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Becoming Too overpowered

temisan428
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Katsuo Sakamoto, a sharp-tongued, rotund otaku with a biting wit and a festering loathing for his own mundane existence, finds himself flattened by Truck-kun’s uncaring wheels on an unremarkable Tuesday. He expects oblivion—maybe even welcomes it. Instead, he wakes in a cold, echoing throne room, face-to-face with a being whose eyes contain galaxies and whose voice weighs heavier than guilt. Granted a System that bends reality: a shop where almost anything is for sale, a daily lottery that can multiply his gains from one to a hundred-thousandfold, and a trio of powers tailored for carnage and cunning, Katsuo is reborn—except, he’s now a scrawny, green-skinned goblin, the lowest of the low in a world so massive it could swallow a million Earths. But Katsuo’s ambition is as boundless as his new world. Armed with the Absolute Ravage and Perfect Slaughter skills, and guided by a respectful, eerily insightful System, he plots, laughs, and slaughters his way from the muddy goblin dens to the apex predator’s throne. Monsters from every nightmare, ancient gods, and scheming mortals stand in his way. But Katsuo was always good at games—and now, the stakes are everything.
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Chapter 1 - Death.

Rain fell like static across the city—a hiss on glass, a smear of neon on the sidewalk.

Katsuo Sakamoto hunched beneath his umbrella, stomach rumbling, feet aching, his bulk straining the seams of a cheap windbreaker. He'd spent the night grinding levels in a dungeon, chasing digital glory, and now the real world felt even greyer by comparison. The air tasted like exhaust and wet concrete. His phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with another ignored message from his mother.

Pathetic, he thought. Twenty-six years old, still living in a closet-sized room, still ducking the landlord. The kind of guy people looked through on the street. Katsuo had gotten used to being invisible—except, of course, when someone needed a punchline or a scapegoat. He shuffled past the ramen shop, thick fingers digging for change. Not enough for breakfast. Not even enough for a vending machine coffee.

If only life had a reset button. If only—

Screech.

A horn blared. Tires skidded. Katsuo looked up, eyes wide in the blue glow of headlights. Time stuttered. For a moment, he saw his reflection in the windshield—a fat, tired otaku, frozen in shock. Then the truck hit.

Pain bloomed white-hot, then nothing. Not falling, not flying—just absence, like someone pressed pause on the whole world.

He floated in a blackness that wasn't empty. There were whispers, tickling the edges of thought, like static on a broken TV. Colors flickered, shapes forming and dissolving. Katsuo tried to move, but he had no body. No hunger, no regret, no weight.

A voice—not quite a sound, more like a ripple of cold water through his mind—echoed:

So fragile. So small. How curious.

Katsuo tried to answer, but language slipped from his grasp. He felt himself pulled, stretched, like dough kneaded by invisible hands. Then—

....

Light assaulted him—icy, crystalline, filling his vision with jagged rainbows. He blinked, and the world sharpened into focus: a vast hall, stone pillars arching overhead, banners of black and gold twisting in a wind that didn't exist. The air was cold, scented with old parchment and something metallic. His feet—no, he wasn't sure if these were his feet, but he felt them—rested on a polished floor that reflected the impossible architecture above.

At the far end, upon a throne carved from obsidian and bone, sat a being. It wore a robe woven from shifting starlight, its face a blur of eyes, mouths, and flickering galaxies. Power coiled around it, making Katsuo's skin—if he had skin—crawl.

The being watched him. Its presence pressed down like a mountain.

"Another soul," it mused, voice layered, ancient, and oddly weary. "Discarded. Yet burning with hunger. How quaint."

Katsuo found his mouth, or something like it. "Where am I? Am I…dead?"

The being's laughter was a shiver in the stone. "You are. And yet, you are not. This is the threshold. I am the Architect. I build wonders—new worlds, new fates. Today, you amuse me."

Katsuo's mind whirled. "So what—reincarnation? Is this like an isekai anime?"

The Architect's lips twisted in a smirk—or perhaps an eclipse. "If you wish. But all games require rules. All contestants need tools."

A flick of its wrist. Symbols blazed in the air—menus, stats, words Katsuo recognized from games. SYSTEM. SHOP. SKILLS.

"But why me?" Katsuo pressed, a tremor in his voice. "I'm nobody."

"Precisely. Nobodies make the best experiments."

The Architect reached into the air, plucking a thread of light. Power crackled. "I grant you a System. A daily multiplier—your luck, your curse. The power to ravage the dead, to slaughter without peer, to consume and become." Its eyes narrowed, voices overlapping. "Let us see what a goblin can do with the tools of a god—"

Then, a pause. The Architect's fingers twitched. Its eyes—dozens of them—widened in horror.

"No. No, this—this is too much. I—How did I—" Its form trembled, starlight bleeding from its wounds. "Give it back! Give the power back, mortal!"

Katsuo felt the System slot into him. Knowledge flooded his mind, cold and brilliant, every skill and menu unfolding like a lotus. The Architect stumbled from the throne, robes unspooling, crawling across the floor, its many mouths begging, pleading.

"Please! I beg you! Return the gifts—I made a mistake—"

It reached for him, hands trembling, and collapsed. The hall shuddered. The throne cracked. With a final, echoing wail, the Architect dissolved into a haze of light and dust, leaving Katsuo alone in the ruin of possibility, power thrumming through his soul.

He grinned, feeling the System settle—a presence, calm and waiting, in the back of his mind.

A new game, he thought. This time, I play to win.