The familiar blue holographic text blinked into existence.
[Would you like to combine the Gacha to get a higher probability of advanced rewards, or would you like to proceed with 3 Gachas separately?]
I rubbed my chin, thinking. Combine them… huh. This sparked an idea.
"Can I get another template-based Gacha?" I asked, curiosity dripping from my voice.
[Yes, you could convert it into one. But it is not advised. The previous Gacha was universal—hence the variance in results. Combining these low-level Gachas would only create a very weak template.
Examples: template of an ordinary six-year-old child, or at best the physique of a normal man. These attributes will not stack onto your existing template, as you are already at the level of a world-class fighter with Jason Bourne's template.
Would you like to proceed with template Gacha?]
"…No. Just combine them for a shot at something better."
[Acknowledged. Gacha ready. Would you like to open it? Y/N]
"Yes."
The massive roller materialized again, spinning with a mechanical whir that echoed like a distant slot machine. No fireworks this time—just icons flickering past in rapid succession: minor telepathy, heat resistance, an enchanted wand, a sleek pistol, even faintly glowing orbs that reminded me of Dragonballs.
Finally, the machine clicked.
[Congratulations, Host. You have acquired the ability: BULLET TIME.]
A description followed:
[Bullet Time — an ability that slows external time nearly to a halt while the Host's reactions and movements remain unaffected. Duration: 5 seconds. Cooldown: 7 hours.]
I exhaled. "Now that's useful. No human's taking me down in a fight anymore."
I exited the bathroom, forcing the excitement down into my chest. My nerves buzzed, but outwardly I kept calm—or maybe it was the Bourne template at work.
I glanced at the progress of the template [Jason Bourne — 62.3%]. Looks like the fight earlier really helped a lot.
The briefing room was full. Agents sat in neat rows, rifles holstered, eyes sharp. Smith stood at the front, imposing and deliberate. Beside him was a robed man—Master Abeni, whose calm presence radiated authority. I slid into my seat, feeling the familiar tingle of readiness.
Smith's gaze flicked to me, sharp and appraising. "Alright, kid. No rush. Observe this mission. Decide afterward if SHIELD is for you."
I nodded.
"This one's… a mystic case," Smith continued, clicking the holo-projector. Strange red symbols, Haitian veves, and curling mist appeared in midair. A few agents stiffened, exchanging glances. Guns were one thing; magic was another.
Master Abeni's voice cut through, calm but precise: "The tattoos are sigils of binding. The Red Mist is parasitic magic fused with blood essence. The Cartel does not fully understand the fire they wield. Target the master cleanly, and the ritual ends. Miss, and you risk spawning more chaos."
Smith's tone hardened. "Origin story is critical. Centuries ago, a renegade Kamar-Taj priest, Mambo Loa, fused voodoo with stolen sorcery. He brewed the Red Mist of Loa with three forbidden components:
First-Breath Essence, harvested from newborns' cries.
Crimson Bone Powder, ashes of sacrificial victims.
Blood of the Master — essence of whoever controls it.
Survivors become tattoo-bound: strength, speed, durability, but no free will. Collapse at master's will, and the tattooed fall. Fail, and the master reanimates through them."
Images flashed—glowing tattooed thugs, crates stamped with strange sigils, and piles of mist-filled vials.
"Present day," Smith continued, voice flat but sharp. "The Santa Sangre Cartel is moving more than drugs. Haitian relics, ritual tools—they've allied with Papa Legendre, who's recreating Loa's work. He's turning soldiers into red soldiers: painproof, loyal, lethal. Two Harlem units have already been lost."
Abeni gestured lightly, and a faint red aura shimmered around the holograms. "They are slaves, bound to the master's blood. Their strength is not natural. Their obedience absolute. Kill him incorrectly, and his soul finds another vessel."
I forced myself to nod along, pretending naïveté. Inside, my mind ran through contingencies: angles of attack, cover, escape routes, weapon placements. My Bourne instincts ticked like a metronome, scanning, predicting, reacting.
Smith's gaze swept the room. "Target site: New Orleans. Intel suggests they've consolidated operations there for a ritual convergence. Strike tonight."
I raised a hand, careful not to sound too confident. "Sir… if the mission's tonight, how are we getting there? Commercial flights aren't feasible."
Trying to act normal, asking a question anyone in my position would ask.
Abeni's hands moved in precise arcs, sparks weaving into a perfect golden circle. The air pulsed. With a flash, the portal stabilized into a shimmering gateway of molten gold.
"Transport is handled," Abeni said, calm as ever.
Smith leaned toward me. "Last chance, John. You can step back."
I shook my head. "No, sir. I'll see this through."
He studied me for a beat, then nodded. "Good. Gear up."
The agents moved with purpose, double-checking their rifles, sidearms, and combat knives. Medics readied trauma kits; tactical specialists calibrated suppressors and breaching rounds. I felt the familiar hum of readiness pulse through me, every muscle, every synapse primed.
I glanced at the portal again, golden light spilling across the room. Beyond it waited chaos, magic, and death—but also opportunity.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I silently muttered: This is just the beginning.
-----------------------------------------------------
The golden portal shimmered in the briefing room, casting fractured light across the walls. Master Abeni raised his hands, weaving intricate sigils in the air. A low hum filled the room, and with a subtle pop, the portal stabilized into a perfect circular gateway of swirling gold.
Agent Smith glanced around at the team — ten operatives in full tactical gear — and gave a curt nod. "Alright. We move fast, we move clean. Eyes on the target. John, stay with the team."
I gripped my sidearm, feeling the familiar weight of my Bourne-template instincts kicking in. Every muscle, every sense was wired to assess, react, and execute — but now it was in a world where bullets might meet magic, and the enemy could shrug off pain.
Master Abeni's voice cut through the hum: "The Red Mist guards — eight of them at least — are bound to the central vessel. Their tattoos make them faster and stronger, but they are not invulnerable. Bullets still pierce flesh. Stay coordinated."
I nodded. Simple, brutal rules.
"Move!" Smith barked, and we stepped through the portal. The golden light swallowed us, and we emerged onto a crumbling stone balcony overlooking a massive cathedral hall.
The air was thick, almost alive with a faint crimson haze curling upward from a swirling pool of Red Mist at the center. At its heart sat a man, older, calm, with a dark, almost regal presence. Mist streamed toward him from eight tattooed enforcers, standing like grotesque sentinels around the circle.
Agent Keene whispered beside me, "Looks like the welcome committee."
I didn't respond. My eyes scanned — four enforcers patrolling the perimeter, two stationed near the side doors, and the remaining two hovering closer to the central figure. I noted their stances, movements, and how the mist seemed to pulse with each heartbeat.
Smith raised a hand, and the team fanned out. The breaching point was the main double doors, but two agents silently moved to flank the left balcony entrance. Medics positioned near the rear, carrying trauma kits.
"John, with me. Keep low, cover right flank," Smith instructed. I fell into formation, instincts flowing naturally.
Abeni muttered a chant under his breath, drawing protective glyphs into the air. I caught the shimmer briefly — they would slow direct magic toward us, but the guards themselves were still human enough to bleed.
Then it started.
The first Red Mist guard charged, claws extended, faster than any human could react. Agent Rhee fired two bursts, hitting the guard's shoulder and torso — but the figure barely faltered, shrugging off the bullets like annoyance.
The guard swung toward Rhee; I dove into the path, slamming my elbow into its jaw, twisting, and forcing it off balance. The guard staggered, but didn't go down.
Another guard leapt from the left, landing like a predator behind two agents. Keene shouted, "Cover fire!" suppressing the attacker while I rolled, slid under a swinging claw, and stabbed upward with a combat knife.
It cut across a tattooed arm, drawing dark blood that sizzled faintly in the mist. The guard roared, spinning toward me, claws flashing — I ducked, rolled, and kicked it square in the chest. It stumbled back into a support column, leaving Rhee to finish it with a precise headshot.
The team was taking hits. Agent Morales grunted as he took a shallow cut across his forearm — the kind of injury that would have been crippling against ordinary thugs. Abeni's voice called out in measured tones, "Keep moving! Don't let them anchor themselves on one target!"
I sprinted toward a guard rushing from the right. With a low slide, I tripped its legs, then vaulted over it, flipping backward and grabbing my sidearm mid-roll. Two shots to the thigh, one to the chest — still standing. I muttered under my breath, Shit, just came to Marvel, now cleaning up for a sorcerer supreme.
The central figure, the man surrounded by the mist — Papa Legendre — rose slightly, his laughter echoing through the hall. "I must thank you, Master Abeni, for bringing me the chosen vessel," he intoned. His gaze locked on me.
Smith barked, "Focus on containment! John, flank the left side, keep the enforcers away from Abeni!"
Four guards surged toward me simultaneously. I dropped low, side-stepping one, elbowing another, spinning, and ducking a third swing. My knife skittered across the floor as I grabbed a fallen rifle, firing two quick rounds at the nearest attacker's chest. It staggered, finally hitting the ground, but the others were relentless.
Some agents were down. Morales gritted his teeth as Keene helped him crawl to cover. I could see Smith being shoved back by one guard — barely holding his weapon, shooting as he fell.
Abeni's spells flared, red glyphs bursting toward two enforcers, holding them momentarily at bay. But another guard jumped from above the balcony — I barely dodged, grabbing his wrist, flipping him over my shoulder, and watching him collapse against the stone railing.
Each guard required multiple shots to incapacitate, and even then, their bodies convulsed unnaturally, animated by the mist's residue.
I found myself momentarily surrounded, back in the center of the hall. The mist pooled thicker, almost alive. The leader moved — slow, deliberate, confident — as though he knew we were mortal, but impatient.
One guard's knife sliced across my stomach; I gritted my teeth, feeling the burn. Another slammed against my shoulder, throwing me backward. I hit the floor, rolled, and realized — I couldn't handle all four in conventional time.
Instincts took over. My fingers brushed the rifle as I took position. Bullet Time.
The world slowed. Each guard's strike stretched in slow motion, the ripple of the mist, the arc of bullets fired by my teammates — all stretched into eternity. My heartbeat felt normal; my vision unblurred.
I rolled forward, rifle in hand, and aimed with surgical precision. Three headshots to the leader, and one eye shot for each of the nearest guards. Time accelerated again. The sound of gunfire, the thuds of bodies, and the agents scrambling echoed through the cathedral.
The leader staggered, mist flickering around him, attempting to shield his head. But one round connected with his chin, disorienting him. Abeni seized the moment, chanting a complex spell that knocked the man unconscious.
Two surviving enforcers abandoned their attack, retreating toward the fallen leader — but the rest of the team mopped them up with coordinated bursts, knife strikes, and precise shots.
Breathing heavily, I assessed the scene. Two agents had minor injuries, one had taken a serious chest graze, but nobody was dead — thanks largely to the timing of my ability.
Legendre stirred, coughing, mist dissipating. He screamed at me, disbelief and fury mixing in his voice. "Impossible! You… you were infused! The Red Mist… I planted it yesterday, and yet… You're alive, and I can't control you? My magic… cannot fail!"
Smith stared, jaw tight. "Kid… what the hell was that? None of us… nothing could move like that."
I shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Just… adrenaline, sir."
Abeni moved toward the center, shackling the leader with mystic restraints. "The mist is severed. These bindings will hold him until containment protocols are secure. Everyone else… take them for processing."
The team regrouped, medics attending to wounds, while we secured the remaining enforcers. Breathing hard, I muttered under my breath, That was too close. Too damn close.
The golden portal hummed again. "All units, move!" Abeni gestured, opening a safe exit. Agents carried the shackled leader and the remaining prisoners through the portal. I covered the rear, watching every shadow, every twitch, instinctively ready for another ambush.
Back on the safe side, Smith clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You saved lives today. The Academy will want you — there's a place for people like you in this organization."
I exhaled, finally lowering my rifle. Around me, the team exchanged banter, tended to injuries, and congratulated one another. But the image of those tattooed enforcers — moving faster, striking harder — lingered in my mind.
I sat down with my back against the wall, replaying everything that had happened in my head. Smith came and sat next to me. "It will be a tough life if you decide to join," he said.
"But one filled with meaning, friendship, and excitement. And it's the most dangerous job there is. Even today, if you hadn't pulled that miracle, someone on the team might have died. I owe you one, kid."
"But if you decide to join, we'll meet again — Agent John."
I shook his hand as he rose to transfer the team to the plane parked at the airport. I stood there, watching them go.
I need to be much more powerful to enjoy this world to the fullest. But… this is a fun world.
[Jason Bourne — 68.7%]