What if a soul—one that shouldn't belong here—appeared in the Marvel Universe?
New York City, Midtown Manhattan — 2012
In a two-story penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue—spacious, elegant, and worth far more than its modest 500 square meters suggested—a chestnut-haired boy of fourteen or fifteen knelt on the oak floor of his bedroom, sketching intricate patterns with white chalk.
He wore a simple white shirt, tailored but unpretentious. Tall for his age and slender, with delicate yet sharply defined features, he adjusted his half-rimmed, gold-accented glasses as sunlight filtered through the slatted blinds. The dappled light played across his profile, casting soft shadows that lent the room a quiet, almost serene ambiance.
Except for one detail.
From beneath his sleeve, a black mechanical right arm—sleek, segmented, and faintly whirring—peeked out as he drew. It let out a quiet, rhythmic creak with each motion.
And yet, even that prosthetic seemed mundane compared to what he was drawing on the floor: concentric rings of arcane symbols, glowing faintly as if charged with latent energy. To any observer, it would resemble the beginnings of a forbidden ritual—utterly out of place in a Manhattan penthouse.
"Hmm… that should be about right," the boy murmured. He tossed the chalk aside without waiting for confirmation.
Downstairs, muffled voices rose from the living room—two adults arguing in hushed, urgent tones.
"Gina! You should've discussed this with me before making promises!" a man hissed, voice strained with barely restrained anger. "We left Sokovia. We cut ties with them. And now you're offering yourself—and our company—up on a silver platter?"
"You're practically throwing us into a firepit!"
Across from him, the woman—elegant, poised, and undeniably formidable—spoke with cool finality. "Hermann, times have changed. You can't survive on a couple of patents and nostalgia anymore."
"I can wait," she continued, voice sharpening, "but will the shareholders?"
"We've already lost contracts with Stark Industries and Hammer Tech. If we don't pivot—now—the company won't survive the quarter."
"I don't care what you think," she added, softer but no less resolute. "Not if it's at the cost of Luca's future."
Hermann opened his mouth several times, searching for a rebuttal, but found none. He settled for a frustrated sigh, jaw tight.
Upstairs, Luca von Orange heard every word—but didn't move.
It wasn't indifference. Not coldness. Just… distance.
He'd only been in this world for two months. Two months since he'd woken up in a hospital bed, his memories tangled between lives, his right arm gone below the elbow, replaced by a prototype neuro-mechanical limb funded by his family's dwindling R&D budget.
In his past life, he'd been an ordinary young man—until he helped expose a massive fraud ring. On his way home, a dump truck had plowed into him, crushing his car against an apartment complex. His last memory: the screech of metal, the rush of debris, and the eerie certainty that someone had wanted him dead.
He died.
And then… he woke up here—in the body of a boy who'd also died in a car crash, mere days before the Battle of New York.
Whether it was fate, cosmic error, or some twist of multiversal mechanics, his soul had taken root in this new shell. The body had survived—barely—and with it came fragmented memories of parents named Hermann and Gina von Orange, heirs to a once-respected Sokovian tech firm now teetering on collapse.
Now, slowly, he was learning to be Luca.
'At least in this world… I have a family,' he told himself. 'A real one.'
He held onto that thought like a lifeline.
But while his family might be kind—however fractured—they lived in a world far more dangerous than his old one.
During his hospital stay, with nothing but a TV and morphine for company, he'd watched the news obsessively. Iron Man—Stark—was everywhere. Flying through skies, saving cities, cracking jokes over global broadcasts.
Luca knew this universe. He'd watched it. Marvel movies had been a guilty pleasure in his past life.
But this wasn't just a Marvel Universe. It was the Marvel Universe—Earth-199999, if the timeline held. And that meant gods, aliens, super-soldiers… and soon, an alien invasion right over his head.
The problem? He didn't know when things would deviate.
Fortunately, for now, Iron Man was the only major superhero widely known to the public. The world hadn't yet descended into the kind of chaos where ordinary people couldn't afford to live.
That was one reason Luca could enjoy a rare moment of peace.
The other? He'd transmigrated—and come with his own cheat code.
He looked down at the strange circle drawn on his bedroom floor, its lines reminiscent of an occult ritual. Beside him sat an open cardboard box. From it, he pulled out a pair of ordinary red-and-white sneakers.
To anyone else, they'd look completely unremarkable.
But to Luca, they pulsed with a faint white glow—and when he held them, a translucent blue panel materialized in the air:
[Power-Enhancing Shoes]
[Detective Conan World: 1/5]
[Manufacturer: Professor Agasa]
[Core Component: Red and White Sneakers]
[Synthesis Materials: 0.5m copper wire, 6 medical-grade stun pads, 1 adjustment knob, 1 small battery]
[Description: Electrically stimulate leg acupoints to amplify strength!
Level 1: Knock someone out with a kick.
Level 2: Shatter a car.
Level 3: Obliterate a satellite.
100% safe, precise, and painless. Perfect for home defense, travel, and amateur crime-fighting!]
[Note: Durable, breathable, and odor-resistant—field-tested by a famous detective who hasn't changed shoes in 30 years!]
Yes. This was Luca's cheat.
After spending nearly two months in a hospital bed—recovering from injuries he couldn't explain even to himself—he'd tried everything to activate a "system," summon a "guiding elder," or trigger any transmigrator's blessing. Nothing worked.
He'd resigned himself to surviving in the Marvel Universe with nothing but vague premonitions and street smarts.
Then, the day he returned home, he noticed his old pencil case glowing—softly, silently, visible only to him.
The moment he touched it, fragmented data flooded his mind: World of Origin. Manufacturer. Synthesis Requirements.
A few days later, he'd synthesized his first item: [Pencil Missile], from the One-Punch Man world, using pencils, gunpowder, glue, and salvaged gun grips.
Now, this—[Power-Enhancing Shoes]—was his second discovery. Just a cheap pair of sneakers from a local store… until they weren't.
He still didn't fully understand the rules.
What did "1/5" mean under Detective Conan World?
Why did a glowing "magic circle" appear in his mind when he held the core component?
And why, after drawing that same circle a second time, couldn't he synthesize another [Pencil Missile] using identical materials?
But he'd figured out the basics: synthesis required a ritual array.
Carefully, he placed the red-and-white sneakers at the center of the drawn circle. The wire, stun pads, knob, and battery went into their designated outer rings.
The items immediately shimmered with the same soft glow as the core.
"Hmm… No AA batteries? Even military-grade cells don't work?"
After several tries, he finally succeeded with a standard button battery from the supermarket.
"Seriously? A battery that can't even power a cheap vibrator can run leg-enhancing tech from another dimension?"
He shook his head, pushed the thought aside, and placed both hands on the edge of the array.
"Synthesize."
Golden light erupted, swallowing the entire circle.
When it faded, only the sneakers remained—now fully formed, glowing faintly.
But…
"Why are they so small?"
The shoes were barely larger than his palm.
"Are these… kids' shoes?" Luca muttered, baffled.
As he picked them up, they pulsed—then expanded seamlessly, molding themselves to his exact foot size.
"Whoa…"
He turned them over. Externally, they looked like any casual sneaker—except for a small white knob on the outer right heel. Inside, no wires, no battery compartment, no visible tech. It was all seamlessly integrated.
If not for the size-shifting and the synthesis panel, no one would suspect they were anything but ordinary footwear.
He briefly considered disassembling them—but remembered what happened last time. He still had two [Pencil Missiles] tucked away, meant for reverse-engineering. But these shoes? One wrong move, and his limited technical know-how wouldn't be enough to reassemble them.
Better to test them as-is.
"…Kicking stuff won't break my legs, right?"
He slipped them on—awkwardly, thanks to his stiff, prosthetic right hand.
"Ugh. Only the right shoe has the power dial. And my right hand's basically a brick."
"If only I could find some high-end cybernetic arm later…"
He stood, testing his balance. The shoes felt light, responsive.
Just as he debated whether to tell his parents he was "going downstairs to test footwear," a series of sharp whooshes cut through the air outside.
Frowning, Luca rushed to the window.
His blood ran cold.
In the distance, a blinding blue beam speared the sky. At its apex, the heavens tore open.
Through the rift poured armored aliens astride sleek airships, raining fire on New York. Behind them came monstrous warships—Leviathan-class, each over a hundred meters long—plummeting like falling asteroids, smashing skyscrapers into rubble.
Screams echoed through the streets. Energy blasts lit up the skyline. Fires bloomed where buildings once stood.
New York was burning.
And there was only one name for this:
"The Chitauri invasion."