Aryan Spencer woke up thinking two things were wrong.
First—his bed was way too expensive.
Second—his brain was buffering.
Loading memories…
Scenes began playing behind his eyes like a badly edited movie montage.
A normal life.
A boring job.
Deadlines.
Bills.
The kind of existence that made Monday feel like a personal attack.
Then—black.
Then another life rushed in.
Money. Old money.
A massive house.
Staff who nodded too much.
A name people took seriously.
Aryan blinked.
"Oh," he said aloud. "I transmigrated."
He lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
"…That's fine. Honestly. There wasn't much going on back there anyway."
He stretched, cracking his neck.
"New world, new start. Let's see what flavor of nonsense this one is."
As if on cue, the memories rearranged themselves again.
Vought International.
Superheroes.
Public idols.
Private monsters.
Aryan sat straight up.
"Oh. Oh no."
His mouth twitched.
"This is The Boys."
The world where heroes smiled for cameras and murdered people off-screen.
Where PR mattered more than human life.
Where capes were optional but sociopathy wasn't.
Aryan rubbed his face.
"So basically… a black heart wrapped in spandex."
Before he could process that fully, a cheerful electronic sound popped inside his head.
[Ding~!]
[Welcome, Host! You have been successfully bound to the Plundering System]
A semi-transparent interface appeared in front of him, glowing politely—as if it hadn't just ruined his peaceful reincarnation.
———-
Plundering System v1.0
Host: Aryan Spencer
Survival Rating: Questionable
EXP: 0
Core Stats:
Defense Lv.1 (You are slightly harder to kill than a cardboard box)
Self-Recovery Lv.1 (Cuts heal faster. Emotional damage not included.)
Inventory Space: 1 m³ (Please do not store living things.)
————
Aryan stared at it.
"…You couldn't even give me a power? Not laser eyes? Not flight? Not a morally questionable jawline?"
The system ignored him.
Another window popped up.
———-
[Beginner Gift Pack Unlocked!]
Reward: Ultimate Hacking Proficiency
Description: You now understand computers better than the people who built them.
———
His brain immediately flooded with information.
Firewalls unraveled like cheap sweaters.
Encrypted systems felt… polite.
Vought's security architecture practically waved at him.
Aryan whistled.
"Okay. That's unfair. I like it."
Then the system cleared its nonexistent throat.
——-
[First task Available]
Target: Vought International – Underground Research Facility
Objective: Plunder abilities
Risk Level: Extremely Fatal
Bonus: Survival
———-
Aryan leaned back in his chair.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "I just arrived in the most morally bankrupt superhero universe ever created… and your solution is to send me into Vought?"
[Correct.]
…Bold strategy."
Aryan laughed, shaking his head.
And then he turned his attention back to the glowing system panel hovering in front of him.
"You realize that the lab is underground, right?"
[Confirmed.]
"And you also realize that most of the people down there aren't normal criminals. They're unstable superheroes on Compound V."
[Confirmed.]
"And you realize I'm currently a regular human whose biggest combat achievement is surviving office politics."
The system remained silent for half a second.
Aryan crossed his arms.
"So your plan is basically: go down there and die creatively?"
[Negative.]
"Oh good. Because that's exactly what it sounded like."
Another pause.
[Host survival probability calculated.]
[Current success rate: 3.7%]
Aryan blinked.
"…Why did you say that out loud?"
[System recommends optimization.]
"Finally, some sense."
The interface flickered.
——-
[Conditional Compensation Available]
Grant: Basic Combat Mastery
Grant: Firearm Proficiency (All Standard Weapons)
Condition: Abilities are skill-based, not superhuman.
———
Aryan's eyes lit up.
"Wait—so I won't punch through walls, but I will know how not to shoot myself?"
[Correct.]
"Deal."
The data hit him instantly.
How to move.
How to breathe under pressure.
How to aim without thinking.
How to reload in the dark.
His body felt trained.
Aryan exhaled slowly.
"…Okay. That helps. A lot."
He rolled his shoulders.
——
Actual planning.
Not movie-hero nonsense.
Aryan pulled up Vought's internal database, slipping past security layers like they were politely asking him not to. He filtered facilities—large ones were off the table.
Too many guards.
Too many Supes.
Too much attention.
"Let's start small," he muttered.
He narrowed the search.
Underground.
Experimental.
Low personnel.
Off-grid power.
One result blinked.
A minor research site buried beneath an abandoned industrial zone—two kilometers from the city outskirts. No residential population. No press. No heroes doing charity photos nearby.
Aryan smiled.
"Perfect. Middle of nowhere. Just how murder labs like it."
———-
Through a web of black-market contacts, shell companies, and untraceable transfers, Aryan acquired what he needed.
A lot of ammunition.
Too much ammunition.
The kind of ammunition that made laws uncomfortable.
Handguns.
Rifles.
Suppressors.
He stacked the boxes neatly.
"Responsible adults call this preparation," he told the empty room.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, everything was ready.
"No cape. No PR team. No god complex," he said.
Then he grinned.
"Just a guy with a system and questionable life choices."
————
Cars were traceable.
Aryan wanted something faster. Smaller. Disposable.
The black market delivered.
A matte-black motorcycle.
No plates. No registration. No history.
Officially, it had never existed.
Aryan ran a hand along the frame.
"Beautiful," he said. "Just like my alibi."
First, the bulletproof vest—thin, flexible, designed to stop normal bullets, not divine judgment. He patted it.
"Do your best," he whispered. "I believe in you."
He altered his face with professional-grade makeup—bone structure softened, scars added where none existed. Then he layered on clothes that distorted his build: oversized jacket, uneven padding, strange proportions.
Anyone looking at him would struggle to describe him later.
Finally, he picked up the metallic mask.
Cold. Expressionless. Featureless.
He secured it over his face and looked at himself one last time.
No Aryan Spencer remained.
Only a silhouette.
He mounted the motorcycle.
As the engine came alive. Aryan tightened his grip on the handlebars.
The motorcycle slowed as Aryan reached the edge of the abandoned industrial zone.
Broken concrete.
Dead factories.
The kind of place Google Maps politely pretended didn't exist.
He killed the engine and stepped off, stretching his legs.
"Alright," he muttered, "last chance to turn back and live a long, boring life."
He immediately ignored that option.
Aryan crouched and opened one of the storage compartments on the bike. Inside was a compact black device, ugly and expensive in the way only illegal tech could be.
A signal jammer.
Not the cheap kind.
The 'everybody shut up right now' kind.
Aryan held it up, nodding to himself.
"Because let's be very clear," he said, pressing the activation switch, "if even one signal escapes this place—"
The jammer came alive with a low, angry hum.
Cell service: gone.
Emergency channels: gone.
Encrypted Vought frequencies: very, very gone.
"—then Homelander shows up."
Aryan paused, imagining it.
A smile.
Red eyes.
A patriotic laser-related ending.
"…And I die," he finished calmly.
He clipped the jammer onto his belt and adjusted the range.
"Rule number one," he said cheerfully, "never let the final boss load in."
"One guy," he said lightly, as the underground facility loomed ahead.
"Against a bunch of superheroes who can't call for help."
He chuckled.
"This is either genius… or tonight's dumbest idea."