""Hey Guys I also Have my paetron patreon.com: Scoldey Jod
Where I will upload advance chapters 25+ chapters.
For Now i have uploaded 10 chapters.""
The transformation's afterglow lingered in the air like the echo of thunder, leaving everyone in the room frozen in a tableau of shock and disbelief. The gymnasium's fluorescent lights seemed somehow inadequate now, as if reality itself had been dimmed by what they'd just witnessed. The scent of ozone hung thick and electric, mixing with the metallic tang of advanced alloys that shouldn't exist and the faint residual heat that radiated from where impossible energies had just reshaped the fundamental laws of physics.
Dr. Octavius stood rigid as a statue, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew from when his jaw had dropped. The man who had dedicated his entire life to understanding the immutable laws of physics found himself staring at their complete violation. His hands trembled as he raised them to his temples, fingers pressing against graying hair as if trying to hold his fracturing worldview together.
"Nanotechnology?" he sputtered, his voice cracking with the strain of a brilliant mind trying to categorize the impossible. He tilted his head like a confused dog, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. "Is this magic? A spell?" The words came out in desperate bursts, each one a lifeline thrown toward rational explanation. "I am a Doctor of Physics! This violates known principles!"
The last words were almost shouted, carrying the anguished cry of a man whose entire identity was built upon understanding the universe's rules, only to watch them crumble like sand castles before an impossible tide.
Dr. Connors, meanwhile, seemed to have entered an almost trance-like state of wonder. His pale blue eye was wide with the kind of awe usually reserved for religious experiences or the first glimpse of a newborn child. "My God, it's beautiful," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, soft as prayer.
Where Octavius saw violation, Connors saw perfection. His remaining hand unconsciously reached toward John's armored form, trembling with the desire to touch, to study, to understand. "It's not just armor..." His voice carried the reverence of a biologist discovering a new species, a researcher finding the missing link. "It looks like a new species. Perfect integration of organic and mechanical systems, symbiotic enhancement beyond anything in nature..."
Peter's reaction cut through the scientific contemplation like a knife through silk. "Whoa, John, is that your new outfit?" The words burst from his lips with the kind of uncomplicated enthusiasm that only teenagers could muster in the face of the impossible. His brown eyes sparkled behind his glasses as excitement overtook shock. "That's seriously cool. I mean, that armor is amazing. Maybe you can let me wear it sometime?"
The innocent request hung in the air, so beautifully naive that it almost hurt to hear.
Harry found himself simply staring, his mouth slightly open as he processed the theatrical grandeur of what he'd just witnessed. "This is... beyond cool," he managed, his voice carrying a note of breathless admiration. He'd seen John transform before, but never like this – never with such ceremony, such obvious power radiating from every surface of the impossible armor.
"Indeed," Dr. Stromm agreed, nodding slowly like a man in a dream. His weathered face was pale with the kind of shock that came from having one's understanding of reality fundamentally altered. Both he and Harry had witnessed John's transformation before, but those had been simple flashes of light – practical, efficient, almost clinical in their execution. This dramatic, theatrical sequence was something else entirely, a performance that spoke of power beyond mere human enhancement.
John's compound red eyes swept across their faces, reading expressions like an open book. When his gaze settled on Dr. Octavius, he pointed to himself with one gauntleted finger. "Uh, this is probably closer to magic," he said, his metallic voice carrying a note of apologetic honesty that somehow made the statement even more unsettling. "Not much to do with technology."
The words hit Dr. Octavius like a physical blow, causing him to sink slightly as his last hope for rational explanation crumbled away.
John then turned to Peter, the red compound eyes focusing with laser intensity. "And sorry, Peter, but I'm afraid I can't lend you this one."
Without another word, John moved across the gymnasium floor with purpose that spoke of absolute confidence. His armored boots clicked against the rubber flooring as he approached a custom-made barbell that dominated one corner of the space like a metallic monument to human ambition.
The barbell was Norman Osborn's masterpiece of engineering excess – massive solid iron blocks, each one weighing a full ton, arranged with the precision of a Swiss timepiece. The total weight represented something beyond human possibility, a challenge that existed purely in the realm of theoretical limits.
The others watched in stunned silence as the armored figure wrapped his gauntleted hands around the specially reinforced bar. There was no ceremony, no dramatic buildup – just the simple act of lifting something that weighed several tons as if it were made of cardboard.
The barbell rose smoothly, John's armored form showing signs of effort but maintaining perfect control. For a moment that stretched into eternity, he held the eight-ton weight aloft, defying gravity with the casual arrogance of someone for whom physics was merely a suggestion.
Then, with deliberate care, he set the impossible weight back on the ground. The impact resonated through the floor and into their bones – a heavy, definitive thud that spoke of mass beyond comprehension, power beyond measurement. It was a strain, certainly, but John knew there was no need to push to his absolute limit. The demonstration had achieved its purpose.
Without ceremony, he pulled the Knight Watch from his belt. The device seemed to sing as it separated, emitting harmonics that made their teeth ache. With a flash of light that momentarily turned the gymnasium into a star's heart, the armor dissolved like morning mist, leaving John standing there in his perfectly ordinary clothes, looking like any other teenager who'd just performed an impossible feat.
John's finger extended toward Peter with the precision of a targeting laser. "Peter, your turn."
"Huh? What's that, John?" Peter asked, his voice carrying the blank confusion of someone still processing information that exceeded his capacity for rational thought. He walked forward like a sleepwalker, his sneakers squeaking slightly against the rubber flooring. Yesterday's spider bite seemed like a distant memory, a minor inconvenience that had resulted in nothing more than a broken faucet and mysteriously improved vision. The idea that he might possess superpowers hadn't even occurred to him.
"You lift this barbell."
The words fell into silence like stones into still water. Peter's mouth dropped open, his jaw working soundlessly as he tried to process the request. "What?"
"Lift the barbell," John repeated, his voice carrying the patient firmness of a teacher dealing with a particularly slow student.
The three doctors exchanged glances heavy with confusion and growing concern. Dr. Octavius adjusted his glasses nervously, Dr. Connors leaned forward with scientific curiosity, and Dr. Stromm simply shook his head in bewilderment. Only Harry seemed to understand what was happening, his lips twitching with barely suppressed anticipation.
"Me? John, are you messing with me?" Peter's voice pitched higher with each word, his hands gesturing frantically at himself as if to emphasize his complete ordinariness. "That's a huge block of iron. You want me to lift it?" The concept seemed so absurd that his mind simply refused to process it seriously.
"Why are you still talking? Just do it," John said, placing his hands on Peter's shoulders and giving him a forceful shove toward the weight. The push was firm but not unkind, carrying the authority of someone who knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Alright, but this is ridiculous," Peter muttered, his voice carrying the long-suffering tone of someone humoring an obviously insane friend. His sneakers squeaked against the floor as he approached the barbell like it was a dangerous animal. The massive iron blocks loomed before him, each one representing more weight than he'd ever imagined touching, let alone lifting.
He bent down with exaggerated reluctance, wrapping his fingers around the specially reinforced bar. The metal was cold against his palms, solid and immovable as a mountain. This was going to be embarrassing, but at least it would prove his point about the absolute impossibility of what John was asking.
Peter pulled, expecting nothing but the satisfying resistance of immovable weight that would vindicate his protests. "Hmph, see? I told you I couldn't—"
The words died in his throat as the eight-ton barbell lifted effortlessly off the ground, rising as smoothly as if it were made of foam. The world seemed to tilt around him, gravity becoming negotiable, physics becoming optional. His eyes widened in terror so profound it transcended mere shock and entered the realm of existential crisis.
"Ah! What the hell is this?!" The shriek tore from his throat with primal fear, echoing off the gymnasium walls as he immediately released his grip. The barbell crashed back to earth with a deafening impact that shook the entire room, rattling equipment and making everyone's teeth ache. Dust motes danced in the air like disturbed spirits, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm began wailing in sympathy.
Peter stumbled backward, staring at his hands as if they'd been replaced by alien appendages. "Amazing!" The word came out as barely more than a whisper, filled with horror and wonder in equal measure. He'd thought the barbell was some kind of elaborate prop, a movie fake designed to make John's demonstration more impressive. But the bone-jarring impact with the floor, the way the building itself had shuddered, told him otherwise with undeniable clarity.
He could actually lift eight tons. Eight tons. The number bounced around his skull like a pinball, refusing to settle into anything resembling comprehension.
The three doctors stood in stunned silence, their scientific minds struggling to process what they'd just witnessed. Dr. Octavius's mouth worked soundlessly, his physics-trained brain trying and failing to categorize Peter's impossible feat. Dr. Connors leaned forward with predatory intensity, his biological expertise recognizing something unprecedented. Dr. Stromm simply stared, adding another impossibility to a day already overflowing with them.
One super-powered teenager had been difficult enough to accept. But two? It was as if human evolution had decided to skip several million years of gradual development and leap directly to the next stage, leaving their generation stranded in the past like intellectual dinosaurs.
John looked at Peter's panicked expression – eyes wide behind crooked glasses, face pale with shock, hands trembling as they stared at their own treacherous strength – and sighed with the patience of someone dealing with a particularly stubborn student.
"Alright, Peter, calm down," he said helplessly, his voice carrying the weary authority of someone who'd seen this revelation play out before. "Your potential strength is much greater than mine. Add a few more plates and try again."
Peter's head snapped up, his expression cycling through disbelief, terror, and a growing spark of scientific curiosity that he'd inherited from parents he barely remembered. "Oh, okay," he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
What followed was a carefully orchestrated exploration of the impossible. More plates were added, each one representing another ton of weight that should have been beyond human capability. Peter approached each new challenge with growing confidence and decreasing disbelief, his rational mind gradually accepting what his hands were proving with undeniable clarity.
Ultimately, Peter managed to lift a staggering sixteen tons, though with considerable effort that left him breathing hard and staring at the barbell like it had personally betrayed him. The number hung in the air like incense, impossible and beautiful and terrifying all at once.
The eyes of the three doctors practically glowed with scientific fervor that bordered on the religious. To them, John's power remained some unknowable mystery – possibly magic, certainly beyond current understanding, frustratingly resistant to categorization or analysis. But Peter was different. Peter represented something they could potentially comprehend, study, replicate.
He was a biological miracle walking among them in sneakers and a rumpled t-shirt, a living, breathing Nobel Prize waiting to be claimed. The way they looked at him made Peter's skin crawl, as if he'd suddenly become a specimen rather than a person.
"Gentlemen, let's return to the conference room," John said quickly, his voice carrying an edge of protective authority as he noticed the predatory gleam in the scientists' eyes. The last thing Peter needed was to become a research subject before he'd even begun to understand what was happening to him.
Back in the conference room, the atmosphere had shifted from mere curiosity to something thick and electric with tension. The mahogany table that had seemed so impressive earlier now felt inadequate, too small to contain the weight of revelations that were reshaping their understanding of reality with each passing moment.
The doctors were visibly restless – Dr. Octavius drumming his fingers against the polished wood with nervous energy, Dr. Connors leaning forward with predatory intensity, Dr. Stromm shifting in his leather chair like a man trying to find comfort in an uncomfortable world. Harry was smiling with the satisfaction of someone watching a carefully orchestrated plan unfold exactly as anticipated. Peter, meanwhile, continued staring at his hands as if they might spontaneously burst into flames or lift something else impossibly heavy without his permission.
The recessed lighting seemed somehow inadequate now, casting shadows that felt deeper and more mysterious than they had any right to be. The expensive artwork on the walls looked suddenly primitive, relics from a simpler time when the impossible had been safely contained in fairy tales and science fiction.
John settled into his chair at the head of the table with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable with command. The positioning wasn't accidental – in a room designed to showcase corporate power, he'd claimed the throne with casual authority that no one thought to question.
"Let me properly introduce myself," he began, his voice carrying the weight of someone about to fundamentally alter their understanding of reality. "My name is John Smith, and I am a Kamen Rider. What that is isn't important right now."
The casual dismissal of what was obviously a significant identity sent ripples of frustration through the assembled scientists, but John continued before they could voice their protests.
"What is important is that I also possess an ability to see the future, though it has its limitations."
The words hit the room like a physical force. Foreseeing the future! The pieces clicked into place with almost audible snaps – the strange clock-like device, the time-dial phantoms that had materialized during his transformation, the uncanny certainty with which he'd orchestrated their gathering. It was a time-based power, something that existed beyond the boundaries of conventional physics or biology.
Dr. Octavius felt his worldview crack a little further. If predicting the future was possible, then causality itself became negotiable, and his beloved physics became nothing more than suggestions rather than laws.
John's gaze shifted to Harry, who straightened unconsciously under the attention. "You all know Harry Osborn. He is currently an ordinary person." The qualifier hung in the air with ominous weight. "In the future, he was destined to inject himself with his father's enhancer to seek revenge, becoming the second Green Goblin."
The color drained from Harry's face as if someone had opened a valve. The casual revelation of his potential future – a dark mirror of his father's current condition – hit him like a physical blow. His hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white, the expensive wood creaking slightly under the pressure.
John then turned to Peter, who looked up from his continuing examination of his treacherous hands with the expression of someone who'd already accepted that his day couldn't get any stranger.
"And this is Peter Parker, the future hero known as Spider-Man. He was bitten by a genetically altered spider yesterday, and it appears he has perfectly integrated its DNA."
Spider-Man. The name hung in the air like a promise or a threat, carrying implications that Peter's overwhelmed mind couldn't quite process. A hero? Him? The same Peter Parker who worried about bullies and homework and whether his aunt would notice if he broke another household appliance?
Dr. Connors's head snapped around with predatory intensity, his pale eye fixing on Peter with laser focus. His remaining hand unconsciously clenched into a fist as his mind raced through possibilities. A perfect human-animal transgene... The thought blazed through his consciousness like wildfire. His life's work, realized, sitting right in front of him in a teenager's body.
And that name – Parker. The surname hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest, dredging up memories he'd tried to bury for years.
"That's right, Doctor," John said, his voice carrying the casual omniscience of someone who could read thoughts as easily as expressions. "His father was Richard Parker. And that spider was a descendant of the original experiments. However, don't get your hopes up. Peter's case is unique."
The confirmation hit Dr. Connors like a physical weight. Richard Parker – brilliant Richard Parker, who'd been both colleague and rival, who'd disappeared with years of research and left Connors scrambling to rebuild from fragments and memories. And now here sat his son, living proof that the research had not only continued but achieved success beyond Connors's wildest dreams.
"Of course, the randomness of scientific discovery," Connors said, his voice heavy with bitter acceptance. He shook his head slowly, gray hair catching the conference room's lights as years of frustration crystallized into resignation.
But then his expression shifted, professional disappointment giving way to something deeper and more personal. His gaze fixed on Peter with an intensity that made the teenager squirm uncomfortably in his chair.
"Peter..." His voice cracked slightly, carrying the weight of years and regret and opportunities lost to pride and anger. "I'm sorry. When your father suddenly shut down the project and disappeared with all the research data, I was angry. I never contacted your family again after that. I am truly sorry."
The apology hung in the room's expensive air, heavy with implications Peter couldn't fully understand. His parents were distant memories, faces in photographs and half-remembered voices. But here was someone who'd known them, worked with them, and let them slip away over professional disagreements that probably seemed trivial now.
"Uh..." Peter looked away, his gaze finding fascinating details in the conference room's crown molding as he struggled with emotions he couldn't name. "I barely remember them."
The simple statement carried more pain than any dramatic declaration could have managed. A lifetime of questions without answers, of growing up with Aunt May and Uncle Ben's love but always wondering about the people who'd given him life and then vanished from it.
"The full story of what happened to the Parkers is complicated," John interjected, his voice carrying the authority of someone who possessed answers to questions Peter had stopped asking years ago. "We can deal with that later."
"You're doing it again," Peter said, a flash of genuine irritation breaking through his overwhelmed confusion. His brown eyes blazed behind his glasses as frustration finally found its voice. "I hate it when you talk in riddles."
The complaint was so perfectly teenage, so beautifully ordinary in the face of extraordinary circumstances, that it almost brought a smile to the faces of the watching adults. Here was a young man who could lift sixteen tons, who was apparently destined to become a superhero, and he was annoyed about cryptic conversation.
The three more experienced doctors, however, understood the wisdom in John's restraint. Dr. Octavius had spent years in academic circles where dangerous knowledge was parceled out carefully. Dr. Connors had worked on classified projects where information was currency and secrets were weapons. Dr. Stromm had watched Norman Osborn's mind fracture under the weight of enhancement gone wrong.
Sometimes, knowing too much was the most dangerous thing of all.
John's gaze swept across the assembled scientists like a targeting system acquiring locks. The moment of revelation had arrived, the point where comfortable ignorance would be stripped away and replaced with the terrible burden of truth.
"Now, let's talk about the three of you," he said, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy and the authority of someone who'd seen how their stories ended.
He pointed to Dr. Stromm with the precision of a judge delivering sentence. "In the original history, you were supposed to have died yesterday, electrocuted by the Green Goblin."
The words hit the room like a physical presence. Dr. Stromm's weathered face went pale as he unconsciously touched his throat, remembering Norman's enhanced hands wrapped around his windpipe, the manic laughter that had echoed through the laboratory as madness wore his friend's face.
"Thank you, John," Dr. Stromm said gravely, his voice carrying the weight of a man who understood exactly how close he'd come to death. The simple acknowledgment served as confirmation for the others – this wasn't speculation or theory. This was John describing events that had been prevented by nothing more than his intervention and impossible foresight.
John's attention shifted to Dr. Octavius like a spotlight finding its target. "You died during an experiment to create a miniature sun."
The effect was immediate and volcanic. Otto shot to his feet with such violence that his chair rolled backward, leather wheels squealing against marble flooring. His face flushed red with indignation and wounded professional pride, wire-rimmed glasses flashing in the recessed lighting.
"Impossible!" The word exploded from his lips with the force of absolute denial, carrying years of careful calculation and theoretical work. "My calculations are sound! I am on the verge of success! And it is not a 'miniature sun,' it is a sustained thermonuclear fusion reaction!"
The correction was delivered with the kind of academic precision that suggested John's casual terminology was almost as offensive as the prediction of failure. Otto's entire identity was bound up in his work, his sense of self inseparable from his scientific achievements. To hear them dismissed so casually was nearly unbearable.
"Sit down, Doctor," John said calmly, his voice carrying the patient authority of someone who'd dealt with denial before. The simple command somehow carried more weight than shouting could have managed.
Otto remained standing, his chest heaving with righteous indignation, but something in John's tone made him hesitate. There was no mockery there, no dismissal – just the terrible certainty of someone who'd witnessed the consequences of pride and ambition unchecked by caution.
"You attempted the experiment twice," John continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller who'd memorized every detail of a tragedy. "The first time, you attached four mechanical arms to your spine. The reaction was stable at first, but it quickly became unsustainable. The resulting magnetic field shattered the lab."
Otto's face went white as John described technology that existed only in his private notebooks, theoretical designs he'd shared with no one. The specificity was impossible, terrifying in its accuracy.
"Flying glass killed your wife," John continued relentlessly, each word a hammer blow against Otto's composure. "And a power surge destroyed a neural inhibitor chip, allowing the arms' AI to fuse with your nervous system."
The mention of his wife – brilliant, beautiful Rosalie, who supported his work even when it consumed every waking moment – hit Otto like a physical blow. His legs gave out, and he collapsed back into his chair with a sound that was part gasp, part sob.
"After that, the arms, now in control, forced you to attempt the experiment a second time. You killed many people in your obsession. In the end, Peter, as Spider-Man, managed to awaken your true consciousness. You chose to sacrifice yourself, sinking the fusion reactor and yourself into the river to save the city."
The story unfolded with the terrible inevitability of Greek tragedy, each detail painting a picture of good intentions corrupted by technological hubris and uncontrolled ambition.
John paused, letting the weight of the narrative settle over the room like a burial shroud. "This is your story, Dr. Octavius." His gaze found Peter, still staring at his hands in confused wonder. "Oh, and Peter was the one who spotted the flaw in your calculations before your first attempt. You didn't listen to him."
The final detail was perhaps the most crushing of all – the revelation that salvation had been within reach, offered by the very teenager Otto had undoubtedly dismissed as too young and inexperienced to understand the complexities of his work.
"Alright," Otto whispered, his voice barely audible as he slumped in his chair like a puppet with severed strings. The fight had gone out of him completely, replaced by the hollow acceptance of a man confronting the inevitable consequences of his own pride. John's description included details that no one else could have possibly known – private thoughts, secret fears, theoretical frameworks that existed only in his mind and in notebooks locked away in his private office.
It was true. All of it was terrifyingly, impossibly true.
Finally, John's attention turned to Dr. Connors, who had been watching the systematic destruction of his colleagues' futures with growing dread. The one-armed scientist straightened in his chair with the dignity of a man preparing to meet his execution.
"Let me guess, I failed too, didn't I?" Connors said with a resigned sigh that seemed to echo through the conference room's expensive acoustics. After all these years of struggle, of watching Richard Parker's work surpass his own even in memory, to learn that his research was still inferior... it was a bitter pill that tasted of wasted decades and misplaced pride.
"Yes," John confirmed with simple, devastating honesty. "With Peter's help, you completed the regenerative formula. Under pressure from Oscorp executives, you were forced to test the Lizard Serum on yourself."
Dr. Connors's remaining hand unconsciously moved to his missing arm, fingers tracing the space where his limb should have been. The phantom pain that had haunted him for years seemed to intensify as John described a future where desperation drove him to the same kind of reckless self-experimentation that had already claimed Norman's sanity.
"The side effect was... you lost your mind, transformed into a giant lizard, and tried to turn everyone in the city into lizards like you. Peter eventually developed an antidote and cured you, but you ended up in prison."
The image was so absurd, so completely removed from his self-image as a careful scientist and rational man, that Connors almost wanted to laugh. But the pattern was consistent with what John had revealed about the others – brilliant minds corrupted by ambition, good intentions twisted into nightmare scenarios by the pressure to achieve results regardless of consequences.
"Well," Dr. Connors said with a helpless, ironic smile that carried more sadness than humor, "it seems we all have rather tragic stories."
The understatement hung in the air like a deflated balloon, inadequate to encompass the scope of the futures John had just revealed. Three brilliant men, each destined to achieve exactly what they'd always wanted, only to have their success destroy everything they'd ever cared about.
The conference room fell silent except for the subtle hum of air conditioning and the distant sound of New York traffic far below. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the expensive windows with shades of gold and crimson that seemed almost too beautiful for a day that had witnessed the systematic destruction of three men's dreams.
But perhaps, the silence seemed to suggest, knowing the future meant they could change it. Perhaps tragedy was not inevitable, and brilliant minds guided by wisdom rather than pride could find a different path.