The transition from a high-stakes Secret Intelligence Operative to a rookie at the Hero Agency wasn't just a career change for Nyra; it was a survival tactic. She had spent years scrubbing digital footprints and diverting satellite feeds to hide Asm's more "explosive" outbursts. Eventually, even the best spooks get caught. Fired for one too many "clerical errors" involving a certain younger brother, Nyra found herself standing in front of the massive glass-and-steel monolith that was the Hero Agency.
To her shock—and perhaps her misfortune—she had been accepted within forty-eight hours.
Standing in the lobby, she looked down at the small, cool metallic badge in her palm. It felt heavier than it looked. It was a symbol of belonging, but to Nyra, it felt like a target. She had breezed through the physical trials, her reflexes sharpened by years of dodging both government assassins and Asm's mood swings. The written exams were a joke for someone with her IQ, and the ability assessments had left the proctors whispering.
The source of that whispering was her Curse: Shadow.
In the hierarchy of this world, Shadow was a top-tier elemental Curse. It wasn't just "hiding in the dark." It was the manipulation of the void itself. Nyra could reach into a shadow and pull out a blade of solidified darkness, sharp enough to cut through tank armor. She could summon projectiles that moved like ink through water, ignoring the laws of wind resistance, or teleport across a battlefield in the blink of an eye. She could even forge complex, temporary weapons—hammers, chains, shields—that vanished into mist the moment she lost focus. It was a versatile, lethal ability, and the Agency smelled talent.
However, the Agency had a very specific way of doing things. They divided their workforce into Heroes and Backups. The Heroes were the face of the brand; they carried the team names, did the interviews, and engaged in the flashy combat that the public loved. The Backups—often referred to as Guards—were the backbone. They handled the crowd control, the logistics, and the "clean-up" when a Hero's Curse caused too much collateral damage.
Nyra was assigned as a Backup. Her supervisor? A man named Hero Ultraman.
Nyra stared at the assignment sheet, a skeptical laugh bubbling up. "Ultraman? Seriously?" she muttered to herself. "What kind of name is that? Is he going to grow to the size of a building and fight a lizard?"
As she walked down the endless, clinical white halls toward his office, the atmosphere shifted. The usual hustle of the Agency slowed. Senior heroes and seasoned guards stopped in their tracks as she passed. They whispered behind their hands, their eyes darting from her badge to her face. When she tried to meet their gaze, they looked away instantly, scurrying off as if she were carrying a plague.
A cold knot tightened in Nyra's stomach. I'm in big trouble, she thought, her Shadow flickering nervously at her feet. Is this guy a psycho? A tyrant? What kind of hero am I working for now?
She reached the designated office at the end of the hall. The door was massive, carved from a dark, reinforced alloy that looked like it could withstand a nuclear blast. Nyra took a deep breath, centered her Shadow, and pushed.
Her jaw didn't just drop; it hit the floor.
The office wasn't a room. It was a Pocket Dimension.
Nyra knew that high-ranking Heroes were allowed to maintain personalized dimensions that reflected their status, but this was ridiculous. The space inside was larger than a billionaire's mansion. It felt like a small, enclosed city. The air hummed with a different frequency, and the sky—if you could call the ceiling that—was a swirling vortex of deep blue and silver light.
She stepped inside and realized the whispers in the hall weren't about her—they were about the madness of this division. The place was teeming with activity. There were stalls where Heroes were trading rare cursed artifacts, groups of strategists hunched over holographic maps, and even a corner where people were selling "Hero Anthems" and soundtracks. This wasn't just a support wing. Every single person in this room was a professional, high-ranking Hero. It was a city of elites, all operating under one name.
The central path stretched on forever, leading toward a towering statue that dominated the horizon. It was Ultraman. The statue depicted a man in sleek, unblinking goggles, wearing a classic superhero suit—deep silver and dark blue. It wasn't flashy or covered in capes and spikes. It was built for one thing: durability. The shoulders and chest were reinforced with heavy plating, designed to take a hit and keep moving. It was the suit of a man who didn't plan on losing.
"Nyra?" A voice called out.
An assistant in a crisp suit approached her, gesturing for her to follow. As they walked toward a smaller, more private building behind the statue, the assistant began to talk in a low, reverent tone.
"You're probably wondering about the name. And the age," the assistant said. "Ultraman was a world-renowned hero... five hundred years ago."
Nyra stopped dead in her tracks. "Wait—how is that possible? No one lives that long, even with a Curse. Transmigrators, sure, but a standard Curse user?"
The assistant cut her off, not even turning around. "He's one of a kind. He was born with a Curse that is as much a blessing as it is a burden: Immortality. His ability doesn't just stop him from aging; it constantly enhances his physical shell. His strength, his endurance, his resilience—they are all infinite. It makes him fundamentally invincible. He has survived five centuries of wars that would have erased entire nations."
They reached the final door. The assistant opened it with a pitying look. "You may go in now. Good luck. You'll need it."
Nyra stepped inside, her Shadow blades ready to manifest at a second's notice. She expected a warrior of legend. She expected a man of iron and fire, standing tall and radiating a terrifying aura of ancient wisdom.
Instead, she saw a disaster zone.
The office was buried in a mountain of paper. Medals of honor were scattered across the floor like discarded bottle caps. Books were torn, ink bottles had leaked onto priceless rugs, and the expensive mahogany chair in the center of the room was snapped in half.
And there, sprawled face-down in the middle of the mess, was the legendary Immortal.
Ultraman groaned, his fingers twitching against a stack of tax documents. He muttered in his sleep, his voice a pathetic whimper that didn't match his invincible frame.
"Paperwork… please… no more tax forms… the monsters were easier… just let me fight a dragon… no more budgets…"
Nyra stared at the "invincible" hero. Despite the pathetic sight of him defeated by bureaucracy, she could still feel it. The air around him felt dense, like standing next to a mountain. The power he radiated was so thick she felt like she was breathing underwater. He was a god of war, a man who had seen five centuries of blood, currently brought to his knees by a stapler and a pile of invoices.
Nyra let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing her temples as her Shadow retracted.
I finally get a job at the Agency, she thought, and I end up as the babysitter for the most terrible, legendary hero in the world.