[System initializing…]
[Synchronizing with host: 1%... 5%... 35%... 50%... 75%... 99%...]
[Gacha System online.]
I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Holy shit. Now we're talking."
A system. A goddamn system.
That sealed it—I hadn't just been dumped into another body. I was transmigrated. And not into any random world either. If I had a system, odds were high this place was anything but normal.
The clock read 9:45. About an hour before I had to meet Agent Smith. Enough time to test this thing.
"Status," I said.
[Host: John Harland][Functions: Missions | Gacha | World Travel]
World travel. My pulse spiked. Not only did I have a system—it had multiverse access. Unreal.
Except… everything else looked basic. No power stats. No skill trees. No attributes.
Before I could complain, new text flickered across my vision:
[Host is currently weak. Running at full capacity risks permanent damage. Any higher output may overwhelm the body and induce a vegetative state.]
The flat, mechanical voice still made me stutter. "So… what else can you do? Are you sentient?"
[No. I am not self-aware. I function as a low-level AI, capable of basic responses, using your memories as reference. Comparable to programs like ChatGPT or Gemini.]
I laughed under my breath. "Perfect. I'm babysat by Clippy's smarter cousin."
[Additionally, host may program conditional commands to automate responses, ensuring I never act independently beyond parameters you set.]
A kill-switch. Good. The last thing I needed was an AI going rogue.
"Alright. Then what about a newbie gift? Don't systems usually hand those out?"
[Starter reward: three gacha rolls. However, host body was critically weak with a congenital heart defect. Two rolls were consumed to heal the condition and stabilize strength. One roll remains.]
That explained why I'd woken up stronger than John Harland's memories suggested. At least I wasn't a cripple.
"Fine. Then let's use it. I need something to keep me alive—got a gang's hideout to poke into, remember?"
[As this is your first gacha, reward has been upgraded to Template Gacha. Optional switch: High-Level Skill Gacha. Choose.]
I hesitated, then shrugged. "Template. Let's see where it goes."
[Would you like to begin? Y/N]
"Yes."
A colossal roulette wheel spun into existence, each slot glowing with names that bent reality. Superman. Sentry. Saitama. Zeno. Doctor Manhattan. Azathoth.
I went cold. "Oh, fuck. This is serious."
The wheel slowed, ticking past gods and monsters. My heart pounded like a war drum. Was this it? My leap to godhood?
[Congratulations, Host. Template acquired: Jason Bourne (Bourne Series).]
I stared. Then sighed so hard I nearly deflated. "Seriously?"
Don't get me wrong—Bourne was elite. Maybe the deadliest human alive in his world. But after seeing omnipotent gods on the wheel, pulling him felt like winning a rusty bicycle at a Lamborghini raffle.
Before I could sulk, the system chimed:
[Would host like to apply template? Warning: Integration may cause pain and unconsciousness for 15–60 minutes.]
The clock read 9:50. I had time. I nodded.
Pain ripped through me like wildfire. My heart jackhammered, muscles seizing, nerves screaming. I collapsed, thrashing across the carpet, sweat pouring until everything blurred—then blackness.
I came to staring at the ceiling, lungs heaving. Staggering into the bathroom, I tore off my shirt—and froze.
The lean, runner's build I'd woken with? Gone. In its place: broad shoulders, coiled muscle, a fighter's body built for violence. Jason Bourne's shadow stared back from the mirror.
[Template Synchronization: 52%.][Note: Full integration requires practice. Once host defeats Bourne or achieves equilibrium with template, synchronization will reach 100%.]
Even half-synced, I felt like a predator. My fists clenched as if they already knew how to kill.
"Christ," I whispered. "Was I really this weak before?"
I stripped, showered off the sweat, suited up again. 10:15. Already late. I hustled downstairs, ordered coffee in the lobby, and ducked into a quiet meeting room.
The system pulsed open.
[Missions tab unlocked.]
Main Mission: Identify this world.Reward: 3x Low-Level Gacha Boxes.
Not bad. No punishment if I refused. Optional, exploratory. A gentle push to get me involved.
I scrolled deeper.
Gacha Reward Tiers:–
Level 1 (Common) The higher the tier, the slimmer the odds. Luck decided everything.
I was still daydreaming about cracking a Level 9 when a voice cut clean through.
"Mr. John, I presume?"
I turned. A wiry man stood there, beard neat, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. Agent Smith.
We shook hands and sat.
"Coffee?" I asked.
He waved it off. "Let's get straight to the point. Tell me what you know."
I spread my map of New York, tapping the warehouse I'd been tracking. "That's their base. Members rotate weekly. Trucks in, trucks out—probably cartel, though I can't pin which. No insignias."
Smith leaned forward, studying the photos.
"One more thing," I added. "Their tattoos glow at night. And every Tuesday, I've seen a red mist seep out of the building. Chemical? Gas? I didn't risk getting closer."
His brows drew together. "This is above your clearance. My team will handle it. Don't worry—you'll get credit for the intel."
Something in his tone prickled at me. Too casual. Too dismissive.
"Sir," I said carefully. "I want in. I've been on this for weeks. I deserve to see it through."
For a moment, silence. Then a smirk curled his lips. "You've got guts. But hear me—we aren't FBI. We aren't even government. We're… something else. More elite. More dangerous. Think carefully before you step further."
My stomach tightened. IMF(Impossible Task Force)? Kingsmen? Something worse?
"Yes, sir," I said anyway. "I'm in."
Smith chuckled, low and rough. "Good. You remind me of myself before I knew how deep the rabbit hole went. Trust me—normal rules don't apply where we're headed."
We went back and forth a while longer. He pressed for details. I fed him what I'd seen in Harland's memories. Eventually, he slid me a note.
"Seven o'clock tonight. Wester County Airport. Be there."
When he left, I slumped back. The system pinged—Bourne sync 53%.
And I realized something that froze me.
Smith moved with the same predatory confidence as Bourne. Only heavier. Sharper. 85, maybe 90% synced.
That was terrifying.
Back in my room, I paid the bill, changed clothes, and checked the system's world tab.
[World Traveller unlocked.]
[To travel between worlds, host must remain five years in current world. Host must also supply an external power source or possess sufficient strength to survive transit. Additionally, Traveller's Cards may be earned via system for free movement.]
I exhaled, closing the screen. That was far down the line. First, I needed to figure out this world.
So I drilled. Every Bourne move my body remembered: knife disarms, chokeholds, firearm strips, improvised weapon counters. Palm strikes to the throat. Knee kicks to the joints. Pen-through-hand takedowns. Rapid reloads. Improvised garrotes from belts. My body knew the motions, but my timing lagged—like the memories were faster than my muscles. The mismatch made every move feel off-balance.
I grimaced. "So this is why. Low completion rate. Memories outpacing but why do I feel weird like my spidy sense is telling me something"
Didn't matter. I just had to train harder, faster. Reach 100%.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Across the street, a man lowered his binoculars, voice low "I've got eyes on the target. The only survivor."
The reply came distorted, metallic."Status?"
"Alive. Adapting faster than expected. I'll keep feeding updates."