The glowing blue numbers hovered in the center of my vision, casting an artificial luminescence against the expensive darkness of the penthouse. My mind worked through the arithmetic with a slow pace, treating the spectral interface less like a game menu and more like a ledger that needed balancing.
The economy of this System was elegant in its cruelty.
To take power from Tier 4 to Tier 3 required an investment of 1,500 XP. I looked at the conversion chart again, tracing the lines of light with my eyes. That was the exact amount I would receive from converting a plundered Tier 3 power. The logic was ruthless, a perfect circle of consumption. It meant I could sacrifice one ability to strengthen another. I could cannibalize the weak to feed the strong.
It was a zero sum game played with human souls.
"So," I said, my voice sounding jarringly loud in the quiet room. "To upgrade a power to Tier 1, I'd need to kill another Tier 1 Supe and convert their power. Or strip mine a small army of lesser heroes."
[Precisely!] The System's text scrolled rapidly. [High risk, high reward. Or you could go the grinder route, kill a whole bunch of lower-tier Supes, save up your pennies, and buy the big upgrade. The choice is yours. Now, you're probably wondering, 'How do I know what tier a Supe is before I try to punch them?' Easy! My final feature is a built-in scanner.]
The interface shifted. The menu dissolved, replaced by a minimalist targeting reticle that hovered in the center of my gaze. It looked like the heads-up display of a fighter jet, overlaying reality with a silent promise of violence.
[Just look at any Supe, and I'll show you their basic specs: name, powers, and most importantly, their tier. Tier 1 is the strongest, think Homelander. Tier 5 is the bottom of the barrel, like that guy with hammers for hands or the one who can only fly while holding his breath. This way, you'll know whether to fight, flee, or start drafting your last will and testament.]
I absorbed the information, letting the implications settle. The System represented a complete package for survival. It gave me a tangible path to power in a world where power was the only currency that held any value. It was a roadmap through a minefield, offering a way to climb the food chain in an ecosystem where I was currently listed as 'appetizer'.
But there was a catch. A jagged hook hidden in the bait.
To use it, I had to kill.
The silence in the room becomes oppressive. This wasn't a video game, despite the gamified interface floating before my eyes. The XP represented lives. To grow stronger, I had to become a predator.
[A small price to pay for godhood, don't you think?] the System commented. It read my hesitation with unnerving accuracy, its tone shifting to something darker. [Besides, most of the Supes in this world are scum. You'd be doing the world a favor. Think of it as… aggressive recycling.]
It had a point, albeit a cynical one. I stood there, staring at a piece of abstract art on the wall, weighing the morality of murder against the terrifying prospect of my own demise. I wasn't an executioner by nature. In my old life, the most violent thing I had ever done was scream at a guy for scratching my bumper. But I wasn't a saint, either. I was a man trapped in a nightmare scenario, surrounded by golden gods who viewed humans as ants to be crushed underfoot.
If the choice lay between my life and the life of some Supe abusing their power, I knew exactly which side of the equation I would choose.
The knot in my stomach loosened slightly, replaced by a cold stone of resolve.
One final question remained, a puzzle piece I had been ignoring in favor of survival mechanics. I looked down at the plastic card still gripped in my hand. The name Spencer stared back at me in bold letters. It was a name tag on a life I had stolen.
"System," I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the license as if staring at it hard enough would conjure the ghost of the man I had replaced. "Who is Aryan Spencer?"
[Ah… about that. Whoops.]
The System's voice sounded genuinely sheepish. The arrogant tone was replaced by the awkwardness of someone who had forgotten to feed the cat for a week.
[My bad, Host. My sincerest apologies. In all the excitement of activating and giving you the cool starter pack, I, uh, forgot a crucial step. See, when you first woke up, you were having a full-blown panic attack. Your mental state was, let's say, 'fragile'. If I'd tried to dump a lifetime of memories into your brain right then, you probably would have short-circuited. So, I paused the memory transfer for your own safety.]
I blinked, processing the explanation. It made a twisted sort of sense. My mind had barely handled the transition to a new body and a new universe. A flood of alien memories on top of that trauma might have shattered my psyche completely.
[But you're cool as a cucumber now! Ready for the info dump? It'll feel like remembering a movie you've already seen, but in 4D.]
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the filtered air of the penthouse. I steadied myself against the heavy wooden dresser, gripping the edge until my knuckles turned white.
"Do it," I said.
[Alright. Hold on to your hat.]
It felt like waking up from a dream where you had amnesia, only to have your entire life come rushing back in a torrent of images, sounds, and emotions. The sensation was like water filling a dry basin.
I was Aryan Spencer. I am twenty-five years old.
The images flashed by with dizzying speed, settling into the chronological library of my mind. I saw a childhood spent in sprawling estates that felt more like museums than homes. I recalled the quiet hum of high-end security systems and the hushed tones of household staff who were paid to be invisible. I saw the faces of nannies who changed every year, their names blurring together into a composite face of indifference. I remembered tutors instead of teachers. I remembered business lunches instead of playdates.
Isolation was the defining theme of my youth. A golden cage built of expectations and trust funds.
Then came the faces of my parents. James and Eleanor Spencer. They were brilliant people, titans of industry who moved nations with a phone call. They were ruthless business operators. And they were emotionally distant figures who viewed me more as an heir rather than a son. There were no warm hugs in these memories, only firm handshakes, performance reviews, and discussions about quarterly projections over dinner.
I remembered the phone call. The sudden news of their death in a "private plane crash" five years ago. It was a memory that felt suspiciously convenient, sharp with the metallic tang of conspiracy. It left me the sole heir to their empire at the age of twenty. I remembered the funeral, a sea of black umbrellas and sharks in expensive suits pretending to grieve while eyeing the throne. I remembered the lack of… tears.
I remembered learning to wear the mask. I saw the man in the mirror wearing it effortlessly in a thousand different reflections. The easy smile, the polite charm, the disarming joke that put people at ease. It was a persona honed to perfection through years of private schooling and corporate training. It was designed to navigate boardrooms and black-tie galas, to project a friendly charisma that made powerful people underestimate me while I maneuvered around them.
Spencer Industries.
The name landed in my mind with the weight of a monolith.
We were an unlisted titan. A ghost in the machine of global power with a valuation north of one hundred billion dollars. We were not in the superhero business like Vought. We didn't deal in capes, movie deals, or plushie sales.
We were in the war business.
Spencer Industries was one of the world's foremost private military contractors. We handled advanced weapons development that made the military's standard-issue gear look like toys. We managed private intelligence networks that rivaled the CIA. We ran cutting-edge cyber warfare divisions capable of crippling national grids. We provided logistical support for operations governments couldn't publicly sanction.
Vought sold the public a fantasy of safety with their caped celebrities. We sold the stark reality of power to the highest bidder. Our influence touched every major conflict and corporate espionage case on the planet.
The memories clicked into place like puzzle pieces, forming a complete picture of the life I now possessed. I stood taller, my posture unconsciously adjusting to fit the confidence of the man I now was. The slouch of a debt ridden student vanished, replaced by the spine of a billionaire.
I had transmigrated into a position of incredible power. This penthouse was mine. The highly-trained security team in the lobby worked for me. The fleet of armored cars in the garage belonged to me. The billions in the bank were at my disposal.
The bone deep fear of being a helpless victim in this brutal world burned away, incinerated by the realization of my resources. I had wealth, influence, and a private army at my back. The Plundering System gave me a path to personal power, but Aryan Spencer's life gave me the perfect cover and the perfect tools to execute my plans.
My new starting point wasn't ground zero. It was the damn stratosphere.
With this complete understanding of my identity came an urgent need for context. I knew who I was, but I needed to know when I was. I needed to get a handle on the current world events.
I was about to turn to look for a computer when my eyes caught the massive flat-screen TV mounted flush against the wall opposite the bed. I walked to the bedside table, picked up the remote, and clicked it on.
The screen flared to life, tuned to a 24-hour news channel.
The banner at the bottom scrolled with urgent red text: BREAKING NEWS.
A female anchor with perfectly coiffed blonde hair sat behind a desk. She was speaking in a somber tone. Behind her, a graphic read "TRAGEDY IN MIDTOWN."
"...details are still emerging," she said, her voice professional but laced with faux-empathy. "But eyewitnesses report that the victim was standing on the curb when she was struck by the speedster superhero A-Train, a prominent member of The Seven. Vought International has released a statement expressing their deepest condolences and has assured the public that A-Train is cooperating fully with the investigation."
The screen cut to shaky cell phone footage. The camera panned wildly, capturing the chaos of a city street. A blue blur zipped past the lens, accompanied by the sonic crack of displaced air that distorted the microphone. The frame stabilized, zooming in on a young man.
He was standing on the sidewalk, frozen in a moment of absolute trauma. He was covered in blood, a red mist that coated his face and shirt. In his hands, he held nothing but two severed hands.
Robin's hands.
My stomach churned violently. I had seen this scene before. I had watched it on my laptop screen in another life, analyzing the special effects, critiquing the CGI. But seeing it here hit me with a visceral force.
It was the inciting incident. The very first scene of the show.
The realization washed over me like a cold tide. I was at the very beginning of Season 1. Billy Butcher hadn't recruited Hughie yet. Translucent was still alive. Homelander's descent into absolute madness was just beginning to accelerate.
I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the TV screen, superimposed over the tragic news footage of Hughie Campbell's ruined life. The handsome face of Aryan Spencer stared back at me. I had a new body, a powerful System, and a set of skills that made me a threat to anyone without a capital 'S' on their chest.
But I was also standing in the heart of the storm. The first winds were beginning to blow, and I was right in their path.
The System's voice cut through my thoughts. Its usual cheerfulness was replaced by a rare moment of sincerity, a solemn acknowledgement of the reality we faced.
[So. It begins.]
I stared into my own eyes in the reflection, seeing the steel forming behind the honey-colored irises.
"Yes," I whispered to the empty room. "It does."