A soft white light began to seep into every limb and vein, launching an efficient and thorough purge of the genes that were mutating out of control.
All the lizard DNA segments that caused genetic collapse and grotesque transformations were erased without mercy.
Meanwhile, the beneficial traits—superhuman strength, regeneration, the speed and agility to leap between skyscrapers, specialized setae for wall-crawling, and vastly heightened senses and motor nerves—were perfectly preserved.
The fine scales that had just sprouted across Peter's body receded faster than they had grown, revealing pristine skin beneath.
The claws that had sharpened retracted, turning back into neatly trimmed fingernails.
His warped, swollen frame was re-sculpted into a flawless golden-ratio physique amid a chorus of crackling bones.
After an eternity, the agony that had wracked his entire body ebbed away like a receding tide.
In its place came a power unlike anything he had ever felt—an intoxicating sense that he could command the World.
Peter slowly rose from the floor.
The tattered, rag-like clothes had been mended by the horse talisman, shrinking half a size so they now clung to him like a second skin.
He looked down at his hands.
His arms were no longer skinny and frail; the muscles were carved like a Greek statue, flowing and explosive.
He flexed, feeling the boundless energy coursing between fibers, and a wild grin spread across his face.
Success!
He was no longer the weakling who gasped for breath after two flights of stairs.
Peter couldn't resist running a hand over his stomach—those razor-sharp eight-pack abs were something he'd never owned in two lifetimes.
And it wasn't just the abs.
He could feel it: his body had undergone a tectonic shift.
Strength!
Speed!
Endurance!
Every metric had multiplied geometrically.
He stared at the thick metal lab table, drew a breath, and pinched the edge with two fingers.
A half-centimeter-deep fingerprint remained in the steel.
This was a solid-metal workstation!
The old Peter couldn't dent it with a hammer—he'd probably just bruise himself.
Now he could leave a fingerprint with a casual squeeze.
He had blown past every human limit.
If he did that to some thug's skull—man, the mental image was almost too brutal to imagine.
His senses had sharpened as well.
He'd had mild myopia—maybe two hundred degrees.
Now, in the dark, he could spot a spider the size of a grain of rice spinning its web a hundred meters away through a window.
His hearing caught every rustle of insects and rodents outside.
Leaving experience aside, he was basically a Captain America Pro Max.
Certain he was stronger—and still had a full head of hair—Peter didn't linger.
He used the horse talisman to restore the lab in seconds, then slipped out of the school unseen.
Between the wall-crawling from the lizard serum and his hyper-senses, the guard never noticed him leave.
When the man finally found the chem lab empty, he rubbed his eyes, wondering if late-night overwork had him hallucinating.
Peter sprinted home so lightly he felt he might float.
The whole World looked different.
Pedestrians seemed to move in slow motion like a movie effect.
Roaring cars no longer felt threatening.
He was confident he could outrun them—and believed he could stop one with a single hand, turning it into scrap.
Even a head-on collision wouldn't faze him now.
"Huh? Is that Gwen?"
In the dark, his night-vision caught a white-hooded figure leaping between rooftops.
Watching Gwen's silhouette flash past, Peter smiled.
Soon he could fight beside her.
But not yet—he didn't want her turning into a helpless spider who relied on him.
Only after she was seasoned enough to stand on her own.
He pulled his gaze away and headed home to reassure Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
Then a woman's scream tore through the night.
Peter froze, eyes snapping toward a shadowy alley.
Enhanced ears picked up ragged breathing, a woman's sobbing pleas, and a mugger's vicious curses.
Before, he could only hurry away and call the cops.
Now—Peter flickered and vanished, leaving only a faint night breeze.
He reappeared inside the alley.
A black gunman pressed a trembling white woman against the wall, yanking her purse.
"Let her go."
A cold voice came from behind.
The thug stiffened, spun around, and saw a teenager in fitted casual wear.
"Beat it, f****t, or I'll—"
The rap-style threat cut short as the World blurred.
Before he could pull the trigger, a sledgehammer fist sank into his gut, folding him in half.
"You're the f****t!"
Peter's face darkened.
Local gangs have no manners!
Tight clothes equal gay? Classic lighthouse stereotype.
"F*** you, die!"
The enraged thug fired.
Bang!
He grinned, expecting to see Peter in a pool of blood.
His "truth" wasn't a toy.
But the next sound—
Crack!
A sharp bone snap echoed through the alley.
"Aaaaargh!"
The mugger screamed, his arm dangling at a grotesque angle, staring as if Peter were a ghost.
What had he just seen?
This kid had dodged a bullet at point-blank range?
Was that even human?
Peter's heart still pounded.
Thank the lizard serum—half a second slower and he'd have been head-shot.
Probably survivable, but no thanks to that experience.
His gaze hardened.
You've just signed your death warrant.