[Target Level: Black Iron. Upgrade Status: Not Upgraded. Cause of Death: Drowning. Freshness: Five Stars. Final Emotion: Fear. Emotional Rating: Three Stars. Mission Evaluation: Four Stars. Redeeming Newbie Privileges...]
The notification hung in front of Locke's eyes for a second before the next line appeared.
[Reward: Bronze Two-Star Gift Pack x1.]
Locke opened it immediately without a trace of hesitation. At a time like this, he had no patience for suspense, and he definitely wasn't about to save rewards for later like some idiot in a video game.
The system chimed again, and a stream of information poured into him like a flood breaking through a dam. [Congratulations. Rewards received: Combat Mastery, Pistol Mastery, Trap Mastery, Free Attribute Points: 6. Mission updated. Available for review.]
A strange force surged through his body in an instant.
His palms prickled first, then turned warm, and when he looked down, he could almost feel a thin layer of hardened calluses forming over them. The revolver in his hand suddenly felt different too. It was no longer a clumsy, unfamiliar hunk of metal. The weight sat perfectly in his grip, the angle made sense, and some instinctive certainty told him that if he aimed at something, he could hit it.
At the same time, the rest of his body changed in subtler but even more unsettling ways.
His limbs felt more coordinated, his balance steadier, and his senses sharpened so abruptly that the whole street seemed to expand around him. He could hear the rain striking different surfaces in distinct patterns, hear tires rolling across wet pavement in the distance, hear a drunk man coughing two blocks away. The darkness in front of him no longer felt like a blind wall. It felt layered, alive with detail.
Then the knowledge hit.
Looking back toward the alley, Locke's mind suddenly supplied eight different ways to kill a man barehanded, each one fast, direct, and brutally efficient. There was no uncertainty in any of it. The moves were clean, practical, and terrifyingly final.
He stood still for several seconds, letting the feeling settle.
Then he looked at the remaining six attribute points and made his decision. After a short pause, he split them evenly between strength, speed, and defense.
The moment he confirmed it, heat rushed through his body like blood had been replaced with molten iron. His muscles tightened, his limbs filled with strength, and the ache in his ribs shifted into a strange tingling itch. The pain that had been stabbing through his chest all night was suddenly cut in half.
Locke's eyes widened slightly.
Adding attributes had a healing effect.
He immediately reopened the system panel.
[Name: Locke.Age: 22.Bloodline: Human.Status: Minor Injury.Strength: 7 (Average Human: 5)Speed: 7 (Average Human: 5)Defense: 7 (Average Human: 5)Constitution: 5 (Average Human: 5)Spirit: 8 (Average Human: 5)Skills: Combat Mastery, Pistol Mastery, Trap Mastery.Abilities: None.Items: None.Instance: Unlocked.Alternate Universe: Unlocked.Main Mission: The Guilty Must Be Punished.Iron-Level Prey: 0/3.Latest Mission: Bronze Hunt.Bronze Prey: 0/1.Creed: Kill to Gain Redemption.]
Locke read through it twice, and the surprise on his face deepened. The Black Iron mission line was still there, but the quota had increased from one to three. On top of that, the system had added a new objective entirely.
Bronze Hunt.
He slowly clenched his fist and felt the new power gathering in his knuckles. For the first time since waking up in this insane world, he finally had something he could call a foundation. It wasn't enough to make him safe, not even close, but at least now he wasn't just another starving stray waiting to be crushed.
Still, nowhere near enough.
At the end of the street, Locke found a tiny rundown motel and rented a room for thirty bucks. The place was the kind of dump that didn't ask questions, didn't need ID, and probably didn't care whether guests were fugitives, addicts, or both. For him, that made it perfect.
He went inside, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed.
Lying there in the dark, he finally sorted out one thing. In a place like this, in a world like this, death could come at any second. A bullet, a gang, a mutant, an alien invasion, some lunatic in a Halloween costume leveling a city block—there were too many ways to die to count.
So why overthink it?
He wasn't going to throw his life away carelessly, but he also wasn't going to chain himself up with guilt. If somebody wanted him dead, then they could try. If somebody stood in his way and deserved what was coming, then he'd kill them.
As for the dead objecting to his methods, they could wait until he got to hell and file a complaint there.
The next morning, Locke left the motel, grabbed something cheap to eat, and headed straight for a newsstand.
As a genuine Marvel fan in his previous life, he needed to know exactly what kind of timeline he had landed in. There was a huge difference between surviving in a world that still more or less resembled the movie universe and surviving in one where every comic-book nightmare could crawl out of the woodwork at any time.
He scanned the papers quickly.
"The Secret Story of Stark and Eight Supermodels."
"Senator Robert Warns America: Beware a New Human Race."
"Stark's Latest One-Night Stand."
"Police Commissioner George Addresses Growing Threat of Red Vigilantes."
"Stark Seen Again at Gold Club."
There were scattered reports about enhanced humans, masked street heroes, gang violence, and some vague monster-related incident, but taken together, the overall atmosphere still felt much closer to the movie continuity than the truly insane comic versions.
Most importantly, Tony Stark was still just New York's favorite billionaire train wreck, living it up in public like the apocalypse wasn't on the calendar yet.
That meant one thing.
It was still early.
Locke's mood brightened at once, and a development plan took shape in his mind with ridiculous speed. He would keep his head down, build strength in silence, and then blow everyone's minds when the time was right. Once he had enough power, he'd rise all at once and stand above the whole damn world.
Just thinking about it made his blood run hot.
And somewhere along the way, he absolutely had to get himself to Sokovia.
He didn't care what it took. Plane ticket, freight crate, hitching a ride on a corpse—he would find a way. Wanda Maximoff was non-negotiable.
For now, though, his first priority was much simpler.
He needed a place to live.
Around the side of the newsstand, a cluttered board was covered in job postings, missing person flyers, handwritten ads, and notices so old they were curling at the edges. Locke looked through them one by one, but nothing seemed remotely useful.
He circled back to the front and pulled out a twenty.
"I need work nearby," he said, handing the bill over. "Got any suggestions?"
The newsstand owner was a heavyset black man with a greasy smile and the easy confidence of someone who had been hustling people for years. He took the money without shame and leaned on the counter.
"Sure," he said. "Since you're Asian, I'd recommend the Chinese place down the next block. Room and board included. All you gotta do is wash three thousand dishes a day for eighty bucks."
Locke stared at him. "How many meals does a normal person eat in a day?"
The man grinned. "Six hundred."
"Try again."
"Alright, then head to the end of the street and find a kid named Jesse. You can help move product for him. If you're lucky, you'll make a few hundred a day."
Locke narrowed his eyes. "What kind of product?"
"Amphetamines."
He leaned back immediately and gave the man a long, careful look.
That was when one thought surfaced in his mind with complete sincerity. It was a good thing the system hadn't marked this bastard as prey, because otherwise Locke might have come back later and solved that problem personally.
"Try again," he said flatly.
The fat man scratched his chin and thought for a while. Then his face lit up. "Actually, yeah. Emma Church next door is looking for a substitute priest. Interested?"
"Priest?"
…
Emma Church was even more run-down than he expected.
It was a shabby two-story building with peeling paint and the kind of weary silence that made it feel more abandoned than active. The first floor was a small sanctuary with three rows of benches on each side, a plain altar at the front, and a simple cross hanging above it with a rough image of Christ.
What stood out most were the two confessionals tucked into opposite corners. That detail alone said plenty about Hell's Kitchen. Apparently, the local sin count had gotten high enough to justify extra seating.
At that moment, Father Emma stood in front of Locke with a suspicious frown, glancing from his face to the documents in his hands.
"You're telling me," the old priest said slowly, "that you graduated from Shaolin Seminary in China and interned at the Vatican for a year?"
"That's right."
Locke kept his face solemn and sincere.
The newsstand owner, crooked as he was, had not only pointed him toward the job but also toward a fake-ID connection. Thanks to that, Locke now had a seminary diploma, a U.S. driver's license, and a Vatican internship certificate with an official-looking stamp that was probably worth every penny of the scam.
He also remembered the owner's explanation.
Father Emma had spent his whole life serving this miserable little church, and now that he was finally over seventy, he had saved enough money to make the pilgrimage he'd always dreamed about. He wanted to go to the Vatican and see the Pope before he died. The problem was that Emma Church sat in Hell's Kitchen, and nobody sane wanted to cover for him.
That was how Locke had ended up here.
After a moment of thought, Father Emma asked his first question. "How many days did God take to create the world?"
"Seven."
The old priest nodded and moved on. "What was the first thing God said?"
Locke hesitated for a fraction of a second. As he searched for the answer, he noticed the priest flick his eyes upward in a tiny, deliberate gesture. Locke followed the hint, saw the lamp overhead, and immediately understood.
"Let there be light."
"Last question," Father Emma said. "God created Adam and Eve. What are the names of humanity's two ancestors in the Bible?"
Locke blinked. "Adam and Eve?"
"Congratulations!"
The old priest grabbed his hand with startling enthusiasm and shook it hard. "Shaolin must be an incredible place if it can produce a student like you. You passed."
Locke smiled right back and returned the polite nonsense without missing a beat. The two of them exchanged a few warm lies, signed a simple contract, and settled the arrangement.
After that, Father Emma showed him around the church.
There were three bedrooms upstairs, and Locke could choose either of the two guest rooms. Out back was a tiny garden, and beyond the narrow path behind it flowed the Hudson River. The garden itself was in terrible shape, though. The old priest clearly knew nothing about plants, because most of the flowers were sparse, drooping, and halfway dead.
When the tour ended, Father Emma went into his room and came back out with a suitcase.
Locke looked at him in surprise. "You're leaving now?"
The priest pulled out an envelope and handed it over. "I plan to be gone for three months. Here's fifteen hundred dollars for the first month. It's all I can spare."
Locke took the envelope.
"The next two months will be handled by Father Kyle at St. John's," the old man continued. "Emma Church is in your hands now."
Then Father Emma handed him a set of keys. "I've got an old pickup truck out back. You can borrow it while I'm gone."
After saying that, he turned and walked away without the slightest bit of hesitation.
Locke stood there holding the envelope and keys, watching the old priest disappear down the street. For a moment, he had the strange, almost hallucinatory feeling that things were going way too smoothly.
Just as he reached for the church door to close it, a dark-skinned hand shot out and stopped it.
"Dear Father Emma," a voice said cheerfully from outside, "I'm here to see you again."