"Still, I need to master flight, and soon."
The thought was a sharp, insistent command cutting through the lingering adrenaline of his first public appearance. Mark landed the Flying Nimbus in a deserted park near the edge of the South Bronx, the golden cloud winking out of existence the moment his boots scuffed against the cracked asphalt. The distant wail of sirens was the city's applause, a chaotic symphony he was already learning to tune out.
He leaned against an old oak tree, the park's silence a stark contrast to the spectacle he'd just orchestrated. The Goku template was a marvel, granting him a tidal wave of power and the physics-defying Flying Nimbus. But the power came with a price, the echoes of Son Goku's personality. That reckless simplicity was an asset in a fight, stripping away fear, but it was a liability for the confident, serious hero he needed to become. A hero couldn't be seen as a happy-go-lucky fool.
That was why mastering flight was no longer a long-term goal, it was an urgent necessity. He replayed his entrance in his mind. Arriving on a cloud was flashy, memorable. But descending from the heavens under his own power, a silent, controlled descent like an avenging angel? That was the stuff of legends. That was the image that would stick.
The technique, however, remained frustratingly out of reach. It was an invention of the Crane School, a rival martial arts discipline from a completely different point in the timeline. The Goku template he was running was only thirteen years old, a prodigy of the Turtle School, years away from his fateful encounters with Tien Shinhan and Chiaotzu. He had no reference point, no ingrained muscle memory, no flicker of instinct to guide him.
It was fundamentally different from the other techniques he was practicing. He could deconstruct a Ki Orb or a Destructo Disc. The orb was pure focus, a matter of shaping and compressing raw energy into a stable, projectile form. The Destructo Disc was an exercise in brutal physics, condensing ki into a razor-thin discus and spinning it at a velocity that could sever the bonds between molecules. He could feel the underlying principles, experiment with spin rates and energy densities.
Flight, though? Flight was a rejection of principles. Human flight was a battle against gravity, a messy affair of thrust, lift, and air pressure. Flying with ki seemed to be an act of pure will, a serene denial of the rules that bound everyone else to the ground. It had no blueprint, no engine, no wings. It was like trying to teach himself a new sense, a fundamental reordering of his relationship with the world. He had spent countless hours over the past three years meditating, extending his ki, trying to find that elusive feeling of weightlessness, but it always ended in a frustrating lurch a few inches off the ground.
For now, raw combat power had to be the priority. Specifically, perfecting the Destructo Disc.
He couldn't shake the image from the source material, a scene burned into his memory. Krillin, a human with a power level of just 75,000, a respectable number, but pitifully small in the grand scheme of things, had managed to ambush Frieza in his second form. Frieza, a galactic tyrant whose power at that moment was well over a million. With one perfectly aimed attack, Krillin had sliced off the monster's tail. If that disc had been aimed a few feet higher, at Frieza's neck, the entire saga might have ended right there.
It was the ultimate proof of concept, with flawless timing and a technique that bypassed conventional durability, he could neutralize threats ten times his own strength. In a world with beings like Thor and Captain Marvel, he needed an equalizer. That razor-sharp disc of spinning energy was it. A technique that deadly, that strategically vital, deserved his obsessive attention.
His thoughts of power and strategy led him, unexpectedly, to the robbery. He pictured the scattered stacks of cash, green paper fluttering across the asphalt like dead leaves.
'So much money... what a waste.'
For a fleeting moment, the pragmatist in him had run the calculations. He could have easily used his newfound transmutation skills, turning the bulky bills into a single, pocket-sized, untraceable gem. No one would have been the wiser. But the hero he was trying to become the one the system would recognize couldn't be a looter. Every action was being weighed and measured. Public trust was a currency far more valuable than cash, and looting a crime scene, even discreetly, was a compromise he couldn't afford. It was a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things, a necessary investment in his own legend.
Just as the thought solidified, he felt a profound shift within himself. The boundless wellspring of energy receded, the heightened senses dulled, and the innocent, indomitable fighting spirit that had colored his every thought drained away, leaving the familiar, more cynical contours of his own personality behind.
"Looks like my time's up," he murmured to the empty park.
The Goku Template had expired. The sudden weight of his own limitations felt heavier than before. He pushed himself off the tree, the rough bark scraping against his back, and melted back into the urban labyrinth to resume his patrol.
(T/N: Limit still here TT)
This time, there was no filter, no careful selection of "worthy" crimes. He became an urban phantom. In a narrow alley reeking of stale garbage, he found three men cornering a fourth, their shadows dancing grotesquely in the orange glow of a streetlamp. One held a knife. Mark dropped from the fire escape above, his landing softer than a cat's. Before the first man could register him, Mark's hand shot out, not in a punch, but with fingers stiffened like a spear. A sharp jab to the brachial plexus nerve cluster in the man's shoulder sent a jolt of agony down his arm. The man crumpled with a choked gasp. The second, the one with the knife, spun and slashed wildly. Mark swayed back, the blade slicing empty air. He flowed forward with the man's momentum, clamping down on his wrist and twisting it inward at an unnatural angle. A sickening pop echoed in the alley as the wrist broke. In the same fluid motion, Mark spun, his elbow striking the man precisely at the base of his skull. He collapsed in a heap. The third attacker, seeing his companions dispatched in seconds, ran. He didn't get two steps before Mark was suddenly in front of him, a silent silhouette. A single, open-palmed strike to the chest looked like a gentle push, but a focused burst of ki drove the air from the man's lungs and sent him sprawling. He offered no name and waited for no thanks, melting back into the shadows before the victim could find his voice. A good slogan only needed to be said once; repeating it would just turn it into a cheap catchphrase, robbing it of its power.
By 5 a.m., as the first hints of grey light began to soften the eastern sky, he had dealt with nearly twenty separate incidents, a grim cross-section of the city's nightly sorrows. Standing on the flat roof of a tenement building, he called up his internal panel, a translucent blue display that shimmered in his mind's eye, and scowled at the numbers.
"Still not efficient enough."
The South Bronx was a target-rich environment, but he was hunting in the wrong places. The most vicious crimes, the ones that truly mattered, didn't happen under streetlights. Gang executions, kidnappings, high-stakes drug deals they unfolded behind the closed doors of abandoned warehouses, in the basements of private homes, in the hidden spaces beneath the city's skin. Patrolling rooftops was like skimming the surface of a deep, dark ocean. He had even tried hacking into police radio feeds, but it was like listening to a history report. By the time a call went out, the event was usually over. The police weren't preventers; they were the cleanup crew.
He was on his own. Yet, the night's brutal work had yielded a crucial revelation as he reviewed the system's log.
[System Alert: Justice Points Ledger Updated]
Event: Thwarted Pickpocketing. Threat Level: Negligible. Points Awarded: +2
Event: Disarmed Armed Assailant (Knife). Threat Level: Low. Points Awarded: +15
Event: Halted Bank Robbery. Threat Level: Low (No civilian harm intended). Points Awarded: +25
The data was undeniable. The system didn't reward policing, it rewarded saving lives.
He had also confirmed the system's most fascinating and dangerous quirk, it measured his own intent. "Justice" was whatever he genuinely believed it to be. But there was no cheating it. It wasn't about his outward actions; it was about his inner truth. He could stage a heroic rescue, but if he knew, deep down, that he had orchestrated the danger himself, the panel would award him a fat zero. The system was a perfect, incorruptible reflection of his own conscience.
This understanding clarified everything. Moving forward, he had two new, razor-sharp priorities.
First, he had to find a better method for locating high-stakes, life-or-death situations, specifically those happening out of public view.
Second, he needed to stop wasting time and energy on low-reward incidents. He wasn't a police officer. Minor thefts could be left to them. He was a hero, and his currency was critical intervention.
"Maybe," he mused, his eyes turning toward the distant silhouette of the Queensboro Bridge, "I should pay a visit to Peter Parker."
Spider-Man. The kid had the ultimate crime-finding tool, the Spider-Sense. It wasn't just a passive danger alarm; it was an active, persistent hum that vibrated in response to trouble, pulling him toward those in need. It was the reason the kid was perpetually late and perpetually exhausted he couldn't turn it off. Even a less potent version of that sense would be infinitely more effective than his current blind patrol. They could form a symbiotic partnership, Spider-Man could handle the street-level noise, and Mark could be the cavalry for the major threats.
It was also a perfect long-term strategic move. Eventually, he planned to launch an international superhero company, a private-sector alternative to the bureaucracy of S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. Someone like Tony Stark, a fellow billionaire genius with his own massive ego and agenda, would be a rival, not a recruit. But Peter Parker? A brilliant, morally unimpeachable teenager struggling to pay his aunt's bills? An early, generous job offer could secure the loyalty of one of the most promising heroes on the planet.
A low rumble from his stomach cut through his strategic planning. He patted his belly, the physical need grounding his lofty ambitions. He took one last look at the waking city, then leaped from the rooftop, his form swallowed by the deep shadows of an alleyway below. The night was over.
It was time for breakfast.
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