greg said in a high-pitched, totally deadpan whisper. "Monarch is hot."

Sparky burst into a loud, frantic laugh, dropping his bag of chips, and Greg caved right after, both of them howling with laughter while clutching their stomachs.

"I'M GOING TO DIE!" Taylor shrieked, throwing her hands over her face and sinking straight down to her knees on the gravel, wishing the roof would open up and swallow her whole. "I am actually going to die of embarrassment! Right here! On the roof!"

"Taylor, I am so sorry!" Greg wheezed through his tears, trying desperately to catch his breath while waving his hands defensively. "I didn't know! I swear to God I didn't know!"

"You called my suit's ass fine!" Taylor groaned into her knees, her voice muffled by her sleeves as the bugs dispersed back into the shadows. "In front of Sparky!"

"Hey, to be fair, it was a compliment on your armor design!" Sparky offered helpfully, earning a violent glare from Taylor through her messy dark hair.

It took a solid five minutes for the roof to finally calm down. Taylor slowly stood back up, dusting off her jeans, her face still flushed a light pink, though the sheer panic had faded into a tired, amused resignation. Sparky wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, leaning back against the roof door.

Greg cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to steer the conversation back onto safer waters.

"Okay, okay, serious topic," Greg said, clearing his throat again. "So... after last night, did you start working on your costume like I recommended?"

Taylor blinked, looking up at him as Greg grinned, his teeth flashing in a brief memory of his High Roller form.

"Right?!" Greg recited with theatrical flair, mimicking his own voice from last night. "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 let out a long, fond sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yes, Greg, I started sketching out ideas during history class. But custom spider-silk tailoring takes time. My current armor took me ages to weave together. I can't just slap gold paint on it overnight."

"Fair enough," Greg chuckled. "Just saying, the high collar would go hard."

Sparky leaned forward, his curiosity thoroughly piqued. "Wait, so Greg... if you get system stuff for doing big, crazy cape feats, what kind of rewards did you get for taking down a boss like Lung last night?"

Greg's eyes lit up. "Oh! Dude, I got five Legendary tickets. Five!"

"Five Legendary tickets?" Sparky whistled. "That sounds absurd."

Greg was about to boast further when a sudden thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. His brain halted. He blinked, staring into empty air as an idea began to bloom in his head.

Wait a minute...

Greg closed his eyes, reaching out into the dimensional space of his mind to address the glowing, floating interface of the system.

Hey Gacha... if I were to give a ticket to someone else, what would happen?

The system interface flickered instantly, bold, glowing text appearing in his field of vision accompanied by its signature, snarky tone:

[GACHA SYSTEM INTERACTION:] "Oh, look at the big hero! Decided to share your shiny toys with your little playground friends? How quaint!"

"To answer your foolish query: If you wish to invite others into your inner fold, granting them a Gacha Ticket will bind them as Chaos Allies. Upon receiving a ticket, they will roll the Gacha directly for themselves! They will gain the ability to perceive the System interface, access their own inventory, and even roll the Curse Wheel if their sanity permits!"

"HOWEVER! Pay attention to the rules, mortal, and DO NOT attempt to cheat my system:"

• Rule 1: Abilities, Skills, and Traits CANNOT be transferred or shared between hosts! What they roll is theirs, and what you roll is yours!
• Rule 2: Familiars WILL have shared ownership across fellow Chaos Allies! Any familiar summoned can be commanded by your bound team members!
• Rule 3: Physical Items CAN be gifted or traded freely once drawn!
• Rule 4: New Chaos Allies will start with 5 base Ability Slots, which will naturally expand as they accumulate more power! Do not push your luck!"

Greg opened his eyes, a massive, wild grin spreading across his face. He held out his hands, palms up. With a bright, shimmering flash of golden light, four rectangular, intricately etched golden tickets materialized out of thin air, hovering just above his fingers like burning metallic playing cards.

Greg looked up at Sparky and Taylor, his eyes gleaming with mischievous excitement.

"Hey guys..." Greg grinned. "Wanna get Overpowered?"

Sparky's jaw hit the roof gravel. He stared at the glowing golden tickets, his eyes wider than saucers.

"HELL YEAH!" Sparky shouted, jumping forward without a second of hesitation. "I ALWAYS wanted powers! There's no way I'm letting you two have all the fun while I sit on the sidelines!" He paused, looking at Greg with a sudden, serious glint in his eye. "Wait... does this mean I'm officially in the Chaos Brigade?"

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "Sparky, I'm insulted you even had to ask, man. You were in the moment you stepped onto this roof."

Taylor looked at the glowing tickets hovering in front of Greg. Her heart was hammering in her chest. A month ago, she would have been terrified of something like this. But after last night—after standing beside High Roller, after feeling the weight of the city pushing down on her—she looked at her two friends. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel alone. She felt safe.

Taylor stepped forward, a shy, hesitant, but deeply determined smile touching her lips. "Okay... let me in."

Greg nodded, separating the four glowing golden tickets. He handed two to Sparky and two to Taylor.

"Just tear them in half mentally or physically," Greg instructed. "The system will handle the rest."

Sparky didn't even wait for Greg to finish his sentence. He grabbed his two Legendary tickets and violently ripped them down the middle!

Instantly, two massive, holographic text screens burst into existence right in front of Sparky's face, illuminating the rooftop in vivid crimson and cosmic violet light:

[GACHA DRAW COMPLETE!]

[ITEM OBTAINED: Magu Magu no Mi]

• Rarity: Mythical Item (One Piece)
• Description: The Magu Magu no Mi is a Devil Fruit that grants the eater the ability of the [Magma Logia]. Your body turns into living, molten magma, granting near-immunity to physical attacks, intense heat generation, and absolute elemental manipulation. INFLICTS: Curse of the Sea (Submersion in still water rapidly drains stamina and neutralizes active energy). Note: Tastes like absolute garbage. If two Devil Fruits are eaten by one person, they die instantly.

[ABILITY OBTAINED: Lunarian Form]

• Rarity: Epic Ability (One Piece)
• Description: Allows you to temporarily or permanently transform into a Lunarian, an ancient race of powerful sky-faring beings. Grants a pair of massive, black-feathered wings for high-speed flight, silver-white hair, brown skin, and a constant plume of fire burning upon your upper back. While your back-flame is lit, you gain near-indestructible durability; when extinguished, your durability lowers but your speed increases dramatically!

"HOLY SHIT!" Sparky roared.

Before he could even process the text, a strange, swirl-patterned red fruit—looking like an oversized, jagged, fiery melon—materialized out of thin air and dropped straight into Sparky's hands.

"Eat it!" Greg cheered. "Bite the fruit!"

Sparky didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth wide and took a massive, greedy bite out of the Magu Magu no Mi.

The moment his teeth sank into the flesh of the fruit, Sparky's eyes bugged out of his head. His entire face contorted into a violent, horrific mask of pure agony. It tasted like rotten sewage mixed with battery acid, burnt rubber, dirt, and sour milk that had been sitting in the sun for three years.

"BLEGGGGHH!" Sparky gagged, forced to swallow the bite. "OH GOD! THAT TASTES LIKE A TRASH CAN'S TRASH CAN!"

WHOOSH!

Before Sparky could even spit, his entire body erupted into blinding heat!

His skin sloughed away into swirling, dripping streams of bright orange, molten magma! His clothes didn't burn—the system kept them intact—but his entire torso, arms, and face turned into a roaring, bubbling volcano of liquid rock! Drops of liquid fire dripped onto the rooftop concrete, sizzling and melting small divots into the gravel!

"WHOA! WHOA! I'M LAVA! GREG, TAYLOR, LOOK! I'M ACTUAL LAVA!" Sparky yelled, his voice echoing with a deep, rumbling volcanic resonance as he laughed in pure awe.

Without missing a beat, Sparky slotted his second pull—[Lunarian Form].

A brilliant burst of flame exploded from Sparky's upper back!

His physical structure shifted with terrifying, graceful elegance. His faded hoodie altered as two enormous, majestic black-feathered wings—each spanning nearly eight feet across—erupted from his shoulder blades, fanning out into the air with a heavy THWACK! His hair shifted from its dull tone into a striking, luminous silver-white, and his skin tone deepened into a rich, warm brown. Behind his head, a steady, immortal plume of bright orange fire burned continuously, casting a holy, draconic glow over his new form.

Sparky flapped his massive black wings once. The sheer draft knocked Greg's hoodie back and rattled the rooftop vents.

Sparky floated three feet off the ground, hovering effortlessly in the air, magma dripping from his hands, black wings beating against the sky, fire blazing behind his shoulders.

He looked down at his brown hands, then touched his silver hair, blinking.

"Oh wow," Sparky chuckled, floating higher into the air. "I am DEFINITELY gonna be Empire 88's prime target now with this skin tone and hair... but honestly? Whatever! THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!"

"YOU LOOK BADASS, SPARKY!" Greg yelled, throwing his fists in the air. "FLY, YOU MAGMA ANGEL, FLY!"

Taylor watched Sparky hovering in the sky, her jaw completely slack. The sheer absurdity, the raw, beautiful magic of it all cleared away every single trace of her anxiety. Confidence, warm and unyielding, ignited in her chest.

Taylor looked down at her two golden tickets. She gripped them tightly, took a deep breath, and ripped them both open!

[GACHA DRAW COMPLETE!]

[ITEM OBTAINED: Kamui Senketsu]

• Rarity: Mythical Item (Kill La Kill)
• Description: A sentient sailor uniform made entirely of Life Fibers. Synchronizes with its wearer to grant godlike physical strength, speed, durability, and flight while consuming small amounts of blood/vitality. Senketsu can independently shapeshift into various forms and possesses his own consciousness.

[ABILITY OBTAINED: Archangel Form]

• Rarity: Mythical Ability
• Description: Grants the power to transform into a high-tier Archangel Hybrid! Massively boosts all physical attributes and allows you to infuse attacks with pure Holy Energy. Grants intuitive mastery over all divine spells, healing arts, blessings, and holy protection barriers below Elite Rank!

Suddenly, a dark, fiber-like clothing material exploded around Taylor's body, wrapping around her in a whirlwind of red thread!

In a fraction of a second, her normal school clothes were replaced as Senketsu synchronized with her. However, because Senketsu materialized in his default, unrefined combat state, Taylor suddenly found herself wearing an outrageously skimpy sailor uniform—a bare midriff, ultra-short skirt, and open collar!

Taylor looked down at herself, froze, and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! WHAT IS THIS?! WHY AM I NAKED?!" Taylor screamed, throwing her arms over her chest and ducking behind an air conditioner!

Greg and Sparky instantly spun around 180 degrees, snapping their hands over their eyes!

"WE AREN'T LOOKING! WE AREN'T LOOKING!" Greg shouted frantically at the sky!

"I'M BLIND! I SEE NOTHING! I AM LOOKING AT THE CLOUDS!" Sparky yelled, flapping his wings in reverse!

"COVER ME UP! CHANGE! CHANGE NOW!" Taylor panicked, squeezing her eyes shut as she mentally pleaded with the uniform.

"Calm down, kid!" a deep, suave, gravelly voice echoed directly in Taylor's mind. "I can adjust the weave! Just breathe!"

The sentient Life Fibers of Senketsu responded instantly to Taylor's intense desire for protection and modesty. The skimpy fabric expanded, shifting and weaving at lightspeed, transforming into a sleek, full-body, high-collared combat suit of dense, dark armored silk, trimmed with bold red lines and sharp, elegant shoulder plating that hugged her form perfectly while providing absolute coverage!

Taylor gasped, feeling the instant shift. She looked down at her hands—she was fully covered in a slick, terrifyingly durable armored suit that felt lighter than air, yet stronger than solid titanium.

"O-Okay," Taylor stammered, her heart pounding. "It changed! You can look now!"

Greg and Sparky turned around, lowering their hands—and both of them gasped.

"Whoa..." Greg whispered. "Taylor... that looks insanely cool!"

Before Taylor could even thank him, she slotted her second draw—[Archangel Form].

BOOM!

A blinding pillar of pure, radiant, golden divine light descended straight from the heavens, engulfing Taylor!

The grey sky above Brockton Bay seemed to part for a split second. From Taylor's back, two glorious, luminous wings made of pure, sparkling golden light erupted outward! The golden wings fanned out, shedding brilliant, glowing feathers of pure holy energy that dissolved into light before touching the gravel.

Her physical presence exploded with divine authority. Her eyes glowed with a soft, warm golden radiance, and a subtle, shimmering halo of light hovered softly above her dark hair.

Taylor lifted off the ground, floating effortlessly into the sky right alongside Sparky.

She looked at her hands, feeling the sheer, unimaginable magnitude of holy power coursing through her veins. In her mind, hundreds of divine spells, healing incantations, protective barriers, and holy light attacks unlocked simultaneously, sitting at her fingertips like an infinite library of miracles.

She felt an overwhelming, profound urge to protect, to heal, to purge darkness from the city.

"Sparky... look!" Taylor laughed—a clear, musical sound of pure joy that she hadn't made in years.

She flapped her golden wings, soaring in a wide, graceful arc over the roof. Sparky laughed back, flapping his black Lunarian wings, and the two of them began swooping and looping around each other in the air, laughing like children under the cloudy sky!

"THIS IS UNREAL!" Taylor yelled, her voice echoed with divine harmony. "I CAN FLY! I CAN ACTUALLY FLY!"

Greg stood on the rooftop below, watching his two best friends laughing, flying, and glowing with godlike power under the grey sky. A warm, immense feeling of pride swelled in his chest. He grinned from ear to ear.

Suddenly, the Gacha system interface flashed into Greg's field of vision:

[GACHA SYSTEM NOTIFICATION!] [SPECIAL ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: THE PROMETHEUS EFFECT!]

• Achievement: You shared the knowledge, truth, and power of the Chaos Gacha with those you truly trust! You have officially founded the Chaos Brigade and brought true, chaotic ascension to your allies!
• Reward Granted: 1x LEGENDARY GACHA TICKET!

"Nice!" Greg cheered softly, looking at the fresh golden ticket sitting in his inventory.

He now had 2 Legendary tickets left... but his eyes strayed toward the bottom of the screen, where the ominous, glowing red wheel of the Curse Wheel sat spinning slowly.

Greg's inner gambling addict twitched. His eye narrowed.

Just one roll... Greg thought to himself, a wild, dangerous smirk spreading across his lips. Just one little spin on the Curse Wheel to get another ticket... what's the absolute worst that could happen? I survived Neat Freak, didn't I?

Greg mentally slapped the spin button on the Curse Wheel!

The wheel spun in a violent, bloody frenzy before slamming to a halt on a deep, obsidian segment:

[CURSE OBTAINED: Honesty]

• Severity Level: 16
• Description: You are an honest person. Way too honest. You are physically and mentally incapable of communicating with the intent to deceive someone! No lies, no lies by omission, no clever wording, no misdirection! Whatever you say, you MUST say exactly what you mean! Either keep your mouth shut or tell the raw, absolute truth!
• Resolution Requirement: Acquire a Lie Detector ability, a Deception ability, OR acquire Adept-rank Communication/Persuasion.
• REWARD GRANTED FOR TAKING SEVERITY 16 CURSE: 1x PLATINUM GACHA TICKET!

Greg's eyes widened in sheer, horror-stricken panic.

"NO! NO WAY!" Greg screamed mentally. "A SEVERITY 16 CURSE?! I CAN'T LIE AT ALL?! I'M A CAPE! MY ENTIRE LIFE IS A SECRET IDENTITY! IF SOMEONE ASKS ME MY NAME I'LL JUST BLURT IT OUT! THIS IS HELL!"

Desperate to fix his fatal mistake, Greg opened his ticket pouch instantly. He had 1 Platinum Ticket, 3 Legendary Tickets, and he was going to roll them ALL right now to save his own life!

"Roll them all! Roll everything!" Greg prayed mentally.

The Gacha machine roared to life, shooting four massive pillars of Platinum and Gold light into Greg's vision!

[GACHA DRAWS COMPLETE!]

[TRAIT OBTAINED: Chaos Response]

• Rarity: Elite Trait (Platinum Roll)
• Description: Your very existence is defined by the Chaos Gacha, automatically causing violent feedback to anything that tries to peek into your reality! Future-sight and Precognition abilities get scrambled into incoherent noise, Thinker abilities trying to analyze you will malfunction, and anyone attempting to read your mind will suffer a massive, blinding migraine at minimum!

"YES! Anti-Thinker trait!" Greg cheered mentally. "Awesome! Next!"

[SKILL OBTAINED: King of All Trades]

• Rarity: Epic Skill (Legendary Roll)
• Description: Grants Adept-level expertise across ALL basic trades, including: Adept Blacksmithing, Adept Medicine, Adept Mechanics, Adept Cooking, Adept Interfacing, Adept Discipline, and ADEPT COMMUNICATION! You possess competence and talent comparable to a master veteran in every physical and social trade!

Greg froze.

Adept Communication?! Adept Discipline?!

Instantly, the Gacha system interface went absolute haywire! Bright, neon-pink and emerald-green warning screens flashed rapidly across his eyes!

[CURSE RESOLUTION DETECTED!]

• [Honesty Curse (Severity 16)] REQUIREMENT MET! You have acquired Adept Communication! CURSE PURGED!

[INHERENT SKILL SYNERGY DETECTED!]

• Your acquisition of [Adept Discipline] instantly purges your active [Sadism Curse] and [Neat Freak Curse]!
• Your acquisition of [Adept Communication] instantly purges your active [Menacing Curse]!

[ALL ACTIVE CURSES HAVE BEEN CLEARED!]

[SPECIAL SYSTEM ACHIEVEMENTS UNLOCKED!]

• [ACHIEVEMENT: TOTAL PURGE!] You successfully cleared 4 active curses from your body! Reward Granted: 1x DIAMOND GACHA TICKET!
• [ACHIEVEMENT: SPEEDRUNNER!] You resolved a Severity 16 Curse in under 60 seconds of acquiring it! Reward Granted: 1x PLATINUM GACHA TICKET!

Greg stood on the roof, his jaw hanging open so wide it almost touched his chest.

"No... way..." Greg whispered in pure shock.

The Neat Freak Curse was gone. The Menace aura separating him from people was gone. The Honesty curse was gone before he even spoke a word. And in return, he had just been handed a Diamond Ticket, a Platinum Ticket, and he still had 2 Legendary Tickets left to roll!

"Gacha god... I love you," Greg whimpered with tears of joy in his eyes.

Without waiting another second, Greg slammed the roll button on his remaining 4 high-tier tickets!

The screen exploded into a cosmic display of Diamond, Platinum, and Gold light!

[GACHA DRAWS COMPLETE!]

[ABILITY OBTAINED: Unlock]

• Rarity: Legendary Ability (Diamond Roll)
• Description: Allows you to conceptually 'unlock' entities, objects, and concepts! Range includes physical locks, door seals, energy blockages, structural limits, and even unlocking someone's hidden inner potential or suppressed power! Energy cost scales with the abstract nature and difficulty of the target.

[ABILITY OBTAINED: Adamantine Sealing Chains]

• Rarity: Epic Ability (Platinum Roll - Naruto)
• Description: Allows you to manifest and control the signature Adamantine Sealing Chains of the Uzumaki Clan! These indestructible golden chains can physically bind targets and completely suppress and seal their energy/powers. Chain density, range, and suppression power scale with energy expended!

[ABILITY OBTAINED: Creation]

• Rarity: Legendary Ability (Legendary Roll)
• Description: Allows you to create physical objects and matter directly out of magical energy, provided you understand their atomic or structural composition! From creating a smartphone or a bar of solid gold to forging magical weaponry! Energy cost scales with mass and magical properties.

[FAMILIAR OBTAINED: Nakime]

• Rarity: Epic Familiar (Legendary Roll - Demon Slayer)
• Description: Summons Nakime, the Kizuki biwa player! Her Blood Demon Art manifests the [Infinity Castle]—an infinite, shifting pocket dimension of a wooden medieval castle under her complete control. She can manifest wooden sliding door portals to this realm on ANY surface you or she can perceive!

Greg's brain completely short-circuited.

He stared at the screen, his breathing halting entirely as the sheer, unbelievable synergy of his new pulls hit him.

Creation... unlimited physical funding! Gold bars! Technology! Custom armor materials! He could fund their entire cape team single-handedly without ever robbing a bank or needing PRT sponsorship!

Nakime's Infinity Castle... an INFINITE, totally unbreachable, hidden pocket dimension base! A headquarters that no villain, no hero, and no Endbringer could ever track or breach, accessible through any door on Earth!

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!" Greg screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing his hands into the air! "ALL OUR PROBLEMS ARE SOLVED! WE ARE RICH AND WE HAVE A CASTLE!"

Up in the sky, Taylor and Sparky stopped their aerial acrobatics, blinking down at Greg in confusion.

Taylor flapped her golden wings, swooping down alongside Sparky, who touched down on the concrete, his magma turning back into solid skin as his Lunarian wings folded neatly behind his back.

"Greg?" Taylor asked, hovering a foot above the ground, her golden wings shedding light. "What happened?! What did you pull?!"

Greg slotted [Creation] instantly, feeling the magical structure of matter settling into his mind. He grinned at both of them, his eyes glowing with boundless excitement.

"GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!" Greg yelled, pointing at the roof floor. "YOU GUYS ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE WHAT I JUST GOT US!"

A/N: i should play lotta cause holy shit i promise NONE of these are singled out or picked or anything if i feel like it's way too OP i just spin again

"What do you mean, our problems are solved?" Taylor asked, her golden wings fluttering softly as she hovered a few inches above the roof gravel. "Greg, what did you draw?"

Sparky landed beside her, his silver hair catching the dull sunlight as his black wings settled against his back. "Yeah, man! You can't just yell that you got us a castle and a gold mine without showing the goods!"

Greg didn't say a word. He just stood there with a huge, downright illegal smirk plastered across his face.

Thanks to [King of All Trades], his brain was suddenly flooded with an absurd, hyper-dense library of information. He didn't just know how to swing a hammer or patch a tire—the skill had dumped master-level understanding of physical chemistry, metallurgy, atomic geometry, and thermodynamic synthesis straight into his head. He knew the exact electron configuration, crystal lattice structure, and atomic mass of pure elemental gold ($\text{Au}$, atomic number 79).

Greg raised his right hand.

Taylor and Sparky leaned in, expecting him to pull out another card or sumonn a glowing menu. Instead, golden energy crackled violently over Greg's forearm. His skin flickered with a strange, translucent aura, and right before their horrified, wide-open eyes, solid matter began to materialize straight out of his skin!

A heavy, gleaming, impossibly bright bar of solid 24-karat gold extruded from his palm like a 3D printer running on pure magic. It solidified instantly in his grasp with a heavy, dense metallic clink.

Greg caught the twelve-and-a-half-kilogram London Good Delivery gold bar in one hand, tossing it up a few inches and catching it like it was nothing more than a brick.

Silence slammed over the rooftop like a falling anvil.

Sparky's eyes went so wide they looked like they were about to pop out of his skull. Taylor's jaw dropped so low her mouth formed a perfect, speech-less 'O'.

"Holy shit!" Sparky finally yelled, grabbing his hair with both hands. "Did you just... did you just shit out a gold bar from your wrist?!"

"It was my palm, and no, I synthesized it!" Greg corrected with a laugh, tucking the heavy gold bar comfortably under his arm like a football. "Creation, baby! As long as I understand the molecular and structural makeup of something, I can manifest it directly out of energy!"

"That's... that's actual alchemy," Taylor stuttered, staring at the gleaming metal under Greg's arm, her brain visibly struggling to process the implications. "Greg, that bar alone is worth over seven hundred thousand dollars!"

"Which means we never have to worry about funding, gear materials, or money ever again," Greg grinned.

He looked at Taylor, his eyes softening slightly. He knew her situation. He knew her dad was drowning in union stress, struggling to pay bills, and that Taylor was running around Brockton Bay with a ancient, clunky burner phone that barely worked—when she even had one at all.

"Which brings me to step two," Greg said.

He closed his eyes for a split second. Thanks to the micro-engineering, electrical physics, and advanced computer architecture granted by [King of All Trades], the inner schematics of high-end consumer technology were crystal clear in his mind.

Greg held out his left hand. Blue nanite-like threads of pure magical force woven together in the air above his palm. In less than three seconds, three pristine, ultra-sleek, top-of-the-line Samsung Galaxy smartphones materialized out of thin air.

Greg grabbed the first phone and handed it straight to Sparky.

Sparky snatched it up with pure, unadulterated gusto, his eyes lighting up like a kid opening presents on Christmas morning. "NO WAY! Is this the flagship model?! Man, mine's had a cracked screen for six months!"

Greg then turned to Taylor, holding out the second sleek, charcoal-black phone toward her.

Taylor flinched, instinctively taking a step back, her hands coming up in a frantic, waving refusal. "W-Wait, Greg! No! I can't take that! That phone costs well over a thousand dollars! I can't just accept something like this from you, my dad would ask questions, and—"

"Taylor."

Greg stepped forward, closing the distance between them before she could finish sputtering her excuses. He didn't let her back away. He reached out and gently took her hand, placing the smooth, premium glass and metal of the smartphone directly into her palm, closing her fingers around it.

He looked her dead in the eye, his expression shifting from his usual goofy excitement into something intensely serious, warm, and grounded.

"Keep it," Greg said, his voice dropping into a calm, protective register. "I'm not letting my teammate run around this godforsaken city without a way to call for help. I'd much rather give you a phone than spend every single night worrying about what's happening to you out there. Please... just take it."

Taylor froze.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Greg was standing barely a foot away from her, his hand still gently wrapping around hers. Looking up at him, Taylor felt a sudden, violent wave of heat surge straight up her neck and flush into her face. Her cheeks turned a deep, nuclear, apocalyptic red.

Taylor's face turned beet red, her heart hammering against her ribs. When the hell... her mind screamed in high-voltage panic, ...did Greg get so annoyingly hot?!

Thanks to [Adept Communication], Greg was able to pick up on the subtle emotional intents of people like an open book—reading tone of voice, slight shakes, and nonverbal body language effortless. Combined with the passive perceptual side of [Adept Kama Sutra], which allowed him to spot subtle signs of attraction and physical arousal like flushed skin, a rapid pulse in her neck, and dilated pupils, the reality of the situation hit him like a freight train.

Wait... does Taylor like me? Greg thought, his brain short-circuiting for a second. He quickly shook his head mentally. No, that's ridiculous! Moving on!

Greg cleared his throat, smoothly stepping back while maintaining his confident, easygoing grin.

"Anyway!" Greg announced, patting his own pocketed phone. "Those aren't just normal phones. I preprogrammed all three of them using custom encrypted protocols I built into the software. Dragon or the PRT couldn't trace or tap these lines if they tried. They have unlimited data, talk, and text, completely untraceable, and all our numbers are already saved in the contacts."

Sparky, who was already eagerly tapping away at his vibrant, ultra-smooth touchscreen, let out a low whistle. "Nice."

"Oh, you think that's nice?" Greg smirked, adjusting the heavy gold bar tucked under his arm. "Sparky, Taylor... that wasn't even my best pull."

Taylor squeezed the smartphone in her hand, trying desperately to cool down her burning face as she forced herself to focus. "What... what else could you possibly have gotten?"

Greg grinned mischeviously. "Nakime. Come on out."

A dark, silky shadow pooled onto the rooftop concrete directly beside Greg.

From the shadow, a tall, impossibly elegant figure rose. She wore a deep black, traditional Japanese kimono with white trimmings. Long, lustrous raven hair fell forward, completely veiling the upper half of her face. Held securely in her arms was a beautifully carved, polished dark-wood four-stringed biwa.

Nakime bowed her head deeply toward Greg, her voice soft, cool, and smooth as silk. "My Lord."

She then turned slightly toward Sparky and Taylor, bowing with equal grace. "Honored Masters."

Sparky stared, his jaw working silently. "Is... is she a summon?"

"She's my new Familiar," Greg explained proudly. "And she holds the keys to our new home. Nakime... take us to the Infinity Castle."

Nakime raised her right hand, her pale, slender fingers striking the wooden plectrum against the strings of her biwa.

DON!

The sharp, resonant, echoing strum of the instrument vibrated through the very air of the rooftop.

Directly on the flat concrete floor between them, the roof seamlessly split open! A heavy, traditional wooden sliding door (shoji) materialized out of thin air, sliding open to reveal a flight of polished, dark wooden stairs leading straight DOWN into a brightly lit, endless abyss below the roof!

Sparky nearly jumped out of his skin. "WHAT THE?!"

Greg casually stepped over to the open trapdoor on the roof floor, walking down the first few steps of the wooden staircase. He paused, looking back up at his two paralyzed friends with a broad, inviting grin.

"You guys coming?" Greg asked.

Taylor and Sparky exchanged a glance, took a deep breath, and followed Greg straight down into the floor.

The moment they stepped through the wooden doorway, the shoji door slid shut behind them with a soft snap.

They were no longer on the cold, dreary rooftop of Winslow High School.

They were standing on a suspended wooden platform in the middle of a vast, impossible, mind-bending dimensional expanse. Endless architectural structures made of polished wood, tatami mats, and sliding paper doors stretched out infinitely in every direction—up, down, left, right. Entire rooms were inverted, hovering upside down in the distance; endless staircases crisscrossed through empty space; warm, ambient light radiated from paper lanterns floating in the void.

The sheer, monumental scale of the dimension took their breath away.

"HOLY SHIT!" Sparky roared, his voice echoing across the infinite expanse.

"Holy shit," Taylor echoed softly, completely abandoning any attempt at restraint. She realized with a sudden jolt that she had sworn more in the last ten minutes than she had in her entire life, but looking out over an infinite, shifting wooden dimension, she felt it was entirely justified.

"Pretty wild, right?" Greg laughed, leaning against the wooden railing. He turned to Nakime, who had appeared beside him on the landing. "Hey, Nakime? The endless shifting architecture is super cool for throwing off intruders, but can you manipulate a section of this place to give us a proper, modern living space? Like a cozy headquarters?"

Nakime inclined her head respectfully. "As you command, My Lord."

She struck her biwa twice.

DON! DON!

The massive wooden walls around their platform instantly began to shift! Heavy timber beams glided through the air with mechanical precision, tatami floors folded and expanded, and sliding doors rearranged themselves in a blur of motion.

In less than five seconds, the ancient Japanese architecture morphed seamlessly into a massive, luxurious, modern living lounge!

Thick, comfortable leather sectional couches materialized around a low-profile mahogany table. Warm, recess lighting glowed from high wooden ceiling beams. A state-of-the-art entertainment center and wall-mounted monitors aligned along one wall, while wide, open archways led into private living quarters, workshop spaces, and fully equipped training rooms.

The blend of classic, elegant woodwork and ultra-modern comfort was breathtaking.

Greg pumped his fist into the air with a triumphant laugh. He turned back to Taylor and Sparky, who were standing frozen in the middle of the luxurious lounge, their mouths hanging open for what felt like the hundredth time today.

Greg spread his arms wide, the golden light of the room reflecting off his grin.

"WELCOME TO THE LAIR OF THE CHAOS BRIGADE!"

A/N:Alright this story is going on the back burner for a bit i've Neglected Gears of Anarchy and my other stories enough

 

[Thegameaholic]

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♦Topic: LUNG IS DEAD. Repeat: LUNG IS DEAD. (Docks Incident Megathread) In: Boards ► News ► Parahuman Events ► East Coast ► Brockton Bay

Bagrat (Guy in the Know) (Original Poster) Posted on May 11, 2011:

I'm writing this from my kitchen table overlooking the industrial sector near 10th and Lord. Half the East End is wide awake. Emergency sirens have been running non-stop since midnight, and there is still a massive, thick plume of white chemical smoke rising off the abandoned warehouse district near the docks.

Word from local emergency services, fire departments, and police scanner chatter is officially confirmed: Lung is dead.

He wasn't captured. He wasn't suppressed by Armsmaster or sent to the Birdcage. He was decapitated on-site after going fully transformed into his multi-story dragon form.

According to preliminary reports and eyewitness accounts near the perimeter, two brand-new independent capes engaged him before the Protectorate or Wards even arrived on scene. One is an armored insect controller who goes by Monarch. The second is a heavy brute/blaster hybrid named High Roller, who apparently delivered the final decisive strike.

Opening the floor for discussion. Who are these capes, where did they come from, and what does this mean for the power vacuum in Brockton Bay?

(Showing Page 1 of 15)

► Clockblocker (Verified Cape) Replied on May 11, 2011: I'm sitting in the Wards lounge right now and half our team is staring at the monitor in absolute, complete disbelief. Lung was a walking tactical nuke. If these two independents actually put him down permanently before Armsmaster even parked his bike, the entire threat balance in Brockton Bay just got flipped upside down overnight.

► Point_Me_At_Them (Verified Cape) Replied on May 11, 2011: Good riddance to a violent monster, but lethal force on night one is an extreme statement to make to the city. Are these two operating as vigilantes or hero-aligned independents? Have they made any official public statement yet?

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 11, 2011: A guy on my street was near the PRT perimeter line when Armsmaster was talking to them before they left the scene. He swears High Roller gave an official team name before departing.

They're calling themselves "The Chaos Brigade."

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: "The Chaos Brigade"? Are you serious? That sounds like a mid-2000s MMO guild name! Who let them pick that name?!

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 11, 2011: Top-tier combat performance, absolute zero-tier branding. Sounds like something a high school kid came up with during study hall. Still, if you decapitate the dragon of Brockton Bay, I guess you earn the right to call yourselves whatever you want.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Replied on May 11, 2011: I know my username on these boards usually gets associated with speculative threads and long-winded analysis, but I need to clarify the situation directly.

I am High Roller.

Last night at the Docks, my partner Monarch and I engaged Lung after he cornered a group of defenseless civilians. We were also aided directly by our heavyweight combat projection, Aurelius, who provided critical frontline suppression while Monarch locked down the perimeter. Lung was fully transformed and escalating rapidly. Lethal force was our absolute last resort to prevent massive civilian casualties and the destruction of the surrounding neighborhood.

We are not villains, nor are we looking to terrorize this city. The Chaos Brigade exists to protect Brockton Bay when the authorities can't get there in time. I owe my life to Monarch's incredible battlefield control and Aurelius's defense. Thank you to everyone sending support.

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 11, 2011: ...Is this a joke? Void, take a breath and log off for ten minutes.

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 11, 2011: Classic Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX moment. Bro saw a news article about a new Brute cape and instantly logged on to claim he's the guy. Aren't you the same user who posted a six-paragraph manifesto last month claiming the PRT Director is an android built by Richter?

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: LMAO Void, please stop. We all know you're a teenager who spends eight hours a day on conspiracy forums. You didn't fight Lung at the Docks. You probably haven't stepped outside your front porch all week.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Replied on May 11, 2011: I am not asking for clout, nor am I lying. Check the PRT logs near 10th and Lord from approximately 11:45 PM. Armsmaster arrived at the tail end of the engagement, spoke directly with Monarch and myself, and secured the scene afterward. I am giving credit where it is due: Monarch kept the swarm focused to protect bystanders, and Aurelius absorbed the thermal output so I could close the distance.

I understand why people are skeptical given my posting history, but the fight happened, Lung is gone, and the Docks are safer today because of my team.

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 11, 2011: He even came up with a lore explanation for a third member named "Aurelius" being a projection power. You've got to hand it to Void, his creative writing skills are dedicated.

► Tin_Mother (Moderator / Admin) Replied on May 11, 2011: [OFFICIAL MODERATOR WARNING]

User Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX — Please refrain from impersonating active parahumans or fabricating cape identities on official news threads. Claiming responsibility for major parahuman engagements without verification violates PHO Terms of Service. Further violations will result in a 24-hour account suspension.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Replied on May 11, 2011: Understood, Tin_Mother. I respect the moderation protocols. However, I stand by my statement. Monarch and I are ready to go through official verification whenever administrative channels permit.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 13, 14, 15

(Showing Page 2 of 15)

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: Anyway, back to actual discussion. What do you guys think the Empire's reaction is going to be now that the ABB's top enforcer is dead?

► Little_Owl Replied on May 11, 2011: Hello everyone. I created this account specifically to respond to this thread and confirm the statements made above.

My cape name is Monarch. I am the insect controller who fought alongside High Roller last night. Everything posted by Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX is entirely accurate. He is indeed High Roller, the leader of the Chaos Brigade, and the cape who delivered the final blow to Lung.

His tactical decisions during the fight saved multiple lives, including my own. He deserves your respect, not ridicule. Additionally, Aurelius's role as our frontline projection was vital to containing the firestorm.

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 11, 2011: Did Void seriously just create an alt account to back up his own story?

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 11, 2011: LMAOOOOOOOOOO! He made a fake account named "Little_Owl" to call himself a brave leader!

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: NO WAY! Void actually spent twenty minutes making a secondary profile to pretend to be a female bug controller praising his tactical genius! BRO THIS IS THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING EVER SEEN ON PHO!

► Clockblocker (Verified Cape) Replied on May 11, 2011: I am physically holding back tears from laughing so hard. Void, my man, this is legendary level commitment to a bit. "He saved my life, please treat him with respect." You can't write comedy this good.

► Tin_Mother (Moderator / Admin) Replied on May 11, 2011: [SYSTEM NOTICE]

Users Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX and Little_Owl: Please check your private message directory immediately for administrative credential protocols.

► Tin_Mother (Moderator / Admin) Replied on May 11, 2011: [OFFICIAL ADMIN ANNOUNCEMENT]

I have personally completed direct cryptographic, visual, and power-signature verification for both users via private administrative channel.

I can officially confirm to the public that Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX is indeed the independent cape High Roller, responsible for the lethal neutralization of Lung. Little_Owl is officially verified as the independent cape Monarch.

Their claims regarding their identities, power manifestations, and team leadership are authentic. Account status and badges have been updated across the board. Please adjust forum interactions accordingly.

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 11, 2011: ...WHAT?!

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 11, 2011: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?!

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: NO WAY. NO WAY. NO FUCKING WAY. ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT THE CONSPIRACY POSTER WHO HAS BEEN TALKING ABOUT RICHTER AND PRT ANDROIDS FOR TWO YEARS IS A HEAVY-HITTERS CAPE WHO KILLED LUNG?!

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 11, 2011: I AM LOSING MY MIND! VOID IS HIGH ROLLER?! VOID IS AN ACTUAL PARAHUMAN?! THE GUY WHO SPENT THREE WEEKS THREAD-JACKING THE SCION BOARDS IS THE MOST DANGEROUS INDEPENDENT CAPE IN BROCKTON BAY?!

► Point_Me_At_Them (Verified Cape) Replied on May 11, 2011: I... I am genuinely speechless. Dragon herself verified them.

► Clockblocker (Verified Cape) Replied on May 11, 2011: I just knocked my keyboard off the desk. I am staring at the bright red [VERIFIED CAPE] badge next to Void's handle and my brain has completely stopped working. Void is High Roller. The local forum poster took down Lung. I need to take a walk.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] Replied on May 11, 2011: As I stated previously, the Chaos Brigade is committed to protecting this city. Monarch, Aurelius, and I will continue to operate independently to keep Brockton Bay safe. Thank you for your cooperation.

► Little_Owl (VERIFIED CAPE — Monarch) [Chaos Brigade — Member] Replied on May 11, 2011: Thank you, Tin_Mother, for the prompt verification.

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 11, 2011: I officially apologize for everything I ever said about the team name. Chaos Brigade is incredible. Please don't come to my house, Mr. High Roller sir.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 13, 14, 15

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♦ Private Message Conversation: GStringGirl & Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX In: User Control Panel ► Private Messages ► Inbox

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: G-STRING! I AM SO SO SO SO SORRY! PLEASE DON'T HATE ME! I PROMISE I WASN'T GHOSTING YOU OR IGNORING YOU! I DIDN'T GET MAD AT YOUR JOKE! YOU'RE LITERALLY ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS IN THE WORLD!

I know this sounds crazy, but I swear to God I am telling you 100% the truth: ALMOST A MONTH AGO, I TRIGGERED. I GOT PARAHUMAN POWERS.

Everything in my life went completely insane overnight. I had to lay low while I figured out how my powers worked. My brain was so scrambled and stressed that I completely lost track of time and didn't even check my PHO messages. I know that's not a valid excuse, and I feel like trash right now, but I swear I never wanted to make you feel unwanted!

If you saw the news about Lung getting decapitated at the Docks last night by High Roller and Monarch... G-string, I am High Roller.

I know telling you my cape identity is a huge risk, but I trust you. Instinctively, I just know I can trust you with this. Please forgive me. I'm back now. I'm so sorry.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Void...

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: When I first opened your message an hour ago, I was literally sitting at my desk getting ready to send you a four-page essay screaming at you for ghosting me for nearly a full month.

I thought you were making up the most ridiculous, absurd, over-the-top excuse in internet history just to avoid admitting that you forgot about our co-op schedule! "I triggered, I got parahuman powers, I'm High Roller!" I was literally typing out a reply telling you to grow up and stop using fake cape stories to cover for being a bad friend!

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: ...And then I refreshed the main PHO page.

And I saw your thread on the front board.

With the bright red [VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller] badge sitting right under your username. Verified by TIN_MOTHER. Verified by DRAGON.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Void. You weren't lying.

You actually triggered. You're a real parahuman. You're HIGH ROLLER.

YOU KILLED LUNG LAST NIGHT?! THE GIANT THIRTY-FOOT FIRE DEMON FROM THE ABB?!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: I swear on everything, I wasn't lying to you! I know it sounds completely insane, but everything happened so fast over the last month.

When my powers came in, it completely overhauled my entire life. I was dealing with changes to my body, figuring out my capabilities, getting gear together, and trying not to get caught by the PRT. I barely slept for weeks! I lost track of what day it was! I am so, so sorry for leaving you hanging for a month, G-String. I would NEVER ignore you on purpose.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Void... stop apologizing for a second. Take a breath.

I'm not mad at you anymore for missing game nights. How could I be mad when you were literally going through a trigger event and hiding out as a new cape?!

I'm just... I'm in absolute shock right now. My brain is completely melted. My idiot gaming buddy who argues with me about strategy builds and complains about lag is a Class-S Brute who just decapitated the most dangerous villain on the East Coast?!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: It was a team effort! Monarch's swarm control kept the area clear so civvies didn't get burned, and Aurelius held the frontline while I closed in for the final blow. Lung was escalating out of control and starting fires that would have wiped out whole blocks. We didn't have a choice.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Are you okay, Void?! Seriously, answer me! Did you get burned?! Did you get hurt during the fight?! Lung has put entire Protectorate teams in the hospital!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: I'm 100% fine! Not a single scratch on me, I promise. My physical density and heat resistance completely absorbed his fire output. I'm sitting here in my base totally uninjured.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Also... Void... why the hell did you tell me your cape identity in a private message?!

Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?! If someone hacked your account or intercepted your feed, your real life could be compromised! You wrote in your message that you 'trust me instinctively,' but you don't even know what I look like in real life! Why would you trust me with something that big?!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: Because you're my friend, G-String. You've had my back for months on these boards and in games when everyone else was calling me a conspiracy nerd.

When I realized how long I'd been off the grid and how bad it looked, I couldn't just lie to you or give you some fake excuse about my computer breaking. You deserved the honest truth. I do trust you. I meant every word of that.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: ...You're such a huge idiot, Void. A sweet, incredibly dangerous idiot, but an idiot nonethless.

...Thank you. Seriously. That... actually means a lot to me. I won't tell a single soul. Your secret is completely safe with me, I swear.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: Thank you, G-String. That really takes a weight off my chest.

So... are we good? You don't hate me?

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: I don't hate you, High Roller. But don't think this gets you out of your gaming debt! You vanished for almost a month! You owe me at least twenty carry matches to make up for all the queue time I lost!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: Hahaha! Deal! I've got custom encrypted lines set up now, so I won't be dropping offline anymore. Whenever you're ready, invite me to the lobby.

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Sending the match invite right now. And Void?

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: Yeah?

► GStringGirl Sent on May 11, 2011: Be careful out there. Brockton Bay is a nightmare, and now every villain in the city is going to be watching you and the Chaos Brigade. Don't go getting yourself killed. I'm not finding another co-op partner.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX Sent on May 11, 2011: Don't worry. Monarch, Aurelius, and I have everything under control. The Chaos Brigade is just getting started. Joining the lobby now!

---

The reinforced steel door of Room 408 made a heavy, pressurized hiss as the pneumatic locks engaged for the evening, sealing the chamber off from the rest of the facility's quiet corridors.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by the warm, amber glow of a triple-monitor workstation mounted securely to a heavy steel desk. Surrounding the desk were racks of paints, customized clay-molding tools, and thick rolls of canvas. But the girl sitting in front of the monitors wasn't sitting on a standard office chair.

She was suspended in a heavy, custom-built mechanical harness—a steel frame lined with thick, dense memory foam and high-tensile safety straps designed to absorb sudden, violent kinetic shocks.

Inside the suit, beneath the padded outer layers and the delicate, hand-painted porcelain faceplate she had spent three weeks decorating to look like a smiling doll, Sveta Karelia was a nightmare of compressed, writhing biology. Hundreds of paper-thin, brilliant ribbon-like tendrils—pure, hyper-reactive coils of muscle and micro-barbs—squirmed and twitched against the interior padding like a nest of panicked vipers. Every single tendril possessed a mind of its own, constantly seeking to grab, wrap, crush, and tear apart anything within reach the moment her conscious focus slipped.

It took ninety percent of her mental energy just to keep her body from tearing her own room to pieces.

To the world outside the Asylum, she didn't exist. She was a Case 53. A nameless, memoryless monster dumped into the world by whatever dark forces created her kind. But on the internet... on the glowing screen directly in front of her... she was GStringGirl.

It was a stupid, self-deprecating joke of a handle—a dark, ironic play on the fact that her physical body was made entirely of deadly white-and-crimson strings. On the forums and in voice lobbies, nobody knew about the steel harness or the reinforced walls. Nobody knew she had to use a specially constructed, shock-resistant controller with giant, rubberized analog pegs because normal plastic buttons would snap like dry twigs under the slightest involuntary spasm of her limbs.

On Parahumans Online, she was just a sharp-tongued, overly competitive gamer girl who liked strategy games, custom fan-art threads, and arguing about team compositions late into the night.

And for over eight months, her favorite person on the entire internet had been a loud, ridiculous, unhinged conspiracy theorist named Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX.

Sveta stared at her primary monitor, her painted doll face reflecting the bright crimson glow of the banner at the top of the screen.

She opened a secondary browser tab, pulling up the local Brockton Bay news feed and the high-resolution police scanner stills that had been leaked from the Docks incident.

The photos were grainy, captured by news helicopters, but the images were unmistakable. Standing amidst a scorched wasteland of melted asphalt, shattered shipping containers, and lingering white chemical smoke, figures stood tall. High Roller was locked in a menacing hybrid Drake form, glinting beneath the severe, imposing plates of the Dragon Father armor woven directly into his draconic state. Beside him stood Monarch in dark, fitted insect armor, surrounded by a swirling vortex of millions of bugs, flanked by the massive, overwhelming silhouette of Aurelius.

And lying at their feet was the colossal, headless corpse of Lung—the terror of Brockton Bay, the immortal dragon of the Docks, a villain who had personally put whole teams of PRT heroes into intensive care.

He actually did it, Sveta thought, her mind spinning into complete vertigo. He wasn't lying. He didn't forget about me. He wasn't blowing me off for some other gaming group. He was out there fighting monsters.

For nearly a month, she had felt a hollow, aching sting in her chest every time she logged into their shared gaming queue and saw his handle grayed out. She had convinced herself that he had finally gotten tired of her. That he had found better friends. That he had realized how weird and needy she was and decided to drop her without a word.

And all this time, he had been triggering. He had been transforming into a dragon hybrid, taking on the worst gang leader in the city, and building a base with an insect controller.

A bright ping echoed through her headset speakers, snapping her out of her reverie.

[Incoming Voice Chat Request: Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX]

Sveta's heart slammed against her ribs. Involuntarily, three thick tendrils burst through the soft seals at the back of her porcelain collar, whipping wildly into the air like frightened vipers before she slammed her teeth together and forced them back down into the harness with sheer willpower.

She took a slow, deep breath, centered her focus, and used her customized rubberized peg to click the green accept button.

The connection clicked open. Static hummed for half a second, followed by the crisp, clear audio of a high-end microphone.

"G-String? You there?"

The voice was Greg's. But... it wasn't quite Greg's old voice. For months, she had known Greg's voice through cheap, staticky thrift-store headsets. It had been loud, slightly nasally, and prone to cracking. This voice was still distinctly Greg, but the tone carried an effortless, smooth clarity. Every word was articulate, rich, and possessed an odd, magnetic warmth that seemed to settle directly into her chest. It sounded grounded. Confident. Unshakable.

"G-String? Hey, test, test... is my mic working? I set up an encrypted relay through our local server, so the quality should be way better."

Sveta found her voice, her tone instantly slipping into her familiar, razor-sharp banter to cover up her internal panic. "I'm here, Void. And wow... look at you, big shot. Upgraded from the ten-dollar gas station mic to a professional studio setup. Did you buy that with your cape money or did you steal it from Armsmaster?"

A loud, boisterous laugh erupted from the speakers—the exact same goofy, unpretentious laugh she knew so well.

"Neither! I made it!" Greg replied proudly, the magnetic smooth cadence of his voice making even a silly answer sound oddly heroic. "Well... technically I manifested the components and put it together using advanced mechanic traits, but same difference! Man, it is SO good to hear your voice! You have no idea how much I missed gaming with you!"

Sveta felt a sudden, dangerous warmth rush into her face plate. "Yeah, yeah. Save the smooth talking for your press conferences, High Roller. I'm still deciding if I forgive you for making me sit in a lobby for three weeks straight."

"I know, I know!" Greg groaned, and she could practically hear him throwing his hands up in the air. "I am the worst co-op partner in human history! I accept full responsibility! I will literally buy you any game skin you want. Name it and it's yours."

"I'm holding you to that," Sveta chuckled softly. She paused, leaning closer to the microphone, her tone shifting from playful to quiet, genuine concern. "Greg... are you really okay? I read the forum posts. I saw the news footage. Lung... he burned down three entire city blocks before you guys put him down. I saw the photos of the fire. You really didn't get hurt?"

On the other end of the line, Greg sighed—a rough, exhaled breath that lost its polished sheen for a brief moment.

"Honestly? I almost died, G-String," Greg admitted, his tone dropping into something raw and dead serious. "Lung was an absolute nightmare. When he started ramping up, the heat was intense enough to melt the pavement beneath our feet. My regular gear wasn't cutting it. I had to go full Drake form and pull out every single trick I had, stacking the Dragon Father armor on top of it just to survive. Me and Aurelius—my Shagaru Magala—had to completely double-team him at point-blank range while Monarch locked down the area with her swarm. If Aurelius hadn't absorbed the worst of those brutal charges, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you right now."

Sveta held her breath, her tendrils twitching tightly inside her harness. "You... you almost died?"

"It was down to the wire," Greg said quietly. "Lung doesn't stop. He just keeps growing, getting hotter and tougher every second the fight drags on. But we pushed through. Aurelius pinned him, I found an opening with everything I had left, and we ended it before he could burn half the district to ash."

"Aurelius..." Sveta repeated, her eyes scanning the forum thread on her left monitor. "The forums are going wild trying to figure out who Aurelius is. Half the thread thinks he's a Master projection, and the other half thinks you hired a rogue mercenary Brute."

Greg let out a soft, amused chuckle. "Let them guess! The more confused the PRT and the local gangs are, the better off we are. Keeps them on their toes while we build up our operations."

"And... your base?" Sveta asked, curiosity eating away at her. "In your messages, you mentioned you have a secure lair now? Where are you guys even staying? Did you rent out an abandoned warehouse like every other vigilante team in Brockton Bay?"

"An abandoned warehouse?!" Greg scoffed loudly, sounding genuinely offended. "Please! We have standards, G-String! We are staying in an infinite, multi-dimensional shifting wooden fortress called the Infinity Castle! It has plush couches, modern lounges, unlimited energy, and a Japanese architectural aesthetic that would make a movie director cry tears of joy!"

Sveta burst out laughing—a bright, ringing sound that filled her sealed room. "An infinite wooden fortress! Right! Of course you do! And let me guess, you have a servant who plays a traditional wooden biwa to shift the rooms around whenever you clap your hands?"

There was a sudden, hilarious silence on Greg's end of the line.

"...Wait," Greg said, his voice dropping into stunned disbelief. "How the hell did you guess the biwa part?!"

Sveta choked on her own breath. "WHAT?! I WAS JOKING!"

"I AM DEAD SERIOUS!" Greg yelled, though his voice still sounded ridiculously clear despite his shouting. "Nakime literally plays a wood biwa to move the rooms! DON! And boom, whole corridor slides into place! I am not making this up!"

"YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY MAKING THAT UP!" Sveta wheezed, her tendrils twitching against her safety harness as she shook with laughter. "You are such a liar! You're mixing anime tropes into your cape lore now!"

"I SWEAR ON MY REPUTATION AS HIGH ROLLER IT IS 100% REAL!" Greg protested, though he was laughing right along with her. "Ask Monarch! Next time she gets a PHO account... wait, no, she already has one! Ask Little_Owl on the boards! She will confirm the biwa!"

Sveta rested her doll face against her padded armrest, wiping away a tear of genuine laughter. God, how much she had missed this. For a whole month, her world had been reduced to white hospital walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the terrifying, silent struggle against her own lethal biology. But five minutes with Greg, and the heavy weight in her chest felt like it had completely evaporated.

"Okay, okay," Sveta said, catching her breath. "I'll believe you about the magic biwa castle for now. But what about your partner? Monarch?"

"Monarch," Greg said, his tone softening with a touch of deep warmth and respect. "She's... man, G-String, she's incredible. Her power lets her control every single insect within a half-mile radius with absolute precision. She can see through their eyes, hear through them, and coordinate entire swarms like a living tactical computer. She helped me out during the Lung fight."

Sveta listened quietly, a tiny, subconscious pang fluttering in her core. Monarch. A real girl who was right there beside Greg in the real world. A girl who fought dragons alongside him, walked through his magic wooden castle, and shared his team. A girl who wasn't trapped inside a steel harness in a parahuman containment facility.

Sveta pressed her painted lips together, forcing the dark, bitter thought down into the dark corners of her mind. She wasn't going to be selfish. Greg was safe, he had strong allies, and he was doing incredible things. She should be happy for him. And she was.

"She sounds amazing, Void," Sveta said softly, her voice filled with genuine sincerity. "I saw her post on the thread defending you. She really stood up for you when everyone was calling you a fake."

"Yeah," Greg said, his voice carrying a quiet, reflective weight. "She did. People in this city haven't always taken me seriously, G-String. On the forums, at school, everywhere. I was always the guy who talked too much, gave bad theories, and got under people's skin. But Monarch... she looked at me, listened to what I had to say, and trusted me to lead. I'm not going to let her down. I'm not going to let anyone in this city down."

Sveta stared at her monitor, listening to the quiet resolve in his voice. There was no arrogance in it. No bravado or empty teenage grandstanding. It was just a boy who had been given immense power and was determined to use it to protect the people around him.

"You won't let them down, Void," Sveta said firmly, her voice ringing with absolute confidence. "You're High Roller. You took down Lung on night one. Brockton Bay doesn't even know what hit it."

"Thanks, G-String," Greg replied, and she could hear the big, goofy smile in his tone. "That really means a lot coming from you. Now... enough emotional talk! We have a win streak to build! Did you launch the client yet?"

"It's been open for ten minutes while you were busy delivering speeches!" Sveta shot back cheerfully, her rubberized peg sliding across her controller to hit the 'Ready' button on the queue screen. "I picked top lane support. If you miss a single skill-shot today, I am personally reporting you to Tin_Mother for throwing."

"Hey! My mechanical accuracy is at an Adept level now! I don't miss skill-shots!"

"We'll see about that, Dragon Boy. Queueing up now!"

For the next three hours, the terrifying reality of Earth-Bet completely ceased to exist.

Inside Room 408, the heavy steel walls and the pressurized locks faded into the background. Sveta didn't feel the painful pinch of her restraint straps or the restless, violent writhing of her tendrils. All her focus was locked onto the glowing screen, the tactical map, and the sound of Greg's voice laughing in her headset.

They dominated the game queue.

Greg was, as he proudly claimed, absurdly good now. His reaction time was inhuman, his tactical positioning was flawless, and he called out enemy movements across the map seconds before they even happened. But despite his terrifying new skill level, he didn't play like an arrogant pro. He still made ridiculous jokes, still tried over-the-top, flashy maneuvers just to see if he could pull them off, and still cheered like a manic high schooler every time Sveta landed a game-winning crowd-control spell.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Greg shouted into his mic as the enemy base exploded in a shower of blue sparks. "TRIPLE KILL! G-STRING, THAT STUN WAS DISGUSTING! YOU ARE A TACTICAL GENIUS!"

Sveta laughed, leaning back into her harness, her chest swelling with pure, unadulterated happiness. "I told you! I carry this team! You're just my heavy meat-shield!"

"I am a HIGH-QUALITY heavy meat-shield, thank you very much!" Greg corrected smoothly.

As the victory screen faded back into the game lobby, Sveta glanced at the clock in the bottom right corner of her monitor.

3:15 AM.

A soft, sad sigh escaped her lips. The night shift nurses at the Asylum would be doing their final security sweeps in fifteen minutes. If her monitors showed high brain activity or emotional stimulation during the late-night hours, they would increase her sedative dosage or restrict her computer privileges for the weekend.

"Hey... Void?" Sveta said softly into the mic.

"Yeah, G-String?"

"I... I think I have to call it a night. It's getting really late here, and I have to get some sleep."

"Ah, man! Already?!" Greg groaned playfully, but his voice instantly shifted into that gentle, magnetic warmth. "Alright, alright. I get it. You carried us through seven straight wins, so I guess I can let you rest. You did awesome tonight."

"Thanks," Sveta murmured, her hand hovering over the rubber peg on her desk. She hesitated, her porcelain faceplate tilting downward toward the dark floor of her room.

The silence hung between them for a few seconds—a quiet, heavy space filled only with the soft hum of their microphones.

Sveta wrestled with the overwhelming urge surging in her chest. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to open her mouth and tell him everything. She wanted to tell him that she was a Case 53, trapped in an asylum in Boston, encased in a shell because her body was a weapon that destroyed everything it touched. She wanted to ask him if his amazing, reality-bending powers could ever fix someone like her.

No, her inner voice whispered, cold and terrified. Don't do it. If you tell him, everything changes. He'll look at you like a monster. He'll pity you. Or worse... he'll realize he's talking to a freak and slowly stop logging on.

She couldn't lose him. Not now. Not when he had just come back into her life.

"Void?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Are... are you going to be online tomorrow? Or are you going to be busy with Chaos Brigade stuff?"

On the other end of the line, Greg didn't hesitate for even a single millisecond.

"I'll be here," Greg said, his voice ringing with absolute, rock-solid certainty. "No matter what happens with the PRT, the gangs, or the city... I will ALWAYS make time for our matches, G-String. I promise. You're my best friend."

Sveta closed her eyes behind her painted porcelain mask. Inside her harness, for the first time in months, her writhing white tendrils went completely, utterly still, settling peacefully against her core.

"Okay," Sveta whispered, a radiant, genuine smile spreading across her face in the dark. "I'll see you tomorrow, High Roller."

"Goodnight, G-String. Don't let the Bed-Bugs bite... unless they're Monarch's bugs, in which case they're under strict orders not to attack!"

Sveta let out one last soft laugh, clicked the disconnect button, and took off her headset.

She leaned her head back against the heavy memory foam of her steel harness, listening to the quiet hiss of her room's air filtration system. The room was dark, the monitors were dimming into sleep mode, and her physical body was still a nightmare of deadly strings trapped inside a cage.

But as she closed her eyes to sleep, for the first time since the day she had woken up with no memories in an alleyway, Sveta Karelia didn't feel alone.

 

[Thegameaholic]

i had gemini generate this as well as the last PHO one because holy shit fuck the PHO generator that was WAY too much work when i used that for the Hero Code Interlude so if there is any contradictory stuff in it just lemme know

---

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♦ Topic: OFFICIAL CHAOS BRIGADE AMA — High Roller, Monarch, & Pyroclast (Ask Us Anything!) In: Boards ► Capes ► Announcements & Public Relations ► Brockton Bay

Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] (Original Poster) Posted on May 12, 2011:

Good afternoon, Parahumans Online.

Following the events at the Docks two nights ago, the rapid neutralization of Lung, and our official administrative verification by Tin_Mother, my team and I have decided to host an official Ask Me Anything (AMA) thread.

We understand that our sudden appearance has raised a lot of questions among local residents, cape enthusiasts, and official authorities. Brockton Bay is going through a massive point of inflection right now, and rumors are spreading quickly across local boards. Rather than letting speculation run wild, we want to address the public directly, outline our mission, and clarify our roles as independent hero-aligned capes.

Participating in this thread:

• Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX — High Roller (Team Leader / Heavy Combat / Trump-Shaker)
• Little_Owl — Monarch (Tactical Command / Battlefield Control / Master-Shaker-Changer)
• Pyroclast_Official — Pyroclast (Frontline Assault / Heavy Blaster-Brute)

Rules for this AMA:

No requests for personal, unmasked identity details (OPSEC protocol).

We will not disclose our active operational base location.

Keep questions civil. Hostile or bad-faith trolling will be ignored.

Ask us anything!

(Showing Page 1 of 25)

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 12, 2011:

FIRST!

I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE VOID IS A CAPE! But okay, real question for High Roller: Are you guys officially registering with the PRT, or are you staying rogue/independent? Also, what happens to the Docks now that the ABB lost Lung?

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 12, 2011:

Questions for the whole team!

For High Roller: Can you give us an official classification of your powers? During the Lung fight, eyewitnesses saw you using dragon scales, heavy energy blasts, and summoning a massive golden dragon (Aurelius). How does that work?

For Monarch: There are photos circulating from yesterday's patrol showing you with giant, glowing golden archangel wings! Were those present during the Docks fight, or did you get them after?

For Pyroclast: Who are you?! You weren't at the Docks! What are your abilities?

► Point_Me_At_Them (Verified Cape) Replied on May 12, 2011:

A public AMA is a bold move for a brand-new independent group, especially after a lethal encounter.

Question for High Roller and Monarch: Brockton Bay already has severe tension between the Protectorate, Empire 88, ABB, and Merchants. By taking down Lung, you created a massive power vacuum in the East End. What is the Chaos Brigade's plan to prevent the Empire or lingering ABB lieutenants like Bakuda from tearing the neighborhood apart in retaliation?

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 12, 2011:

Subscribed to this thread. I'm curious about the team dynamic and power origin. How did Pyroclast join so quickly after the Docks incident?

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] Replied on May 12, 2011:

To answer @Brockton_Gamer_22: We are operating as independent, hero-aligned capes. We respect the Protectorate and intend to coordinate with them(provided Armsmaster DOESN'T try to steal credit like last time) and local emergency services when necessary, but we are not joining the Wards or PRT structure. As for the Docks, we are actively patrolling the East End to ensure ABB remnants do not terrorize local businesses or residents.

To answer @CapeGeek_99 regarding my power classification: My power operates as a conditional Trump/Shaker system.

In short: I generate powers, traits, items, and physical attributes by performing specific actions, achieving combat objectives, or fulfilling tactical criteria over time. Everything my power produces—whether it is a weapon, armor trait, or physical enhancement.

However, if I need a power, item, or manifestation immediately during a crisis without waiting to complete standard actions, I have the option to voluntarily place severe temporary debuffs or physical handicaps on myself to force an instant generation. It acts as an emergency shortcut at personal cost.

Furthermore, my power allows me to transfer or bestow the physical traits, items, or equipment I generate directly to allies. That is how both Monarch and Pyroclast received their secondary abilities and gear.

As for Aurelius: he is a persistent, independent golden draconic combat projection generated through my power. He is a permanent member of our frontline team, not a temporary summon.

► Pyroclast_Official (VERIFIED CAPE — Pyroclast) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 12, 2011:

Yo! Answering @CapeGeek_99 and @Bagrat!

I'm Pyroclast, and I got my powers directly from High Roller! He bestowed the trait set onto me after the Docks situation when we officially formed the team!

Power-wise, I'm a heavy Brute/Blaster. I have complete control over fire and magma, and I can transform my entire body into living, superheated molten rock. Visually, the power gave me dark skin, white hair, a pair of black feathered wings, and a constant flame burning on my back that boosts my physical durability to ridiculous levels.

If anyone tries to hurt innocent people, I'm more than ready to step in and melt their weapons on the spot.

► Little_Owl (VERIFIED CAPE — Monarch) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 12, 2011:

Answering @CapeGeek_99 and @Point_Me_At_Them:

To clarify the timeline regarding my wings: I did not have the golden archangel wings during the Lung fight at the Docks. During that engagement, I was operating strictly with my base insect control. High Roller bestowed the wing trait and armor enhancements to me after the battle when he revealed the full scope of his Trump power and we consolidated the Chaos Brigade.

Regarding the power vacuum: The Chaos Brigade is actively monitoring gang movement across the Docks and East End. We are tracking logistics and patrol lines. If the Empire or Bakuda attempts to exploit the neighborhood, they will meet immediate, decisive resistance.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 23, 24, 25

(Showing Page 2 of 25)

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 12, 2011:

HOLD ON.

Pyroclast just confirmed High Roller BESTOWED HIS ENTIRE POWER SET ON HIM?! And High Roller can give out PERMANENT abilities?!

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 12, 2011:

Wait. A Trump who generates permanent powers, armor, and traits... AND CAN HAND THEM OUT TO CIVILIANS OR TEAMMATES?!

Are you serious right now?! That isn't just a utility Trump, that is an actual power engine!

► Point_Me_At_Them (Verified Cape) Replied on May 12, 2011:

...High Roller, I need you to clarify this immediately.

When you say you can "bestow permanent physical traits and powers," what are the terms of these transfers? Do these gifts affect the recipient's mind, personality, or autonomy in any way?

I don't want to cause panic on an open board, but a Trump cape who hands out permanent biological transformations to followers sounds dangerously close to Teacher.

► Clockblocker (Verified Cape) Replied on May 12, 2011:

Okay, I was enjoying the thread, but Point_Me_At_Them raised a huge red flag.

Teacher's entire threat profile comes from giving people parahuman abilities in exchange for total mental subversion and loyalty. High Roller, please tell us you aren't running a power-granting cult in Brockton Bay.

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 12, 2011:

YOOOO TEACHER COMPARISON IS CRAZY High Roller, tell me you didn't turn Monarch and Pyroclast into power-addicted thralls!

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 12, 2011:

This thread took a massive turn. High Roller claiming permanent power-bestowal capabilities is unprecedented for a local independent. If the PRT confirms this, his threat rating is going to jump to Trump 8 instantly.

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] Replied on May 12, 2011:

Everyone take a breath and calm down! Comparing me to Teacher is completely absurd and factually wrong!

Let me set the record straight right now:

ZERO MENTAL CONTROL: My power has NO Master subversion attached to it. I cannot alter anyone's thoughts, personality, loyalty, or mental state. My teammates have 100% complete personal autonomy. They can walk away from the Chaos Brigade whenever they want, keep whatever permanent traits or gear they received, and I couldn't stop them even if I wanted to.

NO MIND ALTERATION: Teacher's gifts turn people into compliant, hollow thralls. Monarch and Pyroclast are the exact same people they were before they received their traits.

TRANSPARENCY: I bestow traits to my friends to keep them safe on the battlefield so they don't get vaporized by seventy-foot dragon monsters or gang artillery.

I am NOT building an army. I am NOT controlling anyone. I am an independent hero arming my team so we can protect this city together.

► Little_Owl (VERIFIED CAPE — Monarch) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 12, 2011:

I am stepping in to address @Point_Me_At_Them and @ClockBlocker directly.

Comparing High Roller to Teacher is wildly inaccurate and insulting.

I joined the Chaos Brigade entirely of my own free will. High Roller has never made a single demand of me, nor has he ever exerted any form of pressure, coercion, or mental influence over my actions. My thoughts, decisions, and moral agency are 100% my own.

The traits and gear I received from High Roller were given freely, with zero strings attached, purely to ensure my safety and enhance our operational capability.

Furthermore, I have an official public announcement regarding the expansion of my abilities:

Along with my wings, High Roller has bestowed upon me a secondary Changer/Shaker restoration power. This ability grants me an angelic physical aesthetic while allowing me to project radiant cleansing energy that actively heals injuries, seals physical wounds, and purifies toxins or infections.

Starting tomorrow, I will be officially volunteering at Brockton General Hospital. I will be working directly alongside Panacea to help clear critical trauma backlogs, heal severe injuries, and treat citizens affected by gang violence in Brockton Bay.

If anyone from the PRT or New Wave still wants to compare High Roller to a villainous Master while his power is actively funding medical relief for our city's hospital, you are welcome to come to Brockton General and say it to my face.

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 12, 2011:

HOLY SHIT BROCKTON GENERAL HAS A SECOND HEALER NOW?! A SECOND PANACEA WITH GOLDEN ANGEL WINGS?!

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 12, 2011: Working alongside Panacea?! That is massive! Panacea has been burnt out for months trying to carry the city's medical load alone!

► Clockblocker (Verified Cape) Replied on May 12, 2011: ...Okay, wow. I stand thoroughly corrected and humbled.

A secondary healer working with Panacea at Brockton General is going to change the entire city's medical infrastructure. Apologies for the Teacher comparison, High Roller—Trump powers that involve bestowing abilities always make people jumpy, but seeing you turn that utility into hospital relief is incredible.

► Pyroclast_Official (VERIFIED CAPE — Pyroclast) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 12, 2011: Yeah, what Monarch said!

High Roller didn't brainwash anybody. He gave me fire and magma powers because I wanted to step up and protect people, and he trusted me with the strength to do it. No evil master plan, no cult stuff.

We're just capes using what we have to fix Brockton Bay.

► Point_Me_At_Them (Verified Cape) Replied on May 12, 2011: Monarch, if you are truly stationed at Brockton General helping Amy with trauma patients, then New Wave extends its full support to your initiative. Amy desperately needs backup, and a secondary healer in the city will save countless lives.

High Roller, you have proven your intentions through action. Be careful with the Empire, but know that people are watching and rooting for you.

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 13, 2011:

Okay, I have a burning question for Monarch: Photos leaked from your afternoon patrol through the East End today showed a HUGE visual change in your suit! During the Docks fight, you had a standard dark tactical armor profile. Today, your d in this insanely sleek, regal, royal Monarch-butterfly aesthetic—sweeping obsidian shell plates with bright, fiery orange lattice patterns, white-spotted accents, and velvet-gold trim around the collar and wings!

Did you hire a costume designer overnight, or is that armor actually morphing?!

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 13, 2011:

Question for Pyroclast: Dude, turning into living magma sounds badass, but how does it actually feel? Do you run out of heat if you shoot too many fireballs? And what happens to your clothes when you transform?! Do you just burn through outfits every single day?!

► Reave (Verified PRT Representative) Replied on May 13, 2011:

On behalf of PRT Department 6, I would like to raise several critical logistical and administrative questions for High Roller.

While your team's combat capabilities against villainous threats are undeniable, running an independent hero team requires immense structural support. Capes require secure housing, specialized medical monitoring, equipment maintenance, legal representation, property damage insurance, and substantial daily operational funding.

Without corporate sponsorship or PRT backing, independent teenage capes almost universally fall into debt, resource exhaustion, or legal complications within months.

1. How does the Chaos Brigade intend to fund its ongoing operations, gear upkeep, and daily expenses without resorting to illegal channels or municipal extortion?
2. Do you possess a legal, code-compliant base of operations equipped with adequate security to prevent villain retaliation against your unmasked hours?

If you cannot answer these logistical concerns, the PRT strongly advises integrating into the Wards or Protectorate system where full institutional funding and housing can be provided.

► Little_Owl (VERIFIED CAPE — Monarch) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 13, 2011:

Answering @CapeGeek_99:

The armor I wear is not standard ballistic plating, nor was it tailored by an outside costume designer. It is a bio-adaptive gear trait bestowed upon me by High Roller.

The material possesses a structural fluidity that responds directly to my intent and environmental needs. Yesterday, as I stepped into my public role as both tactical commander and a secondary healer for Brockton General, I felt the aesthetic should better reflect the identity of our team and the symbol I want to represent to this city.

I directed the material to shift into a regal Monarch butterfly profile—incorporating the orange-and-black warning patterns of the butterfly with sleek, reinforced obsidian plates and gold-trimmed pauldrons. It remains lightweight, completely heat-resistant, and fully armored while presenting a far more open, noble appearance to the citizens we are protecting.

► Pyroclast_Official (VERIFIED CAPE — Pyroclast) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 13, 2011: Answering @Brockton_Gamer_22!

1. How does it feel? Honestly? It feels awesome. Transforming into magma isn't hot or painful for me at all—it just feels like a massive wave of pure, heavy energy washing over my body. When I'm in full liquid rock mode, I feel totally indestructible.
2. Do I run out of heat? Nope! The thermal energy inside my body is self-sustaining. I can blast fire streams or throw molten slashes all day without getting tired. The flame burning on my back keeps my core temperature locked in.
3. What happens to my clothes? LMAO I used to worry about that! But High Roller gave me a heat-resistant material layer that transforms right alongside my skin, so my outfit never burns up. No walking home in melted rags for me!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] Replied on May 13, 2011:

I will be addressing @Reave directly regarding PRT concerns about our funding, logistics, and base of operations.

I appreciate the PRT's concern for our operational sustainability, but let me clear up a few misconceptions right now:

1. Regarding our Base of Operations:

The Chaos Brigade already possesses a fully operational, secure, state-of-the-art base. It features complete climate control, internal power routing, top-tier structural security, and private quarters for all team members. It is completely immune to conventional gang surveillance, infiltration, or strike teams. We do not require PRT housing or municipal real estate.

2. Regarding Funding & Supply Logistics:

We do not need corporate sponsors, public donations, or government stipends to maintain our operations.

One of the random powers I rolled recently is basic matter creation. How it works is pretty straightforward: as long as I know how something is made and understand how to build it, I can just create it out of thin air.

It isn't Tinkertech, so you don't have to worry about it breaking down, falling apart, or needing constant maintenance like Tinker gear. It's just normal, real matter.

• Need ultra-high-grade titanium alloys or reinforced carbon fiber for armor repair? As long as I know the process, I can make it on the spot.

• Need sterile medical tools, specialized pharmaceuticals, or high-purity supplies for Monarch's hospital work at Brockton General? I can generate them on command.

• Need raw industrial materials to sell legally to fund local relief programs or pay for property repairs in the Docks? I can make them without relying on a third-party supplier.

We are completely self-sufficient. We don't have supply chain delays, we don't pay gear markups, and we aren't going to be starved out by gang blockades or red tape.

The Chaos Brigade is fully funded, fully equipped, and completely independent.

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 13, 2011: HOLY SHIT HIGH ROLLER CAN MAKE ANYTHING HE KNOWS HOW TO BUILD?! Bro can literally spawn raw materials and medical supplies out of thin air as long as he knows how they work?!

► CapeGeek_99 Replied on May 13, 2011:

Wait, wait, wait! Matter creation that ISN'T Tinkertech?! That completely eliminates 99% of the nightmares independent cape teams face! He can literally print medical supplies, structural metals, and custom gear directly for his team without worrying about it degrading!

► Steel_Blade Replied on May 13, 2011:
A secure, un-infiltrable base AND self-sustained supply creation... High Roller just completely shut down the PRT's main leverage strategy! Reave has to be malting right now LMAO

► Reave (Verified PRT Representative) Replied on May 13, 2011:
...High Roller, creating raw industrial materials or specialized components without regulatory oversight or standard industrial checks poses severe market and safety concerns.

Furthermore, operating out of an uninspected, unlisted base of operations outside PRT jurisdiction creates major legal gray areas regarding emergency response coordination.

► Little_Owl (VERIFIED CAPE — Monarch) [Chaos Brigade] Replied on May 13, 2011:

With all due respect, @Reave When the PRT can rebuild the Docks in forty-eight hours, eliminate the ABB overnight, and supply Brockton General Hospital with enough trauma medicine to treat every wounded civilian in the city, then you can lecture us about "regulatory oversights."

Until then, High Roller's power will be used to heal this city, keep our team fully equipped, and support local businesses that the PRT has ignored for years.

We are done taking lectures on logistics from an organization that let Lung rule the Docks for a decade.

► Bagrat (Guy in the Know) Replied on May 13, 2011:

DAMN. Monarch pulled no punches on that reply!

► Brockton_Gamer_22 Replied on May 13, 2011:

MONARCH FROM THE TOP ROPE WITH THE STEEL CHAIR!

► Xx_Void_Cowboy_xX (VERIFIED CAPE — High Roller) [Chaos Brigade — Leader] Replied on May 13, 2011:
That wraps up today's thread!

Monarch will be starting her official rounds at Brockton General Hospital tomorrow morning alongside Panacea. Pyroclast and I will be conducting heavy anti-gang sweeps across the East End throughout the evening.

If you see us on patrol, feel free to wave! The Chaos Brigade has got your back, Brockton Bay.

Thread locked.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 16, 17, 18

 

[Thegameaholic]

The deep, resonant sound of a single biwa string striking echoed through the infinite dimensions of the wooden fortress.

DON.

In an instant, thousands of interlocking tatami rooms, paper shoji screens, suspended wooden staircases, and polished timber hallways shifted with terrifying, frictionless precision. Massive cedar beams slid silently across the ceiling, walls rotated on invisible axes, and an entire floor of living quarters seamlessly slid into place around the central atrium.

Over the past four days, the Infinity Castle had ceased to be just a bizarre, multi-dimensional labyrinth of shifting wood. Under the careful, silent direction of Nakime—who sat quietly on her elevated wooden platform near the core of the fortress, her long black hair veiling her face as her pale fingers hovered over her biwa—the castle had been meticulously transformed into the ultimate, unbreachable headquarters for the Chaos Brigade.

And more importantly, it had become a home.

In the eastern quadrant of the castle's upper tiers lay The Golden Sanctum—a massive, vaulted chamber roughly the size of a cathedral. The ceiling, engineered by Nakime's architectural manipulation, slid open at will to reveal an illusionary, star-filled night sky that bathed the room in soft, silver moonlight.

Occupying the center of the sanctum was Aurelius.

The massive, golden-scaled elder dragon lay coiled comfortably upon a towering mountain of raw, synthesized metal ingots that Greg had generated for him over the weekend. High-purity brass, polished stainless steel, solid copper blocks, and refined titanium bars sparkled under the moonlight like a dragon's dream. Aurelius let out a low, rumbling huff of pure content, a small haze of purple-tinted Frenzy energy trailing lazily from his nostrils as he rested his massive, horned head against his front talons, eyes lazily tracking the shifting corridors outside his doorway.

A few hallways down, nestled in a cozy, cavernous wooden nook decorated with plush velvet pillows and intricate wooden puzzle boxes, was Mimic. The living chest was currently fast asleep, its lid slightly ajar, occasionally letting out a soft, wooden snore as its purple tongue lolled out over its row of razor-sharp white teeth.

The human members of the team had fared even better.

Taylor's quarters were a masterclass in elegant, serene design. Nakime had crafted her a multi-room suite framed by polished mahogany lattice, soft cream-colored tatami mats, and private paper screens. Off to the side of her main living space was a custom, glass-enclosed botanical conservatory—synthesized by Greg using his matter creation abilities—filled with pristine, soil-rich terrariums, blooming night-shade flora, and specialized feeding stations for her insects. It gave her swarm a peaceful, temperature-controlled sanctuary while providing Taylor with a quiet, sunlit reading nook overlooking an indoor garden with a trickling bamboo water fountain.

Sparky's quarters were the polar opposite—a high-energy, thermal-dampened sanctuary built out of thick, heat-resistant volcanic slate and dark timber. Because of his Lunarian physiology and living magma body, his room featured a private, indoor hot spring fed by an infinite stream of mineral-rich water heated directly by his own ambient body temperature. Adjacent to his bath was a massive lounge area equipped with a plush leather couch, a surround-sound entertainment system, and a custom mini-fridge that Greg kept perpetually stocked with synthesized sodas, snacks, and frozen pizzas.

And then there was Greg's quarters—the nerve center of the Chaos Brigade.

Greg's room looked like a cross between a high-tech superhero command center and the ultimate teenage gamer's dream. Mounted against the main timber wall was a triple-monitor workstation hooked into a series of custom, high-speed server relays that Greg had routed through the castle's spatial thresholds, allowing them to intercept local radio bands, police scanners, and PHO boards with zero latency. Surrounding his heavy steel desk were synthesized arcade cabinets, a king-sized memory foam bed, racks of custom armor components, and a display wall showcasing his various gear pulls.

he had also made a garden room filled with poisonous plants and such he made with [BLOOM] in order to consume them and build up [KUDOKU]

For seventy-two hours straight, the Chaos Brigade had been working around the clock. Between conducting nightly anti-gang patrols across the Docks, establishing Monarch's official presence at Brockton General Hospital, and clearing out local extortion rings, they had spent every spare minute turning the Infinity Castle into a living, breathing haven.

It was currently 1:30 AM.

Greg sat back in his plush leather gaming chair, his feet propped up on the edge of his steel desk as he stared at his primary monitor. The cool blue glow of his Gacha System interface hovered in the air directly before his eyes, illuminating his face with golden text.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — REPUTATION & THREAT MILESTONES ACHIEVED!]

[Milestone 1: PHO Chaos & Existential Dread] • Description: You hosted an official cape AMA, completely broke the local message boards, made Clockblocker question his entire life trajectory, and caused Dragon (Tin_Mother) to actively contemplate taking up heavy alcoholic drinking out of sheer administrative stress. • Reward: [2x Platinum Tickets]

[Milestone 2: The Crosshairs of Brockton Bay] • Description: By openly declaring war on all local gang factions and announcing permanent power-bestowal capabilities on public forums, you have placed a massive, glowing target on your back and the backs of your entire team. • Reward: [1x Diamond Ticket]

[Milestone 3: Shadowed Interest] • Description: You have officially attracted the direct tactical scrutiny of Coil, the shadow broker of Brockton Bay. • Reward: [1x Platinum Ticket]

[Milestone 4: The Eyes of the World] • Description: Your public display of unconditional power bestowal, matter synthesis, and dragon manifestation has drawn the immediate, high-priority attention of Cauldron. • Reward: [1x Legendary Ticket]

Greg blinked, leaning closer to the floating interface as his eyes scanned the text line by line.

"Wait a second..." Greg muttered aloud, scratching the back of his neck in utter confusion. "Dragon? As in... the top Tinker in the entire world? Dragon wanted to take up drinking because of my PHO thread?"

He stared at the screen, his mind wildly trying to assemble the mental image. "Why the hell would Dragon want to drink?! Isn't she riding around in giant robot suits or something?! Is she that stressed out by my AMA posts? Man, heroes in this city really have zero chill..."

He brushed the thought aside and scrolled down to Milestone 4, his brow furrowing into a deep frown.

"'Cauldron'?" Greg read the word slowly, pronouncing it like a soup recipe. "WHO THE HELL IS CAULDRON?! Is that a new villain group? A secret cape cartel? A soup kitchen gone wrong? Why does everyone in this universe have weird shadowy group names?!"

He tapped his chin, making a mental note to do a deep-dive search on PHO later, though he had a sneaking suspicion that an organization capable of triggering a Legendary Ticket reward wasn't going to have a public Wikipedia page.

"Whatever," Greg grinned, a surge of pure, unadulterated gamer adrenaline spiking through his veins. "A Legendary Ticket is a Legendary Ticket! Time to roll!"

He tapped the screen, selecting the Legendary Ticket icon.

The floating interface exploded into a blinding display of swirling crimson and gold light. Rays of hyper-dense magical energy expanded across Greg's room, casting long, dramatic shadows against the wooden walls as a heavy, ominous organ melody chimed from the system's auditory feedback. A golden roulette wheel materialized in mid-air, spinning at lightspeed before slowing down to land on a deep blood-red gem.

[ITEM/FAMILIAR CLAIMED!]

[Shalltear Bloodfallen] |Legendary Familiar| • Source: Overlord • Description: Shalltear Bloodfallen was one of the Floor Guardians of the Great Tomb of Nazarick—a True Vampire Valkyrie created with the blood of a vampire god. She is exceptional as both an absolute physical brute and a high-tier magical caster, utilizing hemokinesis, elemental magic, charms, holy magic, and devastating melee combat techniques. She possesses the ability to turn others into vampires as a True Vampire herself. • Equipment: Comes equipped with her basic aristocratic dark-purple dress and crimson parasol. Does not possess access to the Nazarick inventory. • System Adjustment: (Note: Time Stop ability disabled for local dimensional stability).

Greg's jaw dropped so low it nearly unhinged.

"HOLY CRAP!" Greg gasped, slamming his hands onto his desk as he stood up so fast his chair rolled backward. "A LEGENDARY FAMILIAR?! SHALLTEAR BLOODFALLEN?! Man, I haven't gotten a Legendary Familiar since Son Goku!"

Deep inside his soul, the dormant, boundless divine aura of Son Goku—permanently fused with Greg's very essence—gave a subtle, warm pulse of acknowledgment, as if laughing along with him.

Before Greg could even fully process the ridiculous scale of what he had just pulled, the spatial air in the center of his room rippled. A swirling vortex of dark crimson mist gathered above the hardwood floor, condensing into a rich, blood-red magic circle inscribed with ancient runes.

From the center of the mist, a figure materialized.

She was a breathtakingly beautiful, aristocratic young girl with pale, alabaster skin, striking crimson eyes that glowed like polished rubies, and long, silver-white hair that cascaded down her back. She wore an elegant, dark-purple Victorian dress decorated with heavy black ribbon accents, white lace trim, and a fitted corset that emphasized her graceful, petite frame. In her delicate, gloved right hand, she held a folded, crimson-and-black lace parasol.

As the mist dissipated, Shalltear opened her glowing crimson eyes, her gaze sweeping across the wooden room before settling directly on Greg.

Without a moment's hesitation, she folded her parasol, rested it against her hip, and bowed with flawless, noble elegance—her silver hair falling gracefully over her shoulder.

"I answer your summon, my Master," Shalltear's voice was smooth, velvety, and carried a subtle, dangerous chill that resonated through the room. "I am Shalltear Bloodfallen, True Vampire and Valkyrie. My blood, my magic, and my lance are yours to command. Command me, and I shall reduce your enemies to ash and blood."

Greg stared at her, his brain momentarily short-circuiting before a huge, ecstatic grin spread across his face.

"OH SWEET!" Greg cheered. "A NEW TEAM FAMILIAR FOR THE CHAOS BRIGADE! Welcome aboard, Shalltear!"

Shalltear blinked, her aristocratic composure breaking for a brief fraction of a second as she raised her head, looking at Greg with a mixture of intense devotion and subtle curiosity. "Chaos Brigade? A team, My Lord? Am I to serve alongside other guardians in your domain?"

"Yep!" Greg chuckled, waving his hand nonchalantly. "We've got a massive golden elder dragon named Aurelius, a living chest with teeth named Mimic, a biwa-playing demon named Nakime who controls this whole wooden castle, a golden-winged swarm goddess named Monarch, and a magma warrior named Pyroclast! And I'm High Roller!"

Shalltear's eyes sparkled with deep, dark fascination. "A domain populated by dragons, demons, and elemental guardians... Splendid. Your grand vision honors me, Master High Roller. I shall ensure no foolish intruders breach the sanctuary of your castle."

"Awesome!" Greg grinned. "Hang out in the lounge for a bit, get yourself some synthesized juice or blood—I can make high-purity blood packs with my matter creation power—and I'll introduce you to the gang in a few minutes!"

Shalltear bowed deeply once more. "As you command, My Lord." With a soft, aristocratic rustle of her purple dress, she turned and glided out of his room into the shifting wooden hallways, completely unfazed by the sliding architecture around her.

Greg took a deep breath, wiping a speck of sweat from his forehead. "Man, legendary pulls are insane... Okay! What else do I have?"

He glanced back at his interface. He still had a Gold Ticket sitting in his inventory from his earlier achievements.

"Alright, Gold Ticket, don't fail me now! Give me something awesome!" Greg clicked the button.

The screen flashed a warm, bright yellow light, spinning briefly before settling on a standard green card icon.

[TRAIT CLAIMED!]

[Healthy] |Common Trait| • Description: You are remarkably healthy for your body type, granting you slightly increased overall vitality, stamina, and virility. In addition, any previous natural health complications, chronic ailments, or biological dysfunctions you possessed prior to receiving this trait are permanently fixed.

Greg stared at the green card on his monitor, his excitement instantly deflating into a flat, unamused deadpan.

"A Common Trait... from a Gold Ticket?" Greg rolled his eyes, letting out an annoyed huff as he flopped back into his chair. "Really? 'Healthy'? I'm sixteen years old! I run around fighting seventy-foot fire dragons and carrying heavy steel gear! Why the hell would I need a basic health boost—"

Before he could finish his sentence, a loud, bright red alert box suddenly popped up over the screen, flashing violently with yellow warning text.

[SYSTEM ALERT — CURSE PURGED!]

[Hidden Curse Removed: Absolute Aspermia / Infertility] • Source: Day 1 Curse Wheel Spin (Hidden Draw). • Details: During your initial power activation on Day 1, you spun the Curse Wheel and received a hidden curse that forced a secondary wheel respin. The hidden curse permanently rendered your biological system completely infertile/sterile. • Status: PURGED! The [Healthy] trait has completely repaired your reproductive biology. Your vitality and virility are restored to peak human function. • Bonus Reward: For successfully purging an active curse, you have been awarded [1x Bronze Ticket]!

The entire room went dead silent.

Greg sat frozen in his gaming chair, his eyes wide as dinner plates, his mouth hanging wide open as he read the warning text three times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"WHAT..." Greg squeaked, his voice cracking violently. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

He slammed his fists onto the armrests of his chair, leaning within two inches of the glowing monitor.

"WHEN THE FUCK DID I GET AN INFERTILITY CURSE?!" Greg screamed at the empty room, his face turning bright crimson. "DAY ONE?! THE CURSE WHEEL GAVE ME A HIDDEN CURSE THAT SHOT MY SWIMMERS DOWN BEFORE I EVEN STARTED MY CAPE CAREER?!"

He grabbed his own hair in sheer disbelief, his brain replaying his very first day with the Gacha system. He remembered spinning the wheel, getting a weird blank result, and the system automatically forcing a respin.

"SERIOUSLY?! THE HIDDEN CURSE WAS INFERTILITY?!" Greg yelled at the ceiling, flailing his arms around like an enraged cartoon character. "I WAS SIXTEEN AND SHOOTING BLANKS THIS WHOLE TIME AND I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT?! MAN, SCREW THAT DAY ONE CURSE WHEEL!"

He took several heavy, dramatic breaths, clutching his chest until his heartbeat slowed down.

"...Wait," Greg paused, looking back at the bottom line of the notification. "Wait... it gave me a Bronze Ticket for fixing it?"

He blinked, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "Okay... okay. I mean... I guess that's a win? I'm not sterile anymore, and I got a free Bronze Ticket out of it. Whatever. Let's just roll the Bronze Ticket and pretend this entire awkward conversation with myself never happened."

He aggressively tapped the Bronze Ticket icon.

The screen spun lazily, flashing a dim bronze light before dropping a heavy metal vehicle blueprint onto the screen.

[ITEM CLAIMED!]

[Herrera Outlaw] |Common Item| • Source: Cyberpunk 2077 • Description: Sometimes all you need is a stylish drive around town. The Herrera Outlaw is a top-tier luxury hyper-limousine engineered to survive the brutal streets of Night City. Features heavy structural armor plating, reinforced bulletproof glass capable of withstanding small-arms fire and rounds up to .50 caliber, an advanced cybernetic engine matrix, and a sleek, dark-metallic aesthetic. • Location: Spawned in the Infinity Castle lower garage quadrant.

Greg's eyes widened, his former frustration instantly evaporating into pure, unadulterated teenage excitement.

"SWEET! A CAR!" Greg cheered, slapping his desk.

He leaned back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Man, since I have Adept Driving from my [King of All Trades] trait, I can drive this thing like an absolute stunt pro! Sure, I have my portal creation power, but that's strictly sight-based or requires me to have personally visited the location before. Having a .50-caliber-proof luxury limousine for rolling up to public cape events or driving around the city in style is insanely useful!"

He smiled proudly, tapping his desk... before his eyes suddenly drifted back to the upper left corner of his primary monitor, where his accumulated ticket log was displayed.

His smile slowly faded.

The glow of the text reflected in his eyes as he read through the list of active threats that his achievements had unlocked over the past ten minutes:

• Target on Back (Gangs of Brockton Bay) • Coil's Scrutiny • Cauldron's Attention

The playful, gamer atmosphere in Greg's room vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy coldness that settled deep into his chest.

"Coil... the local gangs... and this mysterious 'Cauldron' group," Greg whispered softly to himself, his tone dropping into something far more serious than his usual banter.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.

If those villains and shadowy organizations couldn't reach him inside the Infinity Castle... if they couldn't breach a multi-dimensional wooden fortress guarded by an elder dragon, a True Vampire Valkyrie, and a swarm master... where would they look instead?

They would look at the real world. They would look at Brockton Bay.

They would look at their families.

They would look at Danny Hebert—a tired, hardworking union leader sitting alone in his house in the South End. They would look at Sparky's parents—hardworking, ordinary people who had no idea their son was currently a living magma warrior. And they would look at Greg's own parents—who thought their son was just a weird, loud kid who spent too much time reading conspiracy theories on PHO.

A single sniper on a roof. A gang drive-by. A mercenary squad sent by Coil. A bomb planted in a car.

Greg's jaw clenched tight, his eyes flashing with a sharp, dangerous intensity.

"No," Greg said quietly into the empty room. "Not happening. I am not letting anyone touch our families."

He stood up from his desk, opened his encrypted team comms channel, and pressed the talk button on his headset.

"Taylor. Sparky," Greg's voice echoed clearly through the earpieces of his teammates across the castle. "Emergency team meeting in the central lounge right now. We have a massive problem to talk about."

Five minutes later, the Chaos Brigade was assembled around the heavy, dark-timber table in the castle's central grand lounge.

Warm, amber lantern light illuminated the room. Taylor sat on the left, clad in a casual sweater and jeans, her expression sharp and attentive. Sparky sat on the right, leaning back in a wooden armchair, his dark skin and white hair contrasting sharply against his casual hoodie. Shalltear Bloodfallen stood silently behind Greg's right shoulder, her gloved hands resting atop her closed crimson parasol, her glowing ruby eyes scanning the room like a lethal hawk. Aurelius peeked his massive golden head through the grand archway of the lounge, resting his chin on the polished wooden floorboards with a soft, warm rumble.

Greg stood at the head of the table, leaning his hands on the polished wood as he projected his Gacha System threat log directly onto the central wall using a light-synthesis illusion.

"Alright guys," Greg began, his tone dead serious. "I called this meeting because my system just handed me a massive wake-up call."

Taylor leaned forward, her dark eyes scanning the floating text on the wall. Her eyebrows knit together tightly as she read the names. "Coil... Empire 88... ABB remnants... and 'Cauldron'?" She looked up at Greg. "Who is Cauldron?"

"I have no idea," Greg admitted honestly. "My system gave me a Legendary Ticket just for getting their attention, which means whatever they are, they're probably insanely dangerous. But that's not the main issue right now."

Greg slammed his palm flat against the timber table.

"The main issue is that we just did a two-day public AMA where we bragged about having infinite base resources, matter creation, permanent power bestowal, and taking down Lung," Greg said, his voice laced with raw concern. "The gangs are terrified of us. Coil is tracking us. And shadowy cape groups are watching us."

Sparky frowned, scratching his white hair. "Okay... but we're inside the Infinity Castle, bro. Nakime can literally warp us anywhere, Aurelius can incinerate a tank, and Shalltear over there looks like she could rip a cape in half with her bare hands. How are they gonna hit us?"

"They're NOT gonna hit us, Sparky!" Greg said fiercely, pointing a finger at his friend. "They're gonna hit our parents!"

The entire lounge went dead, suffocatingly quiet.

Taylor froze in her seat, her breath hitching in her throat. Her face went deathly pale as Greg's words hit her like a physical blow.

Danny.

Her father. A baseline human man who spent twelve hours a day working at the Dock Workers Association hall. A man who drove a beat-up truck, cooked dinner for her every night, and had zero parahuman defenses. If Coil or the Empire wanted leverage over Monarch... if they wanted to force High Roller to hand over power-bestowal items... all they had to do was send three mercenaries with guns to 1619 Boardwalk.

"Oh god..." Taylor whispered, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the edges of her chair. "My dad..."

"Exactly," Greg said softly, his voice filled with deep empathy. "My parents. Sparky's parents. Your dad. They are totally unshielded in the real world while we're sitting in a magic wooden fortress."

Sparky sat up straight, his easygoing demeanor completely vanishing, replaced by a dark, dangerous scowl. "If anyone touches my mom or dad, I swear to God I'll turn their entire neighborhood into molten lava."

"We aren't going to let it get to that point," Greg stated firmly. "I already have a two-part plan to fix this."

Greg pulled up his inventory system, displaying his accumulated 3x Platinum Tickets.

"First," Greg explained, "I have three Platinum Tickets saved up from our PHO milestones and achievements. I am going to use all three of them specifically to roll high-tier protection traits, physical defense items, or emergency warding abilities for our parents. One Platinum Ticket roll allocated for my parents, one for Sparky's parents, and one for your dad, Taylor."

Taylor looked at Greg, her eyes wide with overwhelming gratitude. "Greg... those are Platinum Tickets. You could use those to give yourself incredible powers or gear..."

"Screw gear!" Greg waved his hand dismissively. "What good is gear if my family gets hurt?! Protecting our people comes first. Period."

He took a slow, deep breath, looking at both of them with an intense, revolutionary sparkle in his eyes.

"Which brings me to part two of the plan," Greg grinned, a bold, genius idea taking shape in his mind. "Why the hell are our parents even living in Brockton Bay anymore?"

Sparky blinked. "Huh?"

"Think about it!" Greg urged, spreading his arms wide to gesture at the vast, gorgeous wooden architecture surrounding them. "Look around you! The Infinity Castle is literally an infinite, multi-dimensional realm! It has infinite space, zero rent, zero utility bills, perfect climate control, and fresh food that I can synthesize out of thin air!"

Greg leaned over the table, his eyes flashing with brilliant logic.

"How would ANY villain in the entire world ever get in here?!" Greg asked passionately. "They can't breach it! Even if a cape somehow managed to clip through spatial dimensions to get inside, they would have to fight through a shifting maze controlled by Nakime, deal with Aurelius's Frenzy Virus, fight Shalltear, fight Mimic, and deal with us! It is literally the safest place on planet Earth!"

Taylor stared at Greg, her mind racing at lightspeed as she evaluated the proposal.

It was... insane. It was completely unprecedented.

In the history of parahumans, heroes lived in their civilian homes and maintained secret identities to keep their loved ones safe. But secret identities were fragile. They fell apart under surveillance, tinkertech tracking, or phone taps.

Inside the Infinity Castle... Danny would never have to worry about gang extortion again. He wouldn't have to worry about stray bullets in the Docks, crumbling municipal infrastructure, or decaying city streets. He could have a massive, beautiful private wing of a wooden palace, complete with synthesized meals, peaceful indoor gardens, and absolute, god-like physical security.

"It's... it's actually genius," Taylor murmured, her eyes lighting up with sudden hope. "It eliminates their leverage completely. If our families aren't in Brockton Bay, the gangs have zero hostages."

"Exactly!" Greg cheered. "It's a total win-win!"

"Wait," Sparky cut in, leaning his chin on his hand. "How are we gonna convince our parents to pack up their stuff and move into an infinite Japanese demon castle controlled by three teenagers?"

Greg grinned, winking at Sparky. "That, my friend, is where tonight comes in!"

He checked his wrist watch. 2:15 AM.

"Tomorrow night—well, tonight, technically—we already set up a fake 'board game night' at Taylor's house," Greg explained. "We told Danny that Sparky's parents and my parents were coming over to hang out, bring snacks, and meet Taylor's new school friends."

Taylor let out a quiet, nervous laugh. "My dad has been cleaning the house for three days straight. He spent two hours yesterday buying chips, making dip, and polishing the dining room table because he was so excited that I was finally bringing friends over."

Greg smiled warmly. "Then it's perfect. Tonight, at the Hebert house, while Danny is serving snacks and our parents are all sitting in the living room... we drop the act. We tell them the entire truth. We show them who we are, we show them what we can do, and then Nakime opens a spatial door right in the middle of Taylor's living room and invites them into their new home!"

Shalltear let out a soft, delighted aristocratic chuckle from behind Greg. "A brilliant ambush of truth, Master High Roller. If any of the elders prove... stubborn... I shall politely persuade them of the wisdom of your sanctuary."

"NO PERSUADING WITH VAMPIRE MAGIC, SHALLTEAR!" Greg snapped instantly, turning around with wide eyes. "We are using WORDS and SNACKS!"

Shalltear bowed gracefully, her ruby eyes twinkling with amusement. "As you command, My Lord."

Greg turned back to Taylor and Sparky, extending his right hand over the center of the timber table.

"Alright team," Greg said, his voice filled with unwavering resolve. "Tonight, we protect our families. Chaos Brigade on three?"

Sparky grinned, slamming his heavy hand on top of Greg's. "Chaos Brigade!"

Taylor smiled, a genuine, radiant expression that reached her eyes, and placed her hand over theirs. "Chaos Brigade."

[1619 Boardwalk, South End, Brockton Bay — 6:30 PM]

The warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun filtered through the somewhat dusty glass windows of the Hebert family living room.

The house smelled faintly of lemon wood polish, fresh coffee, and freshly baked potato skins. In the kitchen, Danny Hebert was a blur of frantic, well-meaning parental activity. He wore a slightly faded plaid button-down shirt, dark jeans, and a clean beige apron tied around his waist.

For the past forty-five minutes, Danny had been pacing between the kitchen counter and the dining room table, adjusting bowls of pretzels, meticulously arranging a platter of sliced cheese and crackers, and wiping down the coffee table for the third time.

"Taylor!" Danny called out toward the stairs, his voice carrying a nervous, excited pitch. "Did you make sure to pull out those extra folding chairs from the hall closet?! I want to make sure Mr. and Mrs. Veder have enough back support! And what about Sparky's parents? Do they prefer coffee or tea?! I brewed a fresh pot of dark roast, but I can set the kettle on if they want herbal!"

At the top of the stairs, Taylor stepped down into the living room. She wore a simple, cozy dark-green sweater and jeans, her long black curly hair resting over her shoulders. Behind her, Greg Veder and Sparky followed quietly, both dressed in casual hoodies and jeans, carrying a boxed copy of Settlers of Catan and a deck of cards.

Taylor looked at her father, her heart swelling with an overwhelming mixture of deep affection and agonizing nervousness.

"Dad, take a breath," Taylor said softly, walking over to the kitchen counter and gently taking the dish towel out of his hands. "Everything is fine. The food looks great. Mr. and Mrs. Veder and Sparky's parents are going to love it."

"I know, I know!" Danny let out a long, exhaled laugh, running a hand through his thinning brown hair as he adjusted his glasses. "I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm just... well, I'm excited! It's been a long time since we've had guests over for a board game night. A really long time."

Danny turned to Greg and Sparky, giving them a warm, welcoming smile. "Greg, Sparky, thank you boys for coming over early to help set up. I really appreciate you two hanging out with Taylor. She... well, she's had a rough year at school, as I'm sure you know. Seeing her with good friends again... it means more to me than I can say."

Greg felt a sudden, massive lump form in his throat. He looked at Sparky, who awkwardly cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, neither of them daring to make eye contact with the sheer, pure wholesome energy radiating off Danny Hebert.

Oh god, Greg thought frantically. He's such a good dad! We're about to drop a bomb on this poor man's life in twenty minutes!

"Ah, it's no problem at all, Mr. Hebert!" Greg blurted out, offering a bright, nervous smile. "Taylor's awesome! Easily the most... tactical... person we know! We love hanging out with her!"

"Tactical?" Danny chuckled, walking over to the dining table and setting down a bowl of dip. "Well, she certainly inherits her organizational skills from her mother. Annette used to plan out our entire monthly schedule down to the minute."

Danny leaned his hands against the back of a wooden dining chair, his expression shifting into a thoughtful, slightly tired smile as he looked out the window toward the street.

"You know," Danny remarked conversationally, "it's actually been remarkably quiet in the South End the last couple of days. The union guys at the Docks were talking about it this morning during the shift briefing. Normally, we'd have ABB goons hanging around the perimeter fences trying to shake down the truck drivers or demand protection fees."

Taylor exchanged a quick, subtle glance with Greg. "Oh? The ABB hasn't been around?"

"Not a single one," Danny said, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "It's like the entire faction vanished overnight. Word on the docks is that some new independent team calling themselves the 'Chaos Brigade' completely obliterated Lung two nights ago right near the container yards."

Greg squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing.

"Is that so, Mr. Hebert?" Greg asked innocently, leaning against the couch. "What are people saying about this 'Chaos Brigade'?"

Danny snorted softly, wiping a speck of dust off the table. "Oh, you know how dock workers are. Half of them think it's a publicity stunt staged by the PRT. The other half think this kid leading them—'High Roller', I think his cape name is—is some kind of billionaire Tinker who built a flying dragon. The news boards are going wild about it. They say he was talking on PHO yesterday claiming he can manifest materials out of thin air and bestow powers on people."

Danny chuckled, shaking his head warmly. "Kids nowadays with their cape lore. Honestly, I'm just glad someone put Lung in the ground. That monster terrorized the East End for years. Whoever this High Roller kid is, he did more for the safety of our union workers in one night than Armsmaster did in five years."

Taylor swallowed hard, her dark eyes drifting toward Greg, whose face was slowly turning as red as a tomato from sheer, unadulterated pride.

"You... you really think High Roller did a good job, Dad?" Taylor asked quietly.

"I do," Danny said earnestly, looking at his daughter. "Any cape who steps up to protect ordinary people without asking for a PRT paycheck or Extortion money gets my respect. Though... I do hope the kid stays safe. The gangs in this city aren't going to take a loss like that lying down. I just hope he has a good team looking out for him."

Ding-dong.

The front doorbell chimed through the quiet house.

Danny's face instantly lit up. "Ah! That must be your parents, Greg! And Sparky's folks!"

He quickly unloosed his apron, tossed it onto the kitchen counter, and smoothed down his plaid shirt. "Alright! Game night is officially starting! Everyone ready?"

Taylor looked at Greg. Greg looked at Sparky.

Sparky took a deep, steadying breath, his hands trembling slightly in his hoodie pockets. Greg reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against his phone, where a tiny, hidden spatial ping was linked directly to Nakime inside the Infinity Castle.

"We're ready, Dad," Taylor said softly, her voice filled with a profound, unshakable resolve. "More ready than you know."

Danny walked past them toward the front door, pulling it open with a wide, welcoming smile.

"Welcome! Come on in, everyone!" Danny greeted warmly.

Stepping through the doorway into the foyer were Greg's parents—Mr. and Mrs. Veder—and Sparky's parents—Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. Mr. Veder was carrying a box of cookies, while Mrs. Davenport held a freshly baked casserole wrapped in foil. They were laughing and chatting politely as they stepped into the warm entryway, taking off their coats.

"Danny, thank you so much for having us over!" Mrs. Veder said cheerfully. "Greg hasn't stopped talking about this game night all week!"

"It's no trouble at all!" Danny smiled, gesturing toward the living room. "Come right on in! We've got coffee brewed, snacks set out, and the table all ready!"

The adults filed into the cozy living room, setting their dishes on the counter and greeting the teenagers.

"Hey, sweetie!" Mrs. Veder smiled, giving Greg a quick hug. "Did you bring the cards like I asked?"

"Yeah, Mom," Greg said, his voice unusually quiet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer. "I brought the cards."

As the five adults gathered in a semicircle around the living room coffee table—Danny pulling up the folding chairs, Mr. Davenport sitting on the armchair, and the mothers sitting on the sofa—Danny reached for the box of Settlers of Catan.

"Alright!" Danny said enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. "Who wants to set up the board first?!"

As the five adults gathered in a semicircle around the living room coffee table—Danny pulling up the folding chairs, Mr. Davenport sitting on the armchair, and the mothers sitting on the sofa—Danny reached for the box of Settlers of Catan.

"Alright!" Danny said enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. "Who wants to set up the board first?!"

Taylor stepped forward, walking directly to the center of the living room rug, right between the coffee table and her father.

"Dad," Taylor said, her voice dropping into a clear, commanding tone that instantly cut through the room's casual chatter. "Put the board game down."

Danny paused, his hands hovering over the box. He looked up at Taylor, noticing the absolute, dead-serious intensity in her dark eyes.

"Taylor?" Danny asked, a subtle wave of confusion washing over his face. "Is... is something wrong, honey?"

Mr. and Mrs. Veder looked at each other nervously. Mr. Davenport frowned slightly, setting his coffee cup down on the end table.

"Nothing is wrong, Dad," Taylor said softly, taking a deep breath. She looked at Greg and Sparky, who stepped up to stand directly on either side of her—forming a united front in the middle of the room. "In fact, everything is about to change. We didn't invite you all here tonight to play board games. We invited you here to tell you the truth. All of it."

Danny slowly set the box down, his brow furrowing with deep concern. "Taylor... what are you talking about? What truth?"

Taylor clasped her hands in front of her, looking her father straight in the eyes. Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of memories she had kept buried for months.

"It starts with Winslow, Dad," Taylor began softly.

Danny's posture immediately stiffened. The mere mention of the high school made his jaw tighten with defensive anger. "Winslow? Honey, if those girls are bothering you again—"

"It wasn't just bothering me, Dad. It was torture," Taylor interrupted, her eyes shimmering with quiet emotion. "For over a year, Emma, Sophia, and Madison made my life a living hell. They destroyed my homework, poured juice in my backpack, tracked down my phone number, and pushed me until I felt completely isolated. And in January... they took it to the absolute limit."

The living room was completely silent. Mrs. Veder covered her mouth with her hand, while Danny stood frozen, his eyes wide.

"They crammed my locker full of used feminine products, rotting trash, and biological waste," Taylor said, her tone flat and haunted. "They shoved me inside, padlocked the door, and left me there. I was trapped in pitch-black darkness, surrounded by filthy, toxic waste, breathing in rot for hours until the janitors finally cut the lock."

Danny looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His face drained of all color, his lips trembling in sheer, horrified disbelief. "T-Taylor... my god... why didn't you tell me?! Why didn't you—"

"Because I thought I had to survive it alone," Taylor whispered. "But that locker... that horror... triggered something in me. Parahumans get their powers from absolute rock-bottom trauma. That day, trapped in the dark, I gained the ability to sense and control every insect within a three-block radius. I became a Master."

Mrs. Davenport gasped softly, while Mr. Veder gripped his wife's hand. Danny took a shaky step forward, his hands trembling violently. "You... you triggered? You became a cape...?"

"I was going to go out as a bug controller," Taylor said softly. "I was going to wear dark gray armor and hide in the shadows. But then... Greg happened."

Danny blinked, turning his head sharply toward Greg Veder.

Greg stepped forward, taking a deep breath as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Yeah... that's where I come in, Mr. Hebert," Greg admitted, offering a faint, sheepish smile. "A little while ago, I woke up with something called the Chaos Gacha. It's... well, it's a cosmic game system attached to my soul. I spin a wheel, and it hands me random powers, traits, items, and familiars from across the multiverse."

Mr. Davenport stared at Greg as if he were speaking alien script. "A... a game wheel? In your head?!"

"Pretty much!" Greg grinned. "And one of the things my Gacha lets me do is bestow permanent powers and traits onto other people. When I found out what Taylor was going through, and when I saw what Sparky was dealing with, I used my pulls on them. I gave Sparky a living magma physiology and Lunarian traits. And I gave Taylor a complete overhaul—turning her into a golden-winged, bio-armored, holy-energy-wielding angel."

Sparky stepped forward next, taking off his hoodie. With a soft whoosh, his dark skin shimmered, his hair turned snow-white, and a faint, warm ember of Lunarian flame ignited above his upper back.

"I'm Pyroclast," Sparky announced quietly.

Mr. Davenport nearly fell off his chair, pointing a shaking finger at his son. "S-Sparky?! What happened to your hair?! Is that REAL FLAME?!"

Then, Taylor closed her eyes.

In an instant, her body exploded into a blinding halo of radiant golden light. Sweeping outward from her back, a magnificent pair of fourteen-foot archangel wings—woven from pure, shimmering golden light and feathers—expanded across the entire living room, casting a warm, celestial glow over the room. Simultaneously, her clothes shifted into sleek obsidian shell armor with fiery orange lattice patterns and velvet-gold pauldrons.

"And I am Monarch," Taylor said, her voice echoing with resonant power.

Danny Hebert stumbled back, hitting his chair so hard it nearly tipped over. He stared at his daughter—at the radiant, angelic warrior standing in his living room—his eyes wide as saucers, tears welling up behind his glasses. "T-Taylor... my baby... oh god..."

"Why do you think we hosted that massive public AMA on PHO yesterday, Dad?" Taylor asked gently, her golden wings fanning out to fill the room with warmth. "Because I couldn't hide anymore. Sooner or later, people and the PRT were going to start asking questions. A cape registered as a bug controller suddenly sprouting holy light, fourteen-foot golden archangel wings, and healing people at Brockton General Hospital would have triggered an immediate PRT investigation. Armsmaster would have tried to forcibly categorize me, quarantine me, or demand access to my gear."

"We needed to take control of the narrative before they tried to control us," Greg explained firmly, stepping up beside Taylor. "Taking down Lung publicly and hosting the AMA was a tactical necessity to establish the Chaos Brigade as an independent power. But... doing that came with a heavy cost."

Greg's face darkened, his voice dropping into serious authority.

"By taking down Lung and bragging about our abilities on public forums, we put a massive, glowing red target on our backs," Greg stated plainly. "The gangs—Empire 88, the ABB remnants—are terrified of us. Coil, the shadow broker of the city, is actively tracking us. And shadowy cape cartels are watching us."

Mrs. Veder let out a frightened cry, clutching her husband. "Target?! Greg, you're in danger?!"

"WE aren't in danger, Mom," Greg clarified, looking at every adult in the room. "They can't beat us in a fight. But villains are cowards. If they can't hit us... they will come for you."

Danny swallowed hard, his face turning pale as the reality of Greg's words sank in. "Hostages... they'd use us as leverage to force you to surrender..."

"Exactly," Greg nodded. "Which brings me to my next power reveal. Aside from power bestowal, my Gacha gave me an application called Matter Creation. As long as I know how something is built, I can create it out of thin air. Real, permanent matter. Medical supplies, high-grade armor, raw materials..."

Greg reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out three sleek, glowing, futuristic smartphones—crafted from dark metallic obsidian with custom holographic displays. He handed one to Taylor, one to Sparky, and held one himself.

"And I built us custom, high-frequency encrypted communicators linked directly to our network," Greg said proudly, tapping the screen.

Danny Hebert's eyes immediately locked onto the sleek metallic phone in Taylor's hand.

A sharp, painful jolt ran through Danny's chest. His expression hardened into a sudden, deep scowl, his jaw clenching tightly.

He hated cell phones. He despised them with every fiber of his being. It was a cell phone that had taken Annette from him. A single moment of distraction—a phone call while driving—and his wife, Taylor's mother, was gone forever. Ever since that awful day, seeing a phone in Taylor's hands made a cold, instinctual knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach.

"Taylor..." Danny said, his voice laced with a sudden, sharp edge of grief and irritation. "You know how I feel about those damn things. Your mother—"

"Dad," Taylor interrupted softly, her voice filled with profound tenderness. She stepped forward, gently taking his hand. "I know. I know how much it hurts. But this isn't a normal phone. It's a lifeline. It keeps us connected to something much bigger."

Danny looked at his daughter's soft, understanding eyes, then looked at the sleek device, and finally at the floating flame on Sparky's back and the golden wings filling his living room.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, rubbing his face with his hand. My daughter is an archangel, my house is filled with holy light, a teenager in a hoodie is creating matter out of thin air... and I'm getting mad about a cell phone.

Danny closed his eyes and forced himself to exhale. "Right... right. Sorry. I... I have bigger fish to fry right now."

Greg offered an appreciative, respectful nod toward Danny before continuing.

"Which brings us to the ultimate solution to all of this," Greg grinned, his eyes sparkling with revolutionary logic. "Where do we keep you safe? How do we eliminate the gangs' leverage forever?"

Greg spread his arms wide toward the middle of the room.

"Why stay in Brockton Bay at all?" Greg pitched passionately. "My Gacha gave us access to a multi-dimensional realm called the Infinity Castle. It is an infinite, shifting wooden palace that exists outside normal space! It has infinite space, zero rent, zero utility bills, perfect climate control, and fresh food that I can synthesize on command!"

Danny blinked in absolute astonishment. "A... a multi-dimensional castle...?"

"Think about it, Mr. Hebert!" Greg urged, leaning forward with intense enthusiasm. "How could ANY villain in the entire world ever get in here?! They can't breach it! Even if a cape somehow managed to clip through spatial dimensions to get inside, they would have to fight through a shifting maze controlled by Nakime, deal with Aurelius's Frenzy Virus, fight Shalltear, fight Mimic, and deal with us! It is literally the safest place on planet Earth!"

Taylor looked at her father, her golden wings wrapping around her like a protective shield. "No more gang extortion in the Docks, Dad. No more worrying about broken windows, stray bullets, or crumbling city streets. You can have a massive, beautiful private wing of a wooden palace, complete with synthesized meals, indoor gardens, and total, absolute safety."

Danny, Mr. and Mrs. Veder, and Mr. and Mrs. Davenport stared at the three teenagers in utter, stunned silence.

Greg turned toward the plain, empty wall beside the living room hallway.

"Nakime," Greg called out softly. "Show them our new home."

DON.

The deep, solitary strike of a biwa string reverberated through the air, vibrating right in the chests of everyone in the room.

Before anyone could blink, the drywall along the living room wall seamlessly dissolved, replaced by a pair of elegant, traditional Japanese Shoji doors with dark wooden frames and translucent rice paper paneling.

With a soft, rhythmic slide, the Shoji doors glided open on their own.

Instead of opening into the narrow hallway of the Hebert household, the doorway opened directly into the impossible, dizzying expanse of the Infinity Castle.

A cool, crisp breeze scented with fresh cedar and morning mist swept into the living room. Through the frame of the Shoji door, the adults gasped as they looked into an endless vertical maze of suspended wooden corridors, glowing paper lanterns floating in midair, upside-down staircases, and pristine tatami rooms stretching out infinitely into the horizon. In the distance, a grand golden dragon rested on a wooden pagoda, while a silver-haired vampire girl in an ornate dress stood nearby, bowing politely toward the newly opened doorway.

"What... what IS that...?" Mrs. Davenport whispered, clutching her husband's arm in pure, mesmerized awe.

"That," Greg smiled, gesturing proudly toward the open Shoji doors, "is the Infinity Castle. Our new home."

Greg looked back at Danny Hebert, Mr. and Mrs. Veder, and Mr. and Mrs. Davenport with a bright, welcoming grin.

"Pack your bags," Greg said softly. "You're moving in."

---

The cool, cedar-scented air of the Infinity Castle drifted through the open Shoji doors, carrying with it a faint, melodic draft that smelled of fresh mountain rain, polished hardwood, and distant, crackling ozone.

For several long, breathless seconds, not a single adult in the Hebert living room moved.

Danny Hebert stood frozen near the threshold, his mouth slightly open, his hand still gently holding Taylor's. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Veder were frozen mid-step, their eyes wide as dinner plates as they stared through the paper-frame doorway. Mr. Davenport had stopped breathing entirely, his coffee cup hovering two inches above the end table, while Mrs. Davenport clutched her husband's arm so tightly her knuckles had turned stark white.

They weren't looking into a hallway. They were looking into an impossible, endless vertical sky of moving architecture.

Suspended staircases floated gracefully across multi-tiered wooden balconies. Shifting paper shoji screens glided along invisible grooves overhead, and soft, golden light radiated from hundreds of hanging paper lanterns that hovered in midair like tethered stars.

"Step on through," Greg said warmly, gently gesturing toward the doorway. "It's completely solid. I promise."

Danny took the first tentative step. The moment his leather shoe pressed against the polished dark timber floorboards on the other side of the threshold, a soft, soothing resonance rippled through the wood, as if the castle itself were acknowledging his presence.

The rest of the parents followed, stepping across the threshold like astronauts setting foot on another planet.

Directly ahead of them, in the central courtyard of the upper pavilion, lay Aurelius.

The elder dragon—a majestic Shagaru Magala clad in sweeping, brilliant golden scales that sparkled like polished sunlight—lay coiled comfortably atop a towering mountain of raw brass, copper, and stainless-steel ingots. His massive, six-limbed body was stretched out in a state of absolute, peaceful slumber. Heavy, rhythmic breaths rumbled deep within his chest, sending faint, purplish hazes of soft Frenzy energy drifting lazily from his nostrils, dissipating harmlessly into the vaulted ceiling high above.

"Is... is that a dragon?!" Mrs. Veder squeaked, instantly taking a half-step back behind her husband.

"That's Aurelius," Sparky said with a proud grin, leaning his arm against the wooden doorframe. "He's big, but he's chill. Long as you don't mess with his metal pile, he just sleeps."

Before the parents could even process the golden dragon resting fifty feet away, a soft, rustling sound of heavy silk echoed from a nearby balcony.

Gliding down the central wooden staircase with effortless, floating grace came Shalltear Bloodfallen. Her dark-purple Victorian dress flowed smoothly around her petite frame, and her crimson parasol rested lightly against her shoulder. Her alabaster skin practically glowed under the lantern light, her ruby eyes glittering with an eerie, aristocratic intensity as she approached the group.

She stopped three paces away, folding her parasol with a sharp, elegant clack, and bowed low—her long, silver-white hair cascading gracefully over her shoulder.

"I bid you welcome to the realm of my Master," Shalltear's voice was smooth, velvety, and carried a dark, noble authority that made Mr. Davenport's knees wobble slightly. "It is a profound honor to receive the esteemed sires and dams of my noble masters. I am Shalltear Bloodfallen. Rest assured, while you reside within these halls, no mortal filth nor petty parahuman shall ever lay a finger upon your bloodlines."

Danny blinked, taking a quick glance at Taylor, who gave a reassuring nod. "Uh... thank you, miss," Danny managed to scrape out, adjusting his glasses nervously.

Off in the distance, perched on a solitary, floating wooden platform near the core of the fortress, sat Nakime. Her long, pitch-black hair veiled her face completely, her pale fingers resting silently against the dark wood of her biwa. She didn't speak, but the ambient atmosphere of the castle hummed around her in quiet, perfect obedience.

Slick... ripple... slither...

A sudden, fluid metallic sound echoed overhead.

The parents looked up to see Mimic—a creature of pure, shifting liquid obsidian and mercury—gliding smoothly across the wooden ceiling beams like living quicksilver. It flowed effortlessly along the grain of the wood, extending liquid tendrils to form playful shapes, dripping down a support pillar before instantly snapping back into a smooth, shimmering sphere that skittered playfully along the wall like a pet retriever.

"Don't mind Mimic," Greg chuckled, waving at the liquid entity. "He's a fluid construct. He likes to slide around the woodwork, but he's completely friendly."

Mr. Veder wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Greg... son... this is... this is absolute insanity. It's beautiful, but it's complete insanity."

"It's total security, Dad," Greg corrected firmly.

He reached into the inner pocket of his hoodie and pulled out three thick, heavy parchment tickets that glowed with a dazzling, metallic platinum sheen. The light from the tickets cast long, dramatic golden reflections across the wooden floorboards.

"Alright," Greg said, stepping into the center of the adult circle. "Before we talk about the logistics of living here, we need to take care of your personal defense. I have three Platinum Tickets from my Chaos Gacha system. One ticket for my parents, one for Sparky's parents, and one for Mr. Hebert."

Greg held out the glowing tickets. "Once you rip the paper in half, the system will instantly process a high-tier pull and add you directly to the folds of the Chaos Gacha. It's primarily to give you a way to defend yourselves if you're ever separated from us or caught in a bad spot."

The parents looked at the glowing tickets, then at each other, a collective wave of anxiety washing over their faces.

"Greg..." Mrs. Veder hesitated, her hands clasped tightly together. "Is... is this safe? Ripping magic tickets from a cosmic system? Will it hurt? Will it change who we are?"

Greg smiled, his posture relaxing completely as he activated [Adept Persuasion]—a subtle, passive master-level communication trait derived from his [King of All Trades] ability. His voice took on a warm, deeply grounded, and utterly reassuring resonance that instantly washed away the room's tension.

"I give you my absolute, one-hundred-percent assurance," Greg said softly, looking his mother in the eye with unwavering honesty. "It is completely safe. It won't hurt, it won't warp your minds, and it won't change who you are. The Chaos Gacha binds to your soul to protect you. I would never, ever hand you something that could harm you."

The absolute sincerity in Greg's voice, backed by the subtle magic of his trait, hit the parents like a calming wave. The tightness in Danny's chest relaxed. Mrs. Davenport let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Alright, honey," Mrs. Veder whispered, stepping forward. "We trust you."

Greg handed the first Platinum Ticket to his parents.

Mr. and Mrs. Veder gripped the heavy parchment together. With a gentle pull, they tore the golden paper down the center.

The ticket exploded into a shower of bright crimson spark-lines that dissolved into a floating system interface directly before their eyes.

[ITEM CLAIMED!]

[Can of Whoopass] |Rare Item| • Description: A regular-looking tin can with a label stating explicitly what it does. When this can is opened, 6 aggressive combat familiars will be summoned from the Gold Familiar Gacha pool. The familiars will immediately focus on and relentlessly beat the target who triggered the opening to death. They will not stop until the target is destroyed, at which point they will vanish.

A heavy, matte-black metal tin can—looking surprisingly mundane except for a bright yellow label that boldly read "CAN OF WHOOPASS" in thick, dark lettering—materialized in midair and dropped softly into Mr. Veder's waiting palms.

Greg's eyes widened as he read the system description floating on the interface.

"Holy crap..." Greg muttered, his eyes wide. "That's... that's literally a Can of Whoopass!"

Mr. Veder turned the can over in his hands, staring at the label in absolute bewilderment. "Wait... so if someone tries to attack us... we just pop the tab on this can?"

"Pop the tab, throw it at their feet, and walk away!" Greg said, holding back a hysterical laugh. "Six heavy combat familiars will spawn out of nowhere and pummel them into dust! Dad, you are holding a literal nuclear deterrent in a soup can! Keep that in your jacket at all times!"

Mr. Veder carefully slipped the heavy can into his coat pocket, holding it as if it were a live hand grenade, a bizarre mix of pride and sheer awe on his face.

"Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, your turn," Greg said, handing the second Platinum Ticket to Sparky's parents.

Sparky's father took the glowing parchment, looking at his son, who gave him a thumb-up. Mr. Davenport gripped the ticket and tore it smoothly down the middle.

A heavy, earthy hum filled the air as bright amber light erupted from the torn paper. The light condensed into four towering silhouettes before solidifying into physical matter on the wooden floorboards.

[FAMILIAR CLAIMED!]

[Iron Golem] |Uncommon Familiar| • Description: Heavy stone constructs forged through a blend of master craftsmanship and ancient magic, encased in dense iron plating. Iron Golems are exceptionally resistant against hostile energy and magic, possessing incredible physical defense paired with overwhelming strength. • Quantity: You start with 4 golems and are able to summon/control more scaling with your maximum energy levels and physical abilities.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Four towering, eight-foot-tall construct guardians materialized in a tight square around Sparky's parents. Their bodies were forged from weathered gray stone and covered in thick, riveted iron armor plates. Their eyes glowed with a quiet, dull blue magical ember. The moment they fully manifested, all four Iron Golems dropped heavily to one knee, their iron-clad fists striking the wooden floorboards in a synchronized bow of absolute loyalty toward Mr. and Mrs. Davenport.

"Woah..." Sparky gasped, stepping up to knock his knuckles against the thick iron breastplate of the nearest golem. CLANG. "These guys are solid rock and steel! Energy resistant, too!"

Mr. Davenport stared at the four towering iron sentinels kneeling before him, his jaw hanging open. "I... I have four iron bodyguards now?"

"Four iron bodyguards that can crush a villain in seconds, Mr. Davenport," Greg grinned. "You can store them in your soul space and summon them whenever you feel threatened!"

With a soft wave of his hand, Mr. Davenport tested the mental link, and the four golems dissolved into harmless gray mist, storing themselves safely inside his personal system inventory.

Finally, Greg stepped up to Danny Hebert, handing him the final glowing Platinum Ticket.

Danny looked at the ticket, then looked at Taylor, who smiled warmly at him. "Go ahead, Dad."

Danny tore the parchment.

Unlike the previous two pulls, the light that erupted from Danny's ticket was a deep, mesmerizing violet and emerald crimson. The spatial air around Danny hummed with intense elemental energy as a glowing, polished crystal core—shaped like a faceted diamond with a burning red-and-gold core pulsing inside—materialized in midair, hovering directly over his palms.

[ITEM CLAIMED!]

[Flesh Eater Core] |Epic Item| • Description: A perfected living core crystal. When pressed into the chest of a host, it merges with their physiology, transforming them into a Flesh Eater—a hybrid of a sentient energy entity and a living human. • Granted Effects: Massively increased physical attributes, a signature elemental affinity, and a manifestation weapon forged of pure energy. Grants the ability to link with a designated Driver to share power and pool energy reserves.

Greg read the floating text, his eyes widening into huge circles.

"WHOA!" Greg blurted out, slapping his forehead. "A FLESH EATER CORE?!"

Danny carefully caught the glowing crystal core as it sank into his hands, feeling a deep, warm, soothing vibration pulsing against his palms. "A... Flesh Eater Core? What does that mean, Greg?"

"It means, Mr. Hebert, that if you ever decide to press that crystal into your chest, you will literally transform into a power-bound hybrid!" Greg said excitedly, pacing around Danny. "You'll get super strength, super speed, a signature energy weapon, and you can even link up with Taylor as her combat partner to share energy! You could literally join the Chaos Brigade as an active member if you wanted to!"

Danny stared down at the burning emerald-and-red core in his hands.

The idea of having super strength... of having the power to actually stand beside his daughter and protect her instead of sitting helplessly in a decaying house... it sent a strange, forgotten spark of fire through Danny's heart. He slowly closed his hands over the crystal, feeling its warmth sink into his skin before storing it safely into his newly unlocked system inventory space.

"I... I don't know if I'm ready to fight villains yet, Greg," Danny said quietly, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But... knowing I have the power to protect Taylor... it means everything."

However, despite the incredible gifts and the awe-inspiring beauty of the Infinity Castle, a subtle shadow of hesitation remained on the faces of the adults.

Mrs. Veder looked around the grand wooden palace, biting her lip. "Greg... honey... this is all so incredible. But... we have lives back in the city. Your father has his job at the accounting firm. Mr. Hebert has the Union. We have our house, our neighbors... we can't just drop everything and vanish from the world."

Sparky's mother nodded in agreement. "She's right. If we all disappear overnight, people will notice. The police, our employers... it will create a massive spectacle."

Greg stepped forward once more, leaning into his [Adept Persuasion] and communication traits with effortless grace.

"Who said you have to drop your lives?" Greg asked with a bright, comforting smile.

Danny blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not asking you to quit your jobs or abandon the real world!" Greg explained warmly, gesturing toward Nakime in the distance. "The Infinity Castle isn't a prison, Mr. Hebert. It's our home base. Nakime can open a spatial Shoji door to anywhere in the city at any time!"

Greg spread his hands, breaking down the logic with crystal-clear clarity.

"You can go to work every morning just like normal," Greg said. "You can walk through a spatial door right into your office parking lot, do your shift, go grocery shopping, visit your friends, and live your lives. But when your workday is over? You step back through a Shoji door into the Infinity Castle. You sleep here in total, unbreachable safety. No gang drive-bys, no break-ins, no Coil mercenaries, no utility bills, and zero rent."

The parents looked at each other, the realization slowly dawning on them.

"You mean... we can still work?" Mr. Davenport asked.

"Of course!" Greg chuckled. "Heck, you don't even have to work if you don't want to! Thanks to my Matter Creation ability, I can provide literally anything you need. Fresh food, clean clothes, tools, resources..."

Greg paused, reaching into his pocket. He focused his intent, calling upon his Matter Creation ability.

With a bright, shimmering flash of gold light, a massive, flawless, fist-sized raw diamond—glistening with hyper-pure multi-carat facets that caught the hanging lantern light—materialized in Greg's palm.

Greg stepped up to Danny Hebert and gently placed the massive, priceless gem directly into Danny's hands.

Danny's breath hitched in his throat as he stared down at the heavy, glittering diamond resting in his palm.

"I know how much you've been struggling to get funding to clean up the Boat Graveyard at the Docks, Mr. Hebert," Greg said softly, his tone filled with deep respect. "The Union needs money. The city ignored you guys for years. Take this. Liquidate it through a legal broker or sell it in pieces. It's more than enough to buy the heavy cranes, dredging equipment, and supplies the Dock Workers Association needs to clear the bay."

Danny stared at the diamond, then looked up at Greg, and finally at Taylor—who was looking at him with tears of absolute pride shining in her dark eyes.

The heavy burden that Danny had carried for years—the crushing weight of a dying union, a decaying city, and the constant fear of losing his daughter—seemed to shatter into a million pieces right then and there.

"Greg..." Danny's voice cracked with deep, overwhelming emotion. He wiped a tear from behind his glasses, letting out a soft, shuddering laugh. "You... you boys really thought of everything, didn't you?"

"We take care of our family, Mr. Hebert," Sparky said with a proud grin.

Mr. Veder took a deep breath, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders as he looked at Greg. "Alright, High Roller. You win. We're moving in."

"Me too," Mr. Davenport agreed immediately, clapping his son on the shoulder. "If it means my family sleeps safe from cape gang violence, I'm all in."

Danny looked at Taylor, stepping over to pull her into a tight, warm hug. "We're moving in, honey. We're moving in."

As the three teenagers watched their families laugh, chat, and marvel at the wooden architecture, a massive wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over Greg, Taylor, and Sparky.

The trio let out a long, collective sigh of relief, leaning against the wooden railing of the balcony together.

Suddenly, a loud, brilliant chime echoed through Greg's mind, and his eyes were completely flooded with bright, pulsing golden light as a massive system notification exploded across his vision.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — MAJOR MILESTONE ACHIEVED!]

[Milestone: Sanctuary of Chaos] • Description: You successfully revealed the truth of your identity to your families, convinced them to embrace the Chaos Brigade, brought 5 baseline civilians into the folds of the system, and established the Infinity Castle as your shared permanent stronghold. • Reward: [1x Legendary Ticket]!

Greg's heart practically skipped a beat.

"YES!" Greg gasped out loud, clutching his chest. "ANOTHER LEGENDARY TICKET?!"

Taylor and Sparky turned to look at him. "Another one?!" Sparky asked, his eyes wide.

"Yup!" Greg grinned maniacally, his hands flying to tap the glowing Legendary Ticket icon hovering in the air. "Let's see what we get! Come on, big money, no whammies!"

The floating interface exploded into a blinding storm of azure lightning, swirling crimson fire, and booming thunderous audio effects. The entire space around Greg seemed to shake as a massive golden roulette wheel spun at lightspeed before snapping violently to a halt on a deep, shimmering dragon-scale icon.

[Azure Dragon Form]

|Mythical Ability|

One Piece Kaido - Allows you to transform into a giant Easten Azure Dragon or a hybrid at will, massively boosting your physical abilities and allowing you to use elemental breath attacks like fire, lightning, and air, also allows you to summon fire clouds to either lift things up or help you fly.

Greg's eyes expanded to the size of saucers as he read the system description.

"HELL FUCKING YEAH!" Greg roared at the top of his lungs, leaping two feet into the air and punching the sky with pure, unadulterated gamer ecstasy.

"What is it?!" Taylor asked, startled by his sudden outburst.

"AN AZURE DRAGON FORM!" Greg screamed happily, his face glowing with absolute triumph. "I CAN TURN INTO A GIANT EASTERN AZURE DRAGON! I CAN SHOOT MOUNTAIN-MELTING FIREBREATH! I CAN FLY ON FIRE CLOUDS!"

Without hesitating for even a fraction of a second, Greg opened his active ability loadout menu. He tapped his equipped [Drake Form] skill slot, instantly unequipping the lower-tier transformation, and slotted the shiny, god-tier [Azure Dragon Form] directly into his primary ability slot.

A surge of warm, crackling dragon lightning rippled across Greg's skin, his eyes flashing with a faint, regal blue aura for a brief second before settling back to normal.

He looked at Taylor, Sparky, and their smiling parents exploring the nearby tatami rooms.

The Chaos Brigade was fully secured. Their families were safe.

Brockton Bay was never going to know what hit it.

 

[Thegameaholic]

A week had passed since the Hebert living room floor split open to reveal the infinite wooden horizon of the Infinity Castle, and for the first time in years, the crushing weight of Brockton Bay felt like a distant, bad dream.

Selling the houses had been surprisingly quick. With Greg's [Matter Creation] producing pristine gold bullion and certified bank-grade cashier's checks to cover any legal loose ends, real estate brokers were more than happy to expedite the sales. Danny's old house on Boardwalk, the Veders' cozy suburban two-story, and the Davenports' townhouse were officially off the market, closed, and finalized. Their earthly belongings—photographs, heirlooms, clothes, and memories—had been seamlessly moved through spatial Shoji doors directly into their sprawling, private suites inside the Castle's upper pavilions.

The result was an unprecedented level of absolute peace.

Danny Hebert didn't wake up to the sound of sirens or the constant, dull roar of distant gang activity near the docks. Mr. Veder didn't have to check three locks on his front door before heading to sleep. Mrs. Davenport could relax on a private cedar balcony overlooking suspended staircases and drifting paper lanterns, sipping tea without a single worry in the world.

Tonight, however, was special. Tonight was the very first official family dinner of the Chaos Brigade.

In the main pavilion of the central wing, a massive thirty-foot dining table carved from solid polished mahogany stretched beneath a canopy of floating gold-paper lanterns. The scent lingering through the hall wasn't just cedar and mountain mist—it was the heavenly, mouth-watering aroma of a five-star banquet.

At the head of the kitchen prep area stood Greg, wearing a clean white chef's apron over his hoodie. His eyes gleamed with hyper-focus as his hands moved in a literal blur across cutting boards, pans, and open flame burners.

Thanks to his [King of All Trades] trait naturally unlocking [Adept Cooking], Greg was operating at absolute culinary perfection. Every slice of meat was uniform down to the millimeter, and every sauce was emulsified to divine precision. With [Matter Creation], he had synthesized world-class ingredients: Wagyu beef, fresh Pacific lobster, truffle-infused butter, rare organic vegetables, and fruits harvested at the exact millisecond of peak ripeness.

"Greg, honey, are you sure you don't need help?" Mrs. Veder asked for the fifth time, standing near the kitchen entrance with a dish towel in hand.

"Mom, sit down, relax! I've got this handled on a molecular level!" Greg called back with a grin, expertly flipping four filet mignons in a copper skillet simultaneously. "When you have a trait that turns cooking into an exact science, putting together a feast for twelve is basically a victory lap!"

Outside in the dining pavilion, the table was already set.

Taylor sat near the center, her posture relaxed and completely grounded. Her celestial archangel transformation was entirely disabled for the evening—she didn't need blinding holy light, glowing halos, or divine wings fluttering behind her chair just to pass the dinner rolls. Instead, she was dressed casually, with Kamui Senketsu resting comfortably around her torso in his dormant, un-synchronized sailor uniform state. The living garment's solitary crimson eye squeezed shut in a peaceful, contented blink as Taylor smoothed down the fabric, perfectly content to enjoy a quiet evening with her family.

Sparky sat beside her, happily tossing a small ember of Lunarian flame between his palms like a glowing stress ball while chatting with his father.

Near the head of the table, Shalltear Bloodfallen stood at rigid, absolute attention. Her dark-purple Victorian dress was spotless, her hands folded neatly over her crimson parasol, watching the preparations with stern, noble eyes. Beside her sat Nakime, cross-legged on a floating tatami mat just above the floorboards, her biwa resting lightly against her lap, her pale face hidden behind her veil of raven hair.

"Shalltear! Nakime!" Greg shouted from the kitchen, pushing a massive wheeled cart laden with steaming silver platters out into the dining hall. "Take a seat! Dinner is served!"

Shalltear immediately straightened, her ruby eyes widening as she bowed low. "My Lord High Roller! I could not possibly presume to sit at the table of my masters! It is the duty of a servant to stand guard while the noble lineages partake in their grand feast!"

In the background, Nakime gave a slow, quiet tilt of her head, remaining seated on her floating mat as if she were a fixture of the palace architecture itself.

Greg rolled his eyes, parking the food cart right beside the table. He walked over, grabbed Shalltear by the shoulders, and gently pushed her down into one of the high-backed wooden dining chairs next to Sparky.

"Shalltear, drop the noble servant act for five minutes," Greg chuckled warmly. "You run security for this entire realm. Nakime literally holds the walls together. You two aren't staff—you're basically family now. And in this house, family sits down and eats together."

Shalltear's alabaster cheeks flushed a dark, aristocratic crimson. She looked at the polished silver plate in front of her, then at Taylor and Sparky, who were both giving her warm, encouraging nods. Even Senketsu gave a subtle, approving rustle against Taylor's shoulder.

"I... I am deeply humbled, Master Greg," Shalltear stammered, smoothing down her velvet skirts as she tentatively gripped her fork and knife.

"You too, Nakime!" Greg called out, tapping his foot.

DON.

A soft biwa string plucked through the air, and in a fraction of a second, Nakime's floating tatami mat glided smoothly over to the table, lowering itself perfectly to chair-height between Mrs. Veder and Danny Hebert. She set her instrument across her knees and folded her pale hands over her lap in quiet acceptance.

"That's more like it," Greg grinned.

Of course, not everyone at the table could participate in the culinary experience.

Standing stoically in the four corners of the dining hall were the Iron Golems. The eight-foot-tall stone and iron sentries stood like imposing medieval statues, their dull blue magical eyes glowing softly in the lantern light as they kept absolute watch over the perimeter.

Mr. Davenport looked over at his four golem bodyguards, holding up a massive, juicy barbecued rib on a fork. "You guys sure you don't want any of this? It's really good."

The lead Iron Golem slowly turned its heavy iron helm toward Mr. Davenport. It paused, gave a singular, heavy, iron-clad nod of refusal, and returned to staring blankly at the entryway.

"Right. Living stone and iron. No stomachs," Mr. Davenport chuckled, taking a big bite of the rib himself. "More for me!"

While the golems couldn't eat, the rest of the familiars certainly did.

Over in the central courtyard, Aurelius lay sprawled out across his comfortable resting area. Greg had prepared a massive, dragon-sized carnivore feast for the golden elder dragon: a massive wooden trough piled high with thick, bone-in smoked steaks, juicy prime ribs, and whole roasted legs of beef, all glistening with savory juices.

Aurelius let out a deep, contented purr that vibrated through the floorboards, happily clamping his massive jaws around a four-pound seared steak and swallowing it whole. Faint purplish hazes of soft Frenzy energy sparkled lazily around his snout as he happily devoured his mountain of meat.

On the table itself, right beside Greg's plate, sat a small, custom-built wooden dining tray.

Sliding over the edge of the mahogany table came Mimic. In its liquid form, the entity looked like a playful pool of shimmering quicksilver and fluid obsidian. It bubbled happily as Greg set down a small glass bowl filled with a specialized, hyper-dense mineral liquid. Mimic extended two fluid, mercury-like pseudopods, wrapping around the bowl and slurping up the liquid with soft, satisfied gurgle-splap sounds.

Beside Mimic's tray sat four tiny, miniature silver plates, custom-crafted for the small hamster familiars resting on the table linen: Maga-Z, Jum-P, Maga-G, and Cham-D.

The four little creatures sat up on their hind legs, their tiny paws clutching micro-sized portions of gourmet roasted sunflower seeds, glazed carrot shavings, and microscopic bits of prime steak.

"Look at them go!" Mrs. Veder gasped, pulling out her phone to take a picture of the four hamsters nibbling away. "They have their own tiny treats! Greg, this is adorable!"

"Only the best for the Four Dark Devas of Destruction, Mom," Greg laughed.

As the food was passed around, Mrs. Davenport suddenly gasped, pointing at a small side dish sitting directly on Greg's plate. "Greg! What is that on your plate?! It's glowing!"

Sitting beside Greg's steak was a small pile of strange, deep-violet toadstools covered in shimmering, toxic yellow spots. A faint, bitter vapor drifted up from the fungi, causing the wood of his fork to discolor slightly where it touched them.

"Oh, these?" Greg casually picked up one of the poisonous mushrooms with his fork and popped it right into his mouth, chewing thoroughly. "Just a little side dish of lethal Death-Cap toadstools."

"Greg!" Mrs. Veder shrieked, half-rising from her chair. "Are you insane?! Spit that out!"

"Mom, Mom, chill out! It's for a skill!" Greg chuckled, swallowing the mushroom cleanly.

He tapped his chest as a dark, faint purple aura flickered briefly over his skin before settling down.

"I have an Elite trait equipped called [Kudoku]," Greg explained, taking another mushroom. "Basically, it allows me to ingest and survive any deadly poison. The crazier part is that whenever I digest a deadly toxin, my body absorbs it, permanently increasing the potency of my own poison abilities and granting my venom new status effects—like paralysis, neurotoxins, or elemental decay. Plus, as long as it's slotted, it gives me scaling poison immunity anyway. Eating these wild toadstools is literally just passive leveling!"

Danny Hebert stared at Greg in complete awe, shaking his head with a light laugh. "You're eating lethal poison as a snack to level up your abilities. I don't think I'll ever get used to how your system works, Greg."

"Hey, no pain, no gain!" Greg grinned, finishing off the side dish while taking a big sip of sparkling apple cider. "My poison's already gone from 'Trash' tier to 'Mild Paralytic' in just three days!"

The feast continued with warmth and laughter filling the grand hall. Danny cut into a piece of Wagyu filet mignon that melted on his tongue like butter, marveling at how far they had come.

As the dinner progressed, the atmosphere inside the hall grew warmer and more lively than it had been in months.

Shalltear, despite her initial aristocratic hesitation, found herself thoroughly enjoying a plate of blood-orange glazed duck, quietly sipping a glass of deep red vintage wine while listening intently to Sparky explain how his Lunarian flame allowed him to withstand extreme temperatures.

Danny reached across the table to pour himself some more sparkling cider, looking over at his daughter. "So, Taylor... what's the plan now? The PRT saw the AMA. The city knows Monarch, High Roller, and Pyroclast exist. What happens next?"

Taylor set her fork down, adjusting the collar of Senketsu comfortably. "Right now, we let them digest the news, Dad. Armsmaster and Piggot are probably tearing their hair out at the PRT headquarters trying to analyze our powers. But because we made our grand debut independently and took down Lung publicly, they can't just bully us into joining the Wards."

"And if Coil or the Empire try to make a move?" Mr. Veder asked, his hand instinctively patting the heavy Can of Whoopass sitting securely in his inner jacket pocket.

"If they try anything, we shut them down," Sparky said firmly, his white hair catching the ambient lantern light. "With the Infinity Castle as our base, we have complete operational freedom. We strike, drop the hammer, and step back through a Shoji door before they even know what hit them."

Danny looked at his daughter, seeing the absolute confidence and fire in her eyes. There was no trace of the lonely, broken girl who had spent a year suffering in silence at Winslow. She was whole. She was powerful. She was loved.

Danny reached out, placing his hand over Taylor's. "I'm proud of you, Taylor. Both of you boys, too. You took a nightmare and turned it into something incredible."

"To the Chaos Brigade!" Mr. Davenport cheered, raising his glass high into the air.

"To the Chaos Brigade!" everyone echoed, clinking their glasses together over the center of the grand mahogany table.

Once the massive feast was finished and the plates were cleared—with Mimic happily absorbing the lingering crumbs off the table like a living metallic vacuum cleaner—Greg stood up, slapping his hands together with a mischievous grin.

"Alright, dinner's done!" Greg announced loudly. "You know what that means! FAMILY GAME NIGHT!"

Mr. Veder groaned playfully, leaning back in his chair. "Oh boy. What are we playing, High Roller? Monopoly? Settlers of Catan?"

"We are playing a custom board game I synthesized with Matter Creation!" Greg declared, pulling a massive, ornate wooden box out of his inventory and setting it down on the table with a heavy THUD.

The box opened to reveal a massive, three-dimensional physical map of a fantasy realm, complete with miniature moving figure pieces, glowing mana crystals, and custom spell cards.

For the next three hours, the grand pavilion echoed with shouting, laughter, and lighthearted chaotic banter.

Shalltear turned out to be absolute chaos at board games, taking every loss with dramatic, tragic elegance and demanding immediate rematches. Nakime, despite remaining silently in the corner, played her turns with terrifying tactical efficiency, quietly wiping out Sparky's entire army with a single card play that left Sparky gaping in utter disbelief.

Danny was laughing—really, truly laughing—for the first time since Annette had passed away. He watched Taylor pull off a clutch victory against Greg, cheering loudly as his daughter gave a triumphant fist bump into the air.

Standing on the upper balcony overlooking the dining hall, Greg leaned against the dark wooden railing, watching his family and friends down below.

His eyes flickered down to his active ability menu, where his brand-new, god-tier [Azure Dragon Form] glittered with pulsing blue lightning.

He was a High Roller. He had an infinite dimensional fortress, a crew of insanely overpowered familiars, a god-tier dragon transformation, a growing poison capability, and a family that was finally, completely safe.

Greg took a deep breath of the cool, cedar air, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face.

Yeah, Greg thought to himself, watching Taylor laugh as Shalltear dramatically accused her of cheating. Life is good.

---

The fluorescent lights of Brockton General's emergency ward hummed with a flat, buzzing drone that Amy Dallon had long come to hate. It was a sterile, sickly sound, underscoring the constant orchestra of misery that filled the halls: the rhythmic beep of heart monitors, the screech of gurney wheels against linoleum, the muffled groans of patients in shock, and the smell—always the smell—of industrial bleach, stale coffee, coppery blood, and decaying flesh.

Amy stood in the shadow of a concrete support pillar near Trauma Bay 3, her fingers wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm, bitter breakroom coffee. She squeezed the cup until the cardboard creaked, watching the dark liquid ripple.

She looked like a ghost. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a hasty, greasy ponytail, stray strands sticking to her forehead. Deep, bruised-purple circles were carved into the skin beneath her eyes, a physical receipt for thirty-six hours of continuous on-call duty. Her white robes, once pristine, were rumpled and bore faint, faded stains near the cuffs—remnants of plasma and antiseptic from a double-shift three days ago that she hadn't found the energy to wash out.

For months, this had been her life. She was Panacea. She was the girl who fixed people. She was the human miracle machine that the city ran on, dragging her exhausted body from bed to bed, floor to floor, until her knees trembled and her brain felt like dry sand. Every time she tried to stop, every time she closed her eyes in the breakroom for more than twenty minutes, the crushing guilt returned to claw at her throat. If I sleep, someone dies. If I go home, a father loses his leg. If I rest, a child suffocates.

So she stayed. She pushed through the nausea, the bone-deep fatigue, and the quiet, simmering resentment that poisoned every breath she took.

And then, Monarch arrived.

Amy had seen the news clips. She had sat in the quiet dark of her bedroom at the Marquis house and watched the recorded footage of the online AMA. The entire city knew about the Chaos Brigade by now. Everyone knew that Monarch's brilliant, golden wings and her divine, holy restoration abilities were granted directly to her by High Roller—the enigmatic cape whose game-breaking power-granting mechanics had flipped Brockton Bay's parahuman scene on its head.

On paper, Amy should have dropped to her knees and wept with gratitude. A second healer—especially one backed by High Roller's terrifyingly vast power pool—meant the weight of an entire metropolitan area no longer rested squarely on her seventeen-year-old shoulders. It meant she could take a day off. It meant she could eat a meal without a doctor slamming open the door to demand her hands on an arterial bleed.

Instead, as she watched Monarch walk down the central corridor of Trauma Bay 3, Amy felt an uncomfortable, hollow ache taking root deep in her chest.

There was barely anything left for her to do.

To the public and to Amy, Monarch's sweeping, majestic outfit was simply a custom-designed cape costume styled around the motif of a monarch butterfly, woven with rich midnight-black paneling, deep crimson trim, and ornate gold filigree. To Amy, Monarch was simply a radiant, impossibly blessed heroine who glided through the trauma bay like a visiting sovereign. Sprouting gracefully from between her shoulders was that pair of colossal, radiant golden wings granted by High Roller. They didn't look like bird feathers, nor did they look like insect chitin; they were composed of a dense, layered material that seemed to weave pure sunlight into physical form, casting a soft, soothing golden glow across the dingy hospital walls.

The difference between their healing methods wasn't just a gap in capability; it was an absolute, humiliating chasm in existence.

Amy's healing was an agonizing, tedious, and deeply claustrophobic process. Her power was entirely touch-based. To fix a broken arm, she had to stand over the patient, press her bare skin against their bruised flesh, and submerge her consciousness entirely into their biology. She had to navigate the sticky, terrifying maze of their cellular structure—tracing nerve clusters, manually re-knitting collagen strands, aligning bone fragments millimeter by millimeter, and balancing blood chemistry until her own brain throbbed with vicarious exhaustion. She had to ask for explicit permission before every single touch, enduring the awkward stares, the tearful pleas, and the terrifyingly fragile flesh of baseline humans.

Monarch didn't do any of that.

"Clear the center aisle, please!" a head nurse called out, but there was no panic in her voice. There was only eager, almost breathless relief.

A pair of ambulances had just backed into the bay, sirens wailing, bringing in six victims from a high-speed pileup on the boardwalk expressway. Paramedics spilled out, shouting vital signs, wheeling gurneys laden with shattered pelvises, internal bleeding, and crushed chests.

Under normal circumstances, this scenario was Amy's absolute nightmare. It meant six frantic, desperate micro-surgeries back-to-back, six distinct dives into agonizing, torn flesh, six chances for her power to whisper horrible, forbidden things about how easy it would be to alter a gene sequence or slip a tumor into a heart valve just to make the pain stop. Amy set her coffee cup down on a counter, swallowing hard, and stepped forward, pulling a fresh pair of nitrile gloves over her trembling hands.

"I can take the gurney on the left—" Amy started, her voice raspy from disuse.

"It's alright, Panacea!" the charge nurse interrupted quickly, waving a hand toward the back. "Monarch's already on it!"

Amy stopped mid-step.

Monarch didn't put on gloves. She didn't roll up her sleeves. She didn't even slow her stride.

As the paramedics wheeled the three worst trauma cases into the center of the room, Monarch simply stepped into the middle of the bay. She raised her hands, spreading her fingers wide, and her golden wings flared outward in a sudden, breathtaking arc.

Huuuuuuum.

A deep, resonant sound—like the low, beautiful vibration of a bronze temple bell—echoed through the concrete walls of the emergency ward. From Monarch's outstretched palms, a broad, sweeping wave of warm, liquid gold light erupted outward in a thirty-foot sphere.

It swept over the gurneys. It swept over the paramedics. It washed through the curtains, through the glass partitions, and through the doctors standing three beds away.

Amy gasped as the edge of the golden aura brushed past her. It didn't feel like bio-kinesis. It didn't probe her cells or read her genetic structure. It felt like stepping out of a freezing blizzard and plunging into a perfectly heated, fragrant bath. The constant, dull throb behind Amy's eyes vanished for a split second. Her staggering fatigue lifted, replaced by a sudden, unnatural surge of crisp, clean energy.

In the center of the room, the results were instantaneous and sickeningly complete.

The screaming patient on the first gurney—a man whose compound femur fracture had been piercing through his denim jeans—suddenly fell silent. Beneath his torn trousers, the jagged bone snapped back into alignment with a soft, clean crunch. The purple, bruised skin smoothed over, turning healthy and whole in less than three seconds. Beside him, a woman suffering from severe internal hemorrhaging let out a long, peaceful breath as her crashing blood pressure stabilized instantly, the monitor jumping from a flatlining beep to a steady, rhythmic rhythm.

"What... what did you do?" one of the paramedics whispered, staring at his monitor in complete disbelief. "Her chest... the lung was collapsed!"

"She's fine now," Monarch said. Her voice was smooth, warm, and carried an effortless, cheerful resonance that made the gloomy ward feel like a sunlit meadow. "Her lungs are clear, her ribs are set, and I added a little something extra to help with the shock."

She lowered her hands, her golden wings folding neatly against her back. The patients on the gurneys weren't just healed; they were sitting up, looking around the room with wide, bewildered eyes, grinning as if they had just woken up from the best night of sleep of their lives. That was the "Blessing" effect—a secondary surge of vitality granted by her golden power that left anyone touched by her light feeling invigorated, strong, and entirely free of lingering trauma.

The room erupted into applause. Nurses smiled, doctors sighed in profound relief, and the patients began tearfully thanking the golden cape, reaching out just to touch the edge of her butterfly cloak.

Amy stood frozen near the pillar, her fresh gloves still halfway pulled over her knuckles.

She felt utterly, completely useless.

For two solid hours, Amy stood near the edges of the room, watching the scene repeat itself. Whenever a new patient arrived, Monarch handled it. Whether it was a third-degree chemical burn, a severed digit, or simple severe lacerations, Monarch didn't need to ask for permission, didn't need to touch bare skin, and didn't need to spend ten minutes agonizing over nerve connections. She just stood there, looked at the room, released her golden light, and erased the suffering.

Patients didn't look at Monarch the way they looked at Panacea. When people looked at Amy, their eyes were filled with desperate, demanding need—treating her like an emergency faucet they had to turn on before she ran dry. When they looked at Monarch, their eyes were filled with genuine, reverent awe. They looked at her as if an actual angel had descended from the sky to grant them absolution.

And then came the neurological cases.

Around three in the afternoon, a frantic family rushed into the pediatric wing carrying an elderly man who had suffered a massive, catastrophic stroke. The resident physician took one look at the brain scans and grimaced, turning his head toward Amy.

"Panacea," the doctor called out quietly, walking over to her corner. "We've got an ischemic stroke here. Left hemisphere cell death. I know your power can't do brains or neurological tissue, but could you at least stabilize his vitals while we prepare for surgery?"

Amy felt her stomach drop into a tight, icy knot. She looked at the weeping family, then at the old man whose face was slack and unresponsive.

"Right," Amy murmured, her voice hollow. "My power... it doesn't work on the brain. I can't touch neurological damage."

It was a lie. It was a massive, carefully maintained lie that Amy had told the entire world from the very first day she stepped into Brockton General.

The truth was that Amy could heal brains. She could rewrite neural pathways, fix strokes, dissolve tumors, and cure dementia in the span of a heartbeat. But she was terrified. She was utterly paralyzed by the knowledge that if she touched someone's brain, she had the power to rewrite who they were—to change their memories, rewrite their personality, or turn them into a meat puppet with a stray thought. She lied and told everyone her power physically couldn't touch the brain, hiding behind the lie to protect herself and the world from what she was capable of doing. Everyone believed her. The doctors, the PRT, her family—they all accepted it as a hard biological limitation of her power.

"Is there a problem over here?"

Monarch glided over, her golden wings giving a soft, gentle rustle behind her back. She looked at the doctor, then at the weeping family, her dark eyes softening with deep, immediate empathy.

"Ischemic stroke?" Monarch asked gently.

"Yes, ma'am," the doctor nodded. "Panacea's power doesn't work on brains, so we were just trying to hold him until the surgical team—"

"May I try?" Monarch interrupted softly, turning to the family with a warm, reassuring smile.

The daughter nodded frantically, clutching her father's limp hand. "Please! Please, if you can do anything!"

Monarch stepped up to the bed. She didn't press her fingers into the man's scalp. She didn't dive into the terrifying, fragile maze of his mind. She simply placed a soft, gloved hand over the old man's forehead and let a concentrated thread of pure, brilliant gold light sink into his skull.

Amy watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, waiting for the disaster. She waited for the seizures, waited for the brain-bleed, waited for the catastrophic alteration of personality that Amy spent every waking hour fearing.

Instead, two seconds later, the slackness in the old man's face melted away. His eyes fluttered open, clear and bright. He blinked, looked up at his daughter, and spoke in a clear, unbroken voice.

"Sarah? Why are you crying, sweetheart?"

The daughter burst into hysterical, joyful tears, throwing her arms around her father's neck. The doctor let out a breathy laugh, hastily checking the monitors, which showed brain activity instantly returning to pristine, perfect levels.

Amy backed away until her shoulders hit the cold wall of the corridor.

She did it, Amy thought, her mind spiraling into a dark, suffocating abyss. She did it in two seconds. Without touching his brain chemistry. Without risking his mind. High Roller gave her a power that casually fixes the one thing I have to pretend is impossible for me to touch.

Amy wanted to hate her. She wanted so desperately, so bitterly to resent Monarch. She wanted to dismiss her as an arrogant grandstander, a flashy cape who only cared about camera angles and public praise, a fake who bought her popularity with shiny golden lights and abilities handed to her on a silver platter by High Roller.

The problem was that Monarch was so goddamn nice.

An hour later, during a rare lull in the trauma bay, Amy sat alone in a small, windowless supply nook off the main hallway. She was perched on an overturned plastic crate, staring blankly at the floor, her hands resting limply in her lap.

Shadow fell over the doorway.

Amy looked up, expecting a nurse with another clipboard or a doctor asking for a quick wound-seal. Instead, Monarch stood in the threshold. Her golden wings were slightly tucked, making her silhouette fit comfortably inside the narrow doorframe. She held a steaming, paper-wrapped package in one hand and two chilled bottles of fruit juice in the other.

"Hey," Monarch said softly, her voice entirely free of pretense or cape theatrics. "Mind if I sit?"

Amy blinked, pulling her knees in slightly. "It's... it's a public nook. Do whatever you want."

Monarch slid down onto an adjacent stack of folded linens, setting the wrapped package between them. The moment she opened the paper, the heavenly scent of freshly roasted chicken, seasoned rice, and steamed vegetables filled the cramped supply closet.

"I had High Roller drop this off," Monarch said with a warm, easy smile, holding out one of the juice bottles to Amy. "You look like you haven't eaten a real meal since Tuesday."

Amy stared at the bottle, then at the steaming food, her throat feeling incredibly tight. "I... I don't need charity."

"It's not charity, Panacea. It's lunch," Monarch replied gently, pushing the bottle into Amy's hands until her fingers closed around it. "I watched you earlier. You've been standing near the trauma bay for four hours without taking a single sip of water. I know you're dedicated, but even cape healers need calories."

Amy looked down at the food. She couldn't even remember the last time she had taken an actual lunch break. Months? Six months? Usually, her "meals" consisted of stale power bars eaten while walking down hallways or cold coffee gulped over a sink.

"Why are you doing this?" Amy asked, her voice dropping into a guarded, bitter whisper. "You've already taken over the whole ward. Everyone loves you. The doctors think you're a godsend, the patients think you're an angel, and I'm just... standing around like an idiot."

Monarch paused, her dark eyes looking at Amy with a depth of understanding that made Amy feel completely exposed.

"You're not an idiot, Panacea," Monarch said quietly, her tone dropping into a deeply grounded, serious register. "You're a kid who was forced to carry the weight of an entire broken city by yourself because the adults in charge were too lazy to find another way. You've been burning yourself at both ends for a year. That's not sustainable."

Monarch reached into the package, pulling out a plastic fork and handing it to her.

"I'm not here to take your place," Monarch continued softly. "High Roller and I came here so you don't die of exhaustion. Take a break, Amy. Go to the breakroom. Sleep for six hours. I'll cover the evening shifts. I'll cover the overnight trauma calls. We've got this."

Amy held the plastic fork, staring at the golden-trimmed cape sitting three feet away from her.

There was no malice in Monarch's eyes. There was no subtle politicking, no desire to push Panacea out of the spotlight, no hidden agenda. There was only absolute, unfiltered kindness.

It was terrifying. It was completely unbearable. How was Amy supposed to hold onto her defensive, bitter hatred when the person she wanted to despise was sitting in a dusty supply closet, offering to take her night shifts so she could sleep?

They ate in quiet silence for ten minutes. The food was incredible—far too good to have come from the hospital cafeteria—and for the first time in weeks, the knot in Amy's stomach began to loosen, if only a little.

As Monarch finished her meal and stood up, carefully collecting the trash, Amy's gaze lingered on the golden wings folded behind Monarch's back.

Everyone in the city knew High Roller had bestowed those wings upon Monarch, but nobody knew how his power actually constructed them. In the dim light of the supply closet, the feathers seemed to pulse with a quiet, mesmerizing rhythm. Up close, Amy realized her biological instincts were screaming at her that something was profoundly strange about them. They didn't look like avian feathers, and they didn't look like any standard parahuman manifestation she had ever encountered.

Her deep-seated, obsessive biological curiosity—the part of her brain that had spent years studying every strand of DNA and cellular mutation in existence—began to itch uncontrollably.

"Hey," Amy said suddenly, her voice cracking slightly.

Monarch turned around near the doorway, holding the trash bag. "Yeah?"

Amy swallowed hard, pointing a trembling finger toward the golden wings. "Your wings... High Roller gave them to you, right?"

"Yeah," Monarch nodded softly. "He unlocked the ability for me."

"Are they biological?" Amy pressed, standing up from her plastic crate, her dark eyes tracking the faint golden light shimmering off the feathers. "Are they made of cellular structures, or did High Roller synthesize them out of hard-light energy? I've analyzed hundreds of cape biologies, but High Roller's grants... I've never had a chance to examine what his powers actually look like on a cellular level. Can I... can I check them?"

Monarch hesitated. For a brief second, a flicker of genuine nervousness crossed her features, her dark eyes darting to the wall before settling back on Amy. She didn't want Amy probing too deeply into her power setup, but she also didn't want to turn down the younger healer.

"They're... pretty unique," Monarch said vaguely, her voice carrying a cautious edge. "It's definitely not standard parahuman biology."

"Just a quick touch," Amy begged, stepping forward, her tone carrying a desperate, burning edge of clinical curiosity. "I just want to see how High Roller's power structured the tissue. I just... I need to know."

Monarch looked at Amy for a long moment. She saw the raw, desperate curiosity in the younger girl's eyes—a rare spark of genuine interest replacing the hollow, dead exhaustion that usually resided there.

Monarch let out a soft, gentle sigh, stepping back into the center of the supply room. She turned her back toward Amy, relaxing her shoulders, and allowed her golden wings to flare out slightly, lowering them to comfortable shoulder-height.

"Alright," Monarch said softly, looking over her shoulder. "Just a quick check. Go ahead."

Amy took a deep breath. She pulled off her right nitrile glove, letting it drop to the floor. She flexed her bare fingers, grounding herself in the familiar, comforting rhythm of her power. Touch the target. Read the structure. Map the cells. Understand High Roller's work.

Amy stepped close. She raised her bare hand, extending her index and middle fingers, and gently pressed her fingertips directly against the dense, shimmering golden feathers near the base of Monarch's left wing.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

The instant her bare skin made contact with the golden feather, Amy's power didn't find biological tissue.

It didn't find skin cells. It didn't find muscle fibers. It didn't find keratin, bone, blood, or DNA. It didn't even find the twisted, unnatural signature of a standard parahuman ability.

Instead, Amy's bio-kinesis struck an absolute, impassable wall of pure, divine reality—and then, her consciousness was violently, mercilessly ripped out of her body.

BOOM!

Amy didn't hear the sound with her ears; she felt it shatter through the core of her very soul.

The dingy, fluorescent-lit supply closet vanished instantly. The smell of bleach, the sound of hospital monitors, and the cold concrete floor beneath her feet dissolved into nothingness.

Amy found herself suspended in an infinite, boundless sky of pure, blinding golden radiance.

Echoing through the vast expanse of her consciousness was the triumphant, thunderous roar of a thousand golden trumpets. The sound wasn't chaotic or deafening; it was a swell of absolute, mathematically flawless celestial harmony that vibrated through every atom of her being, washing away every drop of fear, anxiety, and dark corruption she had ever carried.

Below her, stretching across an endless ocean of clouds, lay a grand, breathtaking city.

It was built from polished, translucent gold and immaculate white marble that glowed with an internal, sacred light. Suspended bridges swept between towering spires of impossible architectural grace. Floating pavilions drifted through the golden air, framed by colossal, towering gates made of pure, flawless pearl that shimmered with rainbow light.

It was perfection. Absolute, untainted, divine perfection. There was no sickness here. There was no decay, no cancer, no broken bones, no madness, and no dark impulses whispering into the back of human minds.

And then, Amy looked up.

Hovering high above the pearly gates, framed by the infinite golden sky, was a colossal, divine silhouette.

It was an entity of absolute, terrifying grandeur—clad in robes of pure white and gold light. Sprouting from its back was a pair of golden wings with an impossible, breathtaking wingspan that stretched across the entire horizon, sweeping over the celestial city like a shield of absolute protection and absolute grace. The sheer, overwhelming purity radiating from the entity hit Amy like a physical wave, shattering her cynical, broken inner walls into dust.

For the first time in her life, Amy felt completely, totally seen. She felt clean. She felt safe.

A single, overwhelming realization crashed through her mind: High Roller didn't just give her a cape power. This isn't a parahuman ability. This is something else entirely.

"Panacea? Panacea! Hey... are you okay?!"

SNAP.

The vision shattered violently into a million golden fragments.

The blinding light collapsed. The roaring trumpets vanished. The grand golden city dissolved.

Brockton General's dingy supply closet rushed back into view with the force of a freight train. The harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights stung her eyes. The smell of bleach and old paper filled her nose. The cold, hard linoleum floor was back beneath her sneakers.

Amy gasped violently, her lungs expanding in a sudden, desperate heave as if she had just surfaced from a hundred feet underwater. She stumbled backward three full steps, her heel catching on the overturned plastic crate, and nearly fell over before catching herself against the metal shelving.

Her hand ripped away from Monarch's wing as if she had just touched a million-volt power line.

Monarch had spun around, her dark eyes wide with deep, genuine panic. She stepped closer, reaching a gloved hand out toward Amy's shoulder.

"Panacea! What happened?! Are you alright? Did... did my wings shock you?!" Monarch asked frantically, her voice trembling with concern. "I told you High Roller's grants weren't normal biology!"

Amy couldn't breathe. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, her chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. She stared at Monarch—stared at the girl in the butterfly outfit, stared at the golden wings that were now folded innocently behind her back.

"Panacea..." Monarch whispered, stopping two feet away, her expression shifting from panic to deep, quiet confusion. "You're... you're crying."

Amy blinked.

She raised a trembling, bare hand to her face, her fingertips touching her skin.

Her cheeks were completely soaked. Hot, silent tears were streaming down her pale, exhausted face, dripping off her chin and soaking into the collar of her rumpled white robes. She hadn't even realized she was weeping. The sheer, overwhelming beauty of what she had just touched—the absolute, divine purity of that golden realm—had broken something inside her, spilling out in an uncontrollable tide of tears.

"I..." Amy's voice was a frail, broken squeak.

She stared at her fingers, seeing the wet tracks of her own tears.

"Oh," Amy whispered softly.

Panic—raw, suffocating, overwhelming panic—erupted through Amy's chest. She couldn't process this. She couldn't analyze this. Her power, the reliable, logical bio-kinesis that had mapped thousands of human bodies, had found nothing to fix, nothing to rewrite, and nothing to measure. It had only found a doorway to a heaven she didn't deserve to see.

"I... I have to go," Amy choked out, her voice trembling violently.

"Wait, Panacea! Let me—" Monarch started, stepping forward.

"I'm fine! I'm just... I'm exhausted!" Amy shouted, backing toward the hallway doors, her bare hand clutching her chest. "I need to go! Don't follow me!"

Before Monarch could say another word, Amy turned on her heel and sprinted out of the supply nook. She burst through the double doors of the trauma ward, ignoring the startled looks from nurses and doctors, and plunged out into the main hospital corridor.

She ran until her legs burned, ducking down a side hallway near the quiet, disused physical therapy wing.

She slammed her back against the cool, hard tile wall of the corridor and slid down until her knees were pulled tight against her chest. She buried her face in her arms, her whole body shaking violently as gasping, silent sobs wracked her frame.

Her hands were still trembling. Her bare fingertips—the ones that had touched those golden feathers—felt warm, tingling with a faint, lingering ghost of that celestial energy.

Amy pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the sterile fluorescent lights, trying to shut off her racing mind. But no matter how hard she pressed, she couldn't erase the image burned into her soul.

The golden city. The pearly gates. The roaring trumpets. The colossal, winged entity of absolute light.

It wasn't a parahuman power. It wasn't biology. What the hell had High Roller tapped into? What kind of monster or god was he connected to?

As Amy sat alone in the cold, empty hospital corridor, weeping silently into her knees, a dark, terrifying, and utterly consuming obsession took root deep within her heart.

She didn't care about Brockton General anymore. She didn't care about the cape scene, her mother's strict rules, or her daily shifts.

She needed to touch those wings again. She needed to know what that golden realm really was. And God help her, she would do whatever it took to find out.

---

Deep beneath the decaying concrete and rusted sewer lines of Brockton Bay, Thomas Calvert sat in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of his subterranean office.

The room was a masterclass in minimalist control: sleek, matte-black monitors, brushed-steel furniture, and floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over a brightly lit underground staging floor where heavily armed mercenaries moved with military precision. Worn over his tailored designer suit was the seamless, skin-tight black-and-white fabric of his costume. To the underworld, he was Coil—a criminal mastermind whose omniscient foresight made him utterly unassailable. To himself, he was a director overseeing a stage where every actor's line had already been rehearsed, tested, and discarded across parallel realities until only absolute victory remained.

Yet for the past several days, ever since the night Lung met his horrific, unceremonious death at the docks, a sharp, bitter needle of irritation had been digging into the back of Calvert's mind.

It was because of Highroller and his absurd, unpredictable circus of a cape group, the Chaos Brigade.

Calvert leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his gloved fingers beneath his chin as his dark eyes locked onto a frozen video frame on his central monitor. On the screen was high-definition security footage captured from a rooftop overlooking the docks: Highroller—transformed into a towering, terrifying Drake with gleaming scales and razor-sharp claws—standing victorious alongside Monarch over the scorched, battered remains of the ABB's boss.

Ever since that night, Calvert had dedicated substantial resources toward tracking them. In a city as volatile as Brockton Bay, unpredictable wildcards were a disease that required immediate quarantine or execution. Under normal circumstances, neutralizing a new cape team was a trivial exercise for a man who could live two lives at once. He would simply split his reality: in Timeline A, he would send a squad of snipers to test their defenses; in Timeline B, he would send a diplomat or let them walk, comparing the results in real-time before dropping the timeline that displeased him.

Except he couldn't do that with Highroller.

Calvert closed his eyes and attempted to split his reality right now.

Focus.

In his mind's eye, the familiar, cosmic sensation began to unfurl—the sensation of his consciousness cleanly dividing down the center, branching into two distinct, parallel tracks of time. In Reality A, he planned to open a secure file detailing Highroller's suspected movement routes around the Boardwalk. In Reality B, he planned to command his analysts to focus entirely on the girl, Monarch.

The moment his power attempted to map, project, or observe any direct future action involving Highroller, reality didn't split.

SKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR—!

A violent, deafening screech of psychological static violently tore through Calvert's skull. It felt as though someone had taken a red-hot iron spike and rammed it directly behind his left eyeball. The smooth, bifurcated stream of time didn't branch; it buckled, snapped, and collapsed back into a single line with the force of a hydraulic press.

Calvert gasped, his eyes flying open as a wave of intense, sickening vertigo slammed into his chest. He clutched the edge of his mahogany desk, his gloved knuckles turning white as his vision swam with blinding white spots. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck, and a sharp, throbbing migraine pulsed rhythmically against his temples.

He slammed a hand against his desk, letting out a low, venomous hiss through his teeth.

It was the same thing every single time.

Whenever he tried to use his power to predict Highroller's movements, whenever he tried to simulate a timeline where his mercenaries ambushed Highroller, or whenever he even attempted to read the boy's surface intentions through future-gazing, his Thinker ability didn't just fail—it violently malformed. The future scrambled into an incoherent, chaotic mess of visual noise, leaving Calvert with a crippling headache and a profound sense of disorientation.

Did the bastard acquire an anti-Thinker power? Calvert thought bitterly, rubbing his throbbing temples as the lingering headache slowly receded into a dull roar.

It was a deeply troubling realization. Brockton Bay was a city built on information, and Calvert's entire empire was predicated on having a monopoly on foresight. To run into a brick wall made of pure, chaotic static was a humiliation he wasn't accustomed to enduring.

He took a slow, measured breath, forcing his heart rate back down to a cold, steady baseline. He adjusted his black-and-white mask, smoothing out the fabric with meticulous, deliberate care.

Panic was a flaw of lesser men. A true strategist adapted.

Calvert leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and began to test the boundaries of the anomaly once again. He closed his eyes and initiated another timeline split.

This time, he pointedly excluded Highroller from the equation entirely. In Reality A, he instructed his intelligence team to run a deep-trace background check on Pyroclast. In Reality B, he ordered them to focus all satellite and street-level surveillance on Monarch.

The split occurred instantly, cleanly, and without a single hitch.

Calvert smiled beneath his mask as the familiar double-vision of two simultaneous realities smoothed out around him. In Reality A, he watched his head analyst bring up thermal scans of Pyroclast's recent movements. In Reality B, he listened to a report regarding Monarch's recent appearance at Brockton General, where she had been spotted healing patients alongside Panacea.

There was no static. There was no crippling migraine. There was no feedback.

His power worked on Pyroclast and Monarch just fine.

Calvert let Reality A collapse, letting the timeline dissolve into nonexistence while retaining all the information gathered within it. He sat back, letting a cold, dark satisfaction wash over him.

Highroller might possess an infuriating, game-breaking anti-Thinker defense that shielded his own person from direct foresight, but his companions were entirely vulnerable. The boy was not an island. He operated alongside teammates, breathed the same air, walked the same streets, and relied on the same physical infrastructure as everyone else. Calvert didn't need to look at Highroller directly; he could simply paint the edges of the picture, mapping the actions of Pyroclast and Monarch until the shadow cast between them revealed Highroller's exact location, routine, and secret identity.

It would take more time, certainly. It was an indirect, tedious method, but it would work. He would uncover who was sitting behind those absurd gacha powers soon enough.

One problem at a time, Calvert thought, reaching out to press a button on his encrypted desk console. First, I secure my absolute Oracle. Then, I dismantle the Chaos Brigade.

He picked up a sleek, modified satellite phone resting on a black charging pad. The device was hard-encrypted, routed through seven proxy servers across three continents, and designed to burn its own hardware if an unauthorized trace was ever detected. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

The phone rang once. Twice.

On the third ring, the line connected with a faint, static hiss.

"I hope you have a good reason for calling on this line," a girl's voice answered. It was sharp, quick, and laced with an underlying, hyper-reactive tension.

Lisa Wilbourn. Tattletale.

Calvert leaned back in his leather chair, enjoying the immediate, palpable shift in the air. Through the receiver, he didn't just hear her voice—he felt the sheer, cold fear radiating through her tone. Her Thinker power was a double-edged sword; it constantly fed her context, reading micro-expressions, vocal inflections, and subtle atmospheric shifts to deduce the truth. Which meant that every time Calvert spoke to her, her power was undoubtedly screaming at her, reminding her of exactly who held her leash, reminding her of the debt she owed, and reminding her of how easily he could have her quietly executed in a dark alley if she ever stepped out of line.

He loved that fear. It was clean. It was manageable. It was absolute.

"Calm yourself, Tattletale," Calvert said, his voice smooth, deep, and devoid of any warmth. "I am simply checking in on my investment. Tell me... is the crew ready for the bank heist?"

There was a brief, heavy pause on the other end of the line. Calvert could practically hear the gears turning in Lisa's head, her Thinker power desperately picking apart his cadence, trying to figure out if this was a routine check or a test of her loyalty.

"We're ready," Lisa said, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave as she fought to maintain a professional, unbothered facade. "Grue finalized the entry routes twenty minutes ago. Regent's got his gear packed, Bitch has her dogs prepped and loaded in the back of the van, and I've successfully bypassed the Brockton Bay Central Bank's secondary silent alarm network. We hit them tomorrow morning right during the vault's cash-rotation window. It's going to be clean."

"Clean is an expectation, not an achievement," Calvert replied coldly. "Are there any complications regarding the local heroes? The PRT response times?"

"Armsmaster's patrol routes have been altered due to the recent Chaos Brigade activity near the docks," Lisa answered quickly, her words spilling out with the characteristic speed of a girl whose brain was processing a thousand data points per second. "The Wards are stretched thin. If we trigger the primary vault alarm as planned, the PRT's response time will be delayed by at least four minutes. It gives us more than enough time to grab the cash, secure the hostages, and make a clean retreat toward the getaway vehicle."

"Good," Calvert said softly.

He didn't care about the cash. The money in the vault of Brockton Bay Central Bank was pocket change to a man who funded private mercenary armies out of shell corporations. He didn't care if the Undersiders kept every single dollar they shoved into their duffel bags.

The entire bank heist was nothing more than an elaborate, noisy, red-painted smoke grenade.

It was designed to draw every available PRT officer, every Ward, and every cape in the downtown district toward a high-visibility hostage situation. While Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and the rest of the Brockton Bay hero establishment were busy surrounding the bank, wringing their hands over a group of teenage villains, the rest of the city's defensive grid would be left completely naked.

"Do not disappoint me, Tattletale," Calvert added, letting a sharp, lethal edge bleed into his quiet tone. "Execute the plan exactly as instructed. Do not deviate. Do not attempt to be clever."

"We won't," Lisa said, a faint, instinctual tremor shaking her voice before she managed to bite it back. "We'll hit the bank. We'll draw the heroes. You'll get your distraction."

"Satisfactory."

Without waiting for her to offer a polite farewell, Calvert pressed a button on the handset, severing the connection instantly. The line died with a flat, final click.

He set the phone back on its charging pad, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face beneath his mask.

The Undersiders believed they were stepping up into the big leagues of Brockton Bay's villain hierarchy. They believed this heist was their ticket to earning real money, real territory, and real respect under a mysterious benefactor. They had no idea they were nothing more than sacrificial pawns being shoved across a chessboard to draw the king's attention away from the real target.

Calvert stood up from his desk, turning toward the vast bank of wall-mounted monitors on the right side of his office. He tapped a key on a physical control deck.

The security footage of the docks and the file photos of the Chaos Brigade dissolved, replaced by a single, high-resolution surveillance portfolio.

Displayed on the screens were dozens of candid photographs taken over the past three weeks: a young girl with long, dark curly hair, wearing a plaid school uniform, carrying a backpack, sitting on a park bench, and entering a neat, suburban home in the upscale district of the city.

Dinah Alcott.

Niece to Mayor Roy Alcott. A completely ordinary, unremarkable middle-school student on the surface.

Except she wasn't ordinary.

Calvert's intelligence network had spent over a month quietly tracking her subtle behavioral changes, her sudden withdrawal from school activities, and the peculiar, hyper-specific questions she had begun asking her family. His sources inside the medical and parahuman tracking communities had confirmed it three days ago: Dinah Alcott was a newly triggered parahuman.

And her power was a probability-based precognition of absolute, terrifying mathematical precision.

Calvert stepped closer to the glass, gazing at the photographs of the young girl with cold, calculating hunger.

His own power was incredible, but it had limitations. He could only split time into two branches, and as Highroller had just so rudely demonstrated, certain individuals or unpredictable variables could cause his splits to collapse or malform into blinding, painful static.

Dinah Alcott was the missing piece of his grand puzzle.

Where his power allowed him to test paths in real-time, her power would allow him to ask direct, percentage-based questions about the future before he even committed a single resource. What are the chances I successfully eliminate the Chaos Brigade if I strike tonight? What are the chances Highroller's identity is revealed if I deploy three mercenary squads to the Boardwalk? What are the chances I take control of Brockton Bay within six months?

Combined with her numbers, his timeline-splitting would make him entirely, undeniably godlike. Nothing in this city—not the PRT, not Empire 88, not the ABB, and certainly not a group of teenagers playing superhero with gacha powers—would ever be able to touch him.

He pressed a button on his comms unit, opening a direct channel to the staging floor below.

"Command Commander," a crisp, disciplined voice responded over the speaker. Captain Price, the leader of his elite mercenary detachment.

"Captain," Calvert said, his voice echoing through the quiet office. "Is the secondary strike team fully briefed and equipped?"

"Yes, sir," Price replied without a moment's hesitation. "Twelve men, non-lethal suppression gear, sound-dampened vehicles, and flash-bangs. We've mapped the target's school schedule and her post-lunch movement window."

"Excellent," Calvert said, watching the photograph of Dinah Alcott on the central monitor. "Tomorrow morning, the moment the Undersiders breach the front doors of Brockton Bay Central Bank and trigger the primary alarm, you will move on the girl. You will have a ten-minute window before the PRT even realizes she is missing."

"Understood, sir. We will bring her in quietly."

"Do not fail me, Captain. She is the most valuable asset this city has ever produced."

"Understood, Coil. Out."

The channel clicked off.

Calvert stood alone in his underground fortress, staring at the screens. The lingering throb in his temples from Highroller's anti-Thinker feedback had completely faded, replaced by the sharp, electric clarity of a plan nearing its culmination.

Tomorrow, the city would burn with chaos. The heroes would be chasing ghosts at the bank, the Undersiders would take the blame, Dinah Alcott would become his permanent, captive oracle, and Brockton Bay would finally begin its descent into his absolute, unquestioned control.

Calvert folded his hands behind his back, a dark, silent laugh echoing softly in his throat as the monitors cast a cold, flickering light over his black-and-white mask.

---

The concrete beneath Greg's heavy, clawed feet was cracked into a spiderweb of fine fractures, glowing with residual heat where blue, shimmering draconic energy had scorched the asphalt.

Around him in the narrow, trash-strewn alleyway lay half a dozen Empire 88 enforcers. A few were groaning softly, clutching broken limbs and shattered armor plate, while others were simply out cold, piled against a dented dumpster like discarded garbage. They had thought a solo cape wandering the borders of the Docks would be easy prey—an easy initiation target for their newest recruits. They hadn't realized who they were cornering until it was far too late.

Greg rolled his thick, scaled shoulders, letting out a low breath that emerged as a plume of shimmering, warm mist.

His current form was absurdly powerful. The Azure Dragon Hybrid Form flowed through his veins like liquid lightning. His body was a densely packed, athletic apex predator—his skin covered in shimmering, azure-blue dragon scales that acted like natural power armor, sharp claws tipping his fingers, and a pair of sleek, rigid draconic horns protruding proudly from his forehead. A row of razor-sharp, jagged teeth lined his jaw, giving his grinning reflection in a nearby rain puddle a terrifying, primal edge.

"Seriously... this form is totally OP," Greg muttered, running a clawed thumb over his sharp teeth with a dark chuckle. "Empire boys didn't even know what hit 'em."

In the distance, the faint, rising wail of Brockton Bay police sirens cut through the night air. The PRT and local law enforcement were finally responding to the disturbance, but Greg had zero intention of standing around for an interview.

While he waited for them to get a little closer before making his exit, he pulled up his mental interface, floating the ethereal, glowing wheel of the Chaos Gacha before his eyes.

Lately, things had been busy back at base. Between running patrols and dealing with the city's escalating cape drama, Greg had been taking time to sit down with Taylor, Sparky, and the parents to teach them Carian Magic using the Tome of Rennala. The floating glintstone blades, the defensive phalanxes, and the ethereal lunar spellcraft were incredible, but Greg was an optimizer at heart. One magic book wasn't enough for an entire syndicate. He needed more grimoires, more spellcraft, and more versatility to pass around.

"Alright," Greg whispered, flicking his clawed finger across the air. "Let's see what the curse wheel's got for me today."

The massive, ominous wheel spun in a blur of crimson and purple light before coming to a sudden, mechanical halt with a sharp click.

[Animal Antagonist] |Severity 16| Animals really hate you, they really do. Any feral animal that sees you perceives you as an active threat, a competitor, or prey to be hunted. |Resolve: Acquire 3 traits that increase your rapport with animals|

A soft chiming sound echoed in his mind as a brilliant, shimmering Platinum Ticket materialized in his inventory.

Greg winced, his draconic ears twitching. "Ugh. Feral animals hating me on sight? Bitch's dogs are going to be a complete nightmare if we ever bump into the Undersiders again. Whatever... Severity 16 is worth the ticket."

Without hesitation, Greg immediately cashed in the Platinum Ticket, letting the gacha wheel spin with a blinding white light that solidified into a heavy, ancient, leather-bound grimoire floating directly into his clawed hands.

The cover was crafted from deep crimson leather, inlaid with burning brass runes and radiating a faint, cozy heat.

[Tome of Fire] |Elite Item| Hota - A legendary tome from an ancient kingdom that is imbued with magic, allowing whoever holds it to cast the spells it contains within even without training. You can also learn the spells yourself through study to cast them without the assistance of the book. Spell List: Magic Arrow, Fire Wall, Fireball, Land Mine, Armageddon, Inferno, Bloodlust, Protection from Fire, Fire Shield, Frenzy, Slayer, Curse, Blind, Misfortune, Berserk, Sacrifice, and Summon Fire Elemental.

Greg's mouth stretched into a wide, terrifying grin filled with jagged, needle-sharp teeth.

"Oh, now this is what I'm talking about!" he cheered softly, clutching the warm tome against his chest.

Armageddon, Inferno, Bloodlust, Berserk, and Summon Fire Elemental—it was a literal encyclopedia of tactical fire magic. If he had been a normal teenager, trying to memorize dozens of intricate incantations, mana flows, and somatic gestures would have taken months of grueling study. But thanks to his passive [Scholar] trait, his brain was an absolute sponge for written knowledge. He could read this book cover-to-cover in an evening and permanently etch every single spell into his memory, freeing up the physical tome to hand off to Taylor or Sparky whenever they needed extra firepower.

Feeling lucky, Greg tapped the curse wheel once more. "Let's roll the dice one more time before dinner."

The wheel spun again, glowing with a deep, sickly orange hue before stopping on a new entry.

[Torment] |Severity 13| You have really low pain tolerance, even lower than that of the average person. Making it very hard to perform when injured, basically acting as the opposite of Battle Continuation. Resolve: Attain Adept Disciple or higher, or acquire an ability or trait that increases your pain tolerance or nullifies it.

Greg barely had time to finish reading the description before a loud, golden DING! chimed in his head.

Because Greg already possessed the [King of All Trades] trait—which inherently granted him the baseline masteries of Adept Disciple across all fundamental disciplines—the system instantly recognized that the resolve condition had already been met!

The glowing text of [Torment] shattered into a shower of bright golden sparks. The curse was cleansed before its effects could even settle into his body.

[Curse Resolved: Torment] Reward: 1 Gold Ticket (Curse Acceptance) + 1 Gold Ticket (Curse Resolution).

"Automated curse-clearing," Greg chuckled, shaking his scaled head in disbelief. "I love passive traits so much."

With two brand-new Gold Tickets sitting in his inventory, Greg tapped his screen to redeem them both back-to-back.

The first ticket dissolved into a swirl of blue and gold energy, dropping a sleek, crystalline skill orb directly into his mental repository.

[Exchange] |Elite Ability| Allows you to swap a power with the power of another person with their consent as long as both abilities are of the same rank.

Greg stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. "Wait... consent-based power swapping?"

The tactical possibilities immediately started firing off in his brain like fireworks. If Taylor was trapped in a situation where swarm control wasn't working, or if Sparky needed raw offensive firepower while Greg needed utility, they could literally trade loadouts on the fly as long as the ranks matched up. It made their team dynamic ridiculously adaptable.

He swiped his hand again to roll the second Gold Ticket.

A green-and-bronze gear icon flashed across his sight, unlocking a massive flood of technical schematics, engine designs, and structural metallurgy directly into his consciousness.

[Tinker - Vehicles (II)] |Uncommon Ability| This tinker ability allows you to build, design, and construct technology and technological constructs related to Vehicles. Such as a sports car that is better armored than a tank, an all-terrain motorcycle including air capability, a train that projects train tracks below it using hard light, etc. But you won't be building Killdozers anytime soon.

Greg rubbed his chin, feeling the coarse dragon scales retreat slightly as his excitement grew.

He was basically a mini-Squealer, but without the chaotic, junk-heap aesthetic or the crippling addiction issues. He could design hyper-advanced, sleek, hard-light vehicles from scratch. The moment he saw the schematics for armored luxury sedans and hover-bikes, his mind immediately jumped to his parents and Danny.

"Man, I can literally build the parents their ultimate dream cars now," Greg grinned. "Custom-armored, intercept-proof luxury rides for the family. They're going to lose their minds."

The sirens were echoing from just two blocks over now, red and blue lights reflecting off the brick walls at the end of the alley.

Greg exhaled a soft sigh, letting his Azure Dragon form recede. The scales smoothed back into human skin, his forehead horns melted away, and his jagged teeth shifted back into a regular, bright teenage smile.

"Time to head back," Greg said aloud.

He reached into his pocket and tapped a small, customized communication charm. "Nakime? I'm wrapped up here. Need a door back to base."

From the shadows beneath his feet, the deep, hollow, resonant TWANG of a wooden biwa string echoed through the alley.

Space instantly folded inward. A seamless sliding tatami door emerged directly out of the alley floor, opening wide to reveal the warm, sprawling, gravity-defying wooden corridors of the Infinity Castle.

Greg stepped cleanly through the threshold, catching the door as it slid shut behind him, leaving the approaching police cars to find nothing in the alley except six thoroughly bruised, unconscious Nazis and a few scorched patches of asphalt.

Dropping his new Tome of Fire onto the kitchen counter of their central living pavilion, Greg pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and tied an apron around his waist.

"Alright," Greg hummed to himself, opening the oversized refrigerator stocked with high-grade ingredients. "Magic lessons and vehicle design can wait until after dinner."