"Boom… boom…"
The endless chain of explosions outside rattled the walls, while Alex Carter turned his head and caught sight of several unrecognizable, charred shapes nearby. His temples throbbed in protest.
Someone please explain why in the world was he being woken up by bombs instead of firecrackers?
Just yesterday, Alex's biggest worry had been figuring out how to fend off his nosy aunts at yet another New Year's family gathering. At almost forty years old, unmarried, and constantly cornered by endless lectures about "settling down," every reunion felt less like a holiday and more like a courtroom trial.
He'd dreaded today's inquisition, but apparently fate had given him an unexpected escape clause. He no longer needed to fear awkward questions about marriage. No, now he had something far more urgent to worry about survival.
He had fallen asleep in his own bed, only to wake up in the middle of what looked like a warzone. If that wasn't absurd enough, he quickly realized he had actually transmigrated.
For most people, something like this might be cause for panic. But Alex? In his previous life, he had been a struggling, bottom-tier webnovelist. To him, transmigration wasn't shocking at all. It was practically a standard plot device.
Before he crossed over, he'd been a nobody mediocre prose, shallow characters, clichéd ideas. His readership was non-existent. If it weren't for the part-time security guard gig that kept food on the table, he probably wouldn't have lasted.
But now?
Now he found himself standing in a wrecked living room on the second floor of an apartment building. A few moments earlier, this body's original owner had been sitting down to dinner with his parents, when out of nowhere a missile crashed straight through the ceiling and detonated.
Normally, catching a missile to the face at point-blank range would be instant game over unless one happened to be Superman. Yet somehow, the parents of this body had been obliterated, along with a couple of unfortunate tenants upstairs, while Alex himself hadn't suffered so much as a scratch. Not even a paper cut.
Well, not entirely unscathed. The soul in this body had been switched out, after all.
Rubbing his face, Alex sifted through the fragmented memories left behind. The kid he had replaced was named Jack Ma eighteen years old, half-Chinese, born and raised in a small Eastern European country called Sokovia.
"Damn it…" Alex muttered under his breath as he pieced together the rest.
Jack's parents had once been comfortably settled in their homeland, but three months before his birth, they had sold their ancestral property and moved abroad in search of opportunity. Somehow, through sheer effort and a bit of luck, they had managed to scrape together enough to buy a six-story apartment building in Sokovia.
That's right he had crossed over into the body of a "second-generation landlord." Talk about an unusual start.
Unfortunately, judging by the explosions echoing nonstop outside, that inheritance was about to go up in smoke. The dream of being a "landlord prince" ended before it even began.
Shaking his head, Alex pushed away the fantasy of real estate riches. Survival first. Dreams could wait.
Outside, the sky thundered with gunfire and bombs. He didn't know exactly what was happening, but even a fool could tell something catastrophic was unfolding. If missiles were crashing into people's dining rooms, then the city had descended into utter chaos.
Staying put was suicide. Especially since one very important detail hung directly over his head: another missile, about a meter long, lodged in the floor above at a crazy angle, threatening to drop at any moment.
It wasn't just a danger. It was a ticking time bomb.
The building had been his parents' pride restaurant on the first floor, family living on the second, and tenants filling the upper levels. The first missile had torn through the third floor and blasted into his living room. Now the second one was precariously stuck, ready to finish the job.
Escape. That was his only option.
But then Alex's eyes caught on a detail that made his blood run cold. Printed clearly on the missile casing was a logo.
Stark Industries.
His mind went blank for a moment before it all clicked. Sokovia. Stark weapons.
Marvel.
Of all places, he had transmigrated into the Marvel universe.
He wanted to cry. Other people who crossed into Marvel usually got cushy starts maybe waking up in New York with Agent Coulson at their door, or bumping into Peter Parker in high school, or inheriting a fortune like Tony Stark.
But him? His "welcome gift" had been a Stark Industries missile blowing up his family.
So technically… Iron Man himself was now his parents' murderer.
"Just perfect…" Alex muttered, his mood swinging between disbelief and despair.
Then, cutting through the ringing in his ears, he heard something faint.
"Waaah… waaaah…"
Crying.
There were survivors.
He froze, listening. The sobs were coming from upstairs the third floor. The wreckage blocked his view, but the sound was unmistakable.
For a moment, he hesitated. Should he help?
Logic screamed no. That missile above his head could explode any second. Being a hero in Marvel wasn't glamorous; it was a fast track to an early grave. This was a world crawling with madmen, monsters, aliens, and megalomaniacs. He had no powers, no training, no plot armor.
If he risked his neck to play the good guy, he'd probably end up re-rolling into another random body tomorrow.
And yet…
Just as Alex stepped toward the shattered window, ready to jump and save his own skin, his feet betrayed him. Instead of escaping, he turned back toward the stairs.
Why?
Because buried in Jack's memories was the identity of the couple who rented the apartment upstairs. Their surname was unusual.
Maximoff.