February 1, 1998, System Space,
Alex's POV
The System Space stretched before me, an endless canvas of starlight and code, its beauty both alien and familiar. Rivers of glowing data pulsed in the distance, weaving through a void where galaxies spun like silent symphonies.
The ground beneath my boots was a flawless sheet of glass, reflecting the cosmos above, its surface etched with faint golden circuitry that hummed faintly under my weight.
The air—or whatever passed for air here—was cool, tinged with the electric scent of ozone, as if the universe itself was alive and breathing. This was my sanctuary, my workshop, my escape. But today, it held something new. Something that stopped my heart.
There it was, suspended above a sleek pedestal, bathed in a column of white-blue light that seemed to hum with purpose. The suit. My suit. A beacon of elegance and power, forged for a world that didn't yet know it needed heroes.
Its white plates gleamed like polished marble, curved perfectly across the chest and limbs, each ridge of silver catching the starlight with a subtle shimmer.
A black underlayer, sleek as obsidian, hugged the joints and waist, promising mobility without compromising strength. At the center of the chest, right above where a heart would beat, glowed a triangular core, its blue energy pulsing in time with the distant stars.
A long white cloak flowed from the shoulders, its edges rippling like silk in an unseen breeze, trailing with a grace that felt almost alive. The helmet was a masterpiece—smooth, sharp, its dark visor an opaque mirror reflecting the galaxy around it. A silver-lined hood framed it, casting shadows that whispered of mystery and menace.
This wasn't just armor. It was a symbol. A promise. A declaration that I was more than a kid with a second chance—I was ready to stand up, to fight, to be something.
IMAGE....
"So this is the gift you were talking about, Cara?" My voice came out softer than I meant, almost reverent, like I was standing in a cathedral instead of a digital realm.
I stepped closer, my boots clicking against the glass, my eyes locked on the suit's glowing core. It was perfect. Too perfect. Like it had been pulled straight from my dreams and given form.
"I modeled it precisely after the design in your folder," Cara said, her voice echoing lightly across the space, warm and clear as a bell. She stood to my right, her holographic interface fading as she stepped into view—not as a projection, but in her new synthetic body.
Her form gleamed faintly, every curve and plate crafted with the same precision as the suit. Her deep purple dress was gone, replaced by a sleek, silver-accented bodysuit that mirrored the armor's aesthetic. She looked… alive. Human, almost, but with a glow that betrayed her otherworldly nature.
I tore my gaze from the suit to look at her, my jaw slack. "I know I drew this, but… you finished it in a week?"
Her lips curved into a smile, her glowing irises catching the starlight like twin moons. A faint pink bloomed across her cheeks—a simulated blush that made my chest do something stupid. "The crafting protocol in my memory is more advanced than the one you received," she said, her voice softening. "And… I wanted to help. To make you happy, Alex."
The words hit harder than they should have. Happy. When was the last time someone said that to me, not as a platitude but as a mission? I stepped closer, the hum of the suit's core filling the silence between us.
Cara looked away for a moment, her expression flickering—vulnerable, hopeful, like she was afraid I'd reject her effort. Her effort. This wasn't just tech. This was trust, care, devotion, forged with every line of code she'd written, every hour she'd spent shaping this for me.
I reached out, hesitating, then gently patted her head, anime-style, my fingers brushing the soft, synthetic strands of her hair. "Thank you, Cara,"
I said, my voice steady despite the warmth creeping up my neck. "I love it. Really."
Her eyes widened, then softened, the pink on her cheeks deepening. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. Fourteen, Alex. Chill. I dropped my hand, clearing my throat, and turned back to the suit to hide my embarrassment.
Ding!A sharp chime rang in my head, crisp and triumphant, like an arcade machine spitting out a jackpot.
[Template Assimilation: Ishigami Senku 94% > 100%]
[Template Assimilation: Tsugikuni Yoriichi 68% > 74%](READ AUTHOR NOTE)
I froze, blinking at the translucent system panel that materialized before me. "How the hell did that happen?" I muttered, my voice echoing in the vastness of the System Space.
The numbers glowed, taunting me with their sudden leap. "Not that I'm complaining, but… I was grinding my bones to dust for weeks, and now it just jumps like that?"
I rubbed the back of my neck, muscles still sore from twelve-hour training sessions in the System Space's simulated dojo. I'd been pushing myself to the limit, channeling Senku's relentless logic and Yoriichi's unyielding focus, but progress had been a crawl. Twelve percent in one go? That wasn't normal. What changed?
Cara tilted her head, her expression shifting to concern. "Is something wrong, Alex? The suit—"
"No, no, it's perfect," I said quickly, waving a hand to dismiss her worry. "It's the system. The templates… they spiked out of nowhere." I squinted at the panel, my mind racing. Senku's template was complete—100%. Yoriichi's was climbing fast.
Something had triggered this, but what? I hadn't meditated, hadn't trained today. Just… stood here, marveling at a suit and patting an AI's head like a dork.
Ding!Another chime, this one louder, like a victory fanfare.
[CONGRATULATIONS, HOST. YOU HAVE COMPLETED ASSIMILATION FOR THE FIRST TEMPLATE.]
[REWARD: 2000 SYSTEM POINTS.]
[NEW MISSIONS UNLOCKED.]
I straightened, my fingers tightening around the edge of the pedestal as the interface flared to life, panels cascading like a digital waterfall. A grin tugged at my lips.
"Here we go," I murmured, half-excited, half-overwhelmed. The system was never subtle, but this? This was a plot twist wrapped in a power-up.
[FIRST OTHERWORLDLY MISSION: AS TWO TEMPLATES HAVE PROGRESSED BEYOND 70%, AN OTHERWORLDLY MISSION IS ASSIGNED.]
[YOUR THIRD TEMPLATE WILL BE THE LAST TEMPLATE UNTIL YOU DO AN OTHERWORDLY MISSON]
[OTHERWORLDLY MISSION: THE WORLD OF DEMON SLAYER IS IN TERROR UNDER THE DEMON KING MUZAN AND HIS TWELVE KIZUKI.]
I froze, my eyes widening. "Demon Slayer? Like… Zenitsu SIMPING , Tanjiro headbutting demons, and Rengoku setting everything on fire?" My voice cracked slightly, a mix of awe and excitement. The panel expanded, text scrolling with relentless precision.
{SIDE MISSIONS}
-Rescue Kyojuro Rengoku
Reward: 12kg Sun Nichirin Blade Ore, 500 System Points
-Teach Tanjiro Sun Breathing
Reward: Danger Sense (Active & Passive)
-Help Demon Slayer Corps Defeat Muzan
Reward: Crafting Material Insights
{MAIN MISSIONS}
-Kill Muzan and His Kizuki
Reward: 1500 System Points
-Help Nezuko, Tamayo, and Yushiro become human again
Reward: 10,000 System Points and the key of FIRE
I leaned back, rubbing my temples. "Okay, so I'm jumping into an anime death trap with a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt." My mind spun.
Before I could process further, another panel blinked to life, as if the system was piling on plotlines like a fanfic writer on a deadline.
[FIRST TRIGGERED MISSIONS: REED RICHARDS IS PLANNING TO STUDY THE COSMIC CLOUD WITH VICTOR VON DOOM. THE MARVEL WORLD WILL SOON SEE ITS TRUE HEROES.]
{SIDE MISSIONS}
-Help Fantastic Four Defeat Dr. Doom
Reward: SP 1000 and The astragluph runes
{MAIN MISSION}
-Motivate Fantastic Four to Become Heroes
Reward: A HIGHLY ADVANCED SPACE SHIP
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Great. I'm a multiversal guidance counselor, a demon-slaying intern, and apparently the Fantastic Four's life coach. What's next? Teaching Inosuke table manners?"
The system, predictably, stayed silent. Figures. I paced the glass floor, the suit's glow casting my shadow long and jagged. "Hey, System," I said, my voice bouncing off the void, "you promised to chat when missions drop. So, spill. When do I get yeeted to Demon Slayer? And when does Reed's cosmic road trip wrap up?"
A beat of silence, then a neutral, mechanical voice responded, devoid of Cara's warmth.
[Host, YES! I can communicate during mission activation. You will arrive in the Demon Slayer world during the Mugen Train Arc all otherwordly mission will give 1 week time to prepare. The Fantastic Four will return in three months—1.5 months to build the spacecraft, 1.5 months in space.]
I nodded, my mind already mapping the timeline. The Mugen Train Arc meant Rengoku, fire, and a gut-punch of an ending. I'd need Yoriichi's template at 100% to not let others die—his Sun Breathing was the ultimate trump card against demons. "Gotta grind this week," I muttered. "No half-assing it."
"System," I said, raising an eyebrow, "is there time dilation between Demon Slayer and Marvel? I don't want to come back and find Reed's turned into a space dictator or something."
[Host, time disparities exist between multiverse. One day in Demon Slayer equals two days in Marvel. Completing the main mission or progressing side missions will synchronize the timelines.]
I hummed, rubbing my chin. "So, time's playing ping-pong, but it evens out. Got it." That gave me flexibility—save Rengoku, train Tanjiro, and still be back before Victor Von Doom started monologuing on live TV.
Cara, who'd been quietly processing the superhero suit's flood of data, spoke up. "Alex, I have a meeting this afternoon—for distribution rights and sponsorships for the films. Shall I prepare the projections?"
I blinked, the shift from multiversal missions to business catching me off guard. Right. I wasn't just a proto-hero—I was a teenage mogul.
Facebook was just the start. I'd struck deals with Google, Amazon, and now I was diving into the entertainment sector with PROXIMA\STUDIO, my wholly-owned company under Elita Investment. The entertainment industry was a gamble, a money-eating beast where one flop could tank your fortune. But I wasn't gambling. I knew.
Armageddon. Saving Private Ryan. The Truman Show. Mulan. These weren't just films—they were cultural juggernauts, and I'd secured deals for them all. Within a year, I'd be a multi-billionaire. Scratch that—I am already, thanks to Cara.
The IMF crisis in Asia was a chaotic goldmine, and I'd handed Cara $88 million to play with. She'd leveraged it fifty times, moving money like a financial ninja in a server farm. While Wall Street scrambled, she played interdimensional chess, her algorithms outpacing every investor in the game. The portfolio was still growing, adjusted in real-time, and I was reaping the rewards without lifting a finger.
"Cara, you're a genius," I said, grinning. "Prep the projections, but throw in some flair. Make those execs feel like they're signing with Tony Stark."
She nodded, her blush fading as her professional mode kicked in. "Understood. I'll have the data ready by noon." She paused, her eyes flickering. "And… be careful, Alex. These missions… they're not like your training."
I met her gaze, the weight of her words settling in. "I know," I said softly. "But I've got you, and I've got this." I gestured to the suit, its glow a quiet promise. "We'll figure it out."
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February 1, 1998, Alex's Home, Afternoon
Alex's POV
Back in the real world, my bedroom felt small after the vastness of System Space. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across my rocket ship posters and the cracked Enterprise model on my desk.
The photo of Mom and Dad stared back from the mirror, their smiles a silent reminder of that i have something mmore than the work. I flopped onto my bed, the faint scent of chocolate frosting still clinging to my hoodie from last night's party. Fourteen, I thought, the number heavy with meaning. A month ago, I was just a normal, average person. Now, I was a billionaire, a hero-in-training, and apparently a multiversal errand boy.
My laptop hummed on the desk, its screen glowing with Cara's projections for the film meeting. I should've been prepping, but my mind was still in System Space, replaying the suit's glow, the template spikes, the missions. Why did the templates jump?
I'd been grinding for weeks—logic puzzles for Senku, sword forms for Yoriichi—but twelve percent in an instant? That wasn't effort. That was… something else.
The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. I didn't have time to dwell, though—not with spies lurking. The Experience Card had tipped me off weeks ago. Those "neighbors" casing my house? Too polished, too precise, their movements screaming they are spies.
One guy scratched his chin like he was debating a breach or a barbecue invite. Nice try, buddy. Cara had hacked Hydra's servers, catching their chatter in 4K. Pierce thought he was watching me, but I was watching him.
I smirked, glancing out the window. The street was quiet now, no black sedans or suspicious joggers. "Caught you, Pierce," I muttered, drumming my fingers on the desk. Hydra was a problem for another day. For now, I had films to fund, demons to slay, and a suit to test.
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February 1, 1998, Outside Alex's Home, Evening
Third-Person POV
The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the quiet suburban street, the golden glow of streetlights flickering to life. A black sedan rolled to a stop in front of a sprawling bungalow, its engine fading to a soft hum.
Inside, three figures scanned the surroundings with practiced precision—Ororo Munroe in the driver's seat, her hands steady on the wheel; Piotr Rasputin, his massive frame cramped in the passenger seat, his eyes narrowed; and Jean Grey, leaning forward from the back, her auburn hair catching the fading light.
Knock knock.
Ororo flinched, her hand inching toward her bag before she caught herself. An older man stood outside, his neat steward's uniform pressed to perfection, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes, sharp despite his age, studied them with calm curiosity.
"Good evening, miss," he said, his voice warm but measured. "Can I help you?"
Ororo forced a smile, her heart steadying. "No, no, we were just passing through. My daughter wanted to visit a friend, and we're checking the address."
Jean leaned forward, her voice bright but polite. "Can you help us find Jones' house?"
Mr. Anish squinted, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. "Jones… Edward and Sandhya Jones?" His voice softened, heavy with memory.
"Yes, them!" Jean's eyes lit up, hope sparking. "Can you tell us where they live?"
Mr. Anish's smile returned, gentle and warm. "You're in luck, little one. I'm their steward, Anish." He gave a small bow, theatrical but sincere, like a butler in a classic film. "Call me Anish, if you'd like."
Jean blinked, impressed, while Ororo's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Well, I'm—" Jean started, then faltered. I'm Alex's friend. The words caught in her throat. He doesn't remember her? What if this turned into an awkward mess? Her mind raced, picturing Alex's blank stare, the confusion, and the questions she wasn't ready to answer.
She pivoted, her voice steadying. "I have something for their son." She pulled out a small package, wrapped in blue paper with a silver ribbon, and folded it with care.
"Can you give this to Alex?"
Mr. Anish took the gift, his hands gentle, his eyes curious but kind. "I'll see he gets it," he said warmly. "But you could give it to him yourself. The house is just around the corner, and I'm heading there now. Come along."
Jean's eyes widened, panic flaring. "No, just give it to him," she said, too quickly, her voice sweet but firm.
"My mom has… stuff to do at home. Right, Mom?" She shot Ororo a pleading look, her telepathic nudge practically screaming, Help me out here!
Ororo blinked, caught off guard, and then nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Oh, yes! Plans, big plans!" She waved her hands, sketching invisible nonsense in the air. "And we're already late, you know, finding the house and all…"
Her voice trailed into an awkward chuckle, her regal poise crumbling under the weight of the flimsy excuse. Piotr, silent until now, coughed into his fist, hiding a smirk.
Mr. Anish's lips twitched, his eyes glinting with amusement. "If you say so," he said, his tone polite but unconvinced. "Next time, the house is right around the corner. Blue, with a nameplate. You can't miss it."
He nodded, tucking the gift under his arm, and turned toward the bungalow. As the sedan pulled away, he glanced at the package, his brow furrowing. Kind, but cautious, he thought, tapping the box lightly.
I'll check it before it reaches young Sir Alex. Decades of service had honed his instincts, and something about the trio—especially the tank-like man—felt off. Not dangerous, but… guarded. He'd seen too many shadows to take chances.
Inside the car, Jean exhaled, slumping against the seat. "That was close," she muttered, her cheeks pink. Ororo chuckled, patting her hand.
"You did well, Jean," she said, her voice warm again. "He'll get your gift."
Jean nodded, her fingers tracing the window as the bungalow faded from view. I hope you like it, Alex, she thought, her heart a mix of hope and longing. Even if you don't know it's from me
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
"How the hell did the template level up without training or meditation?"Oh, you noticed? 😏
Well, lemme hit you with some truth bombs.
Remember how I told you that each template has its own will? Not a full-blown consciousness or save-data of the original character—more like a flickering ember of their soul. A stubborn, lingering belief that refuses to fade.
Senku? Yoriichi? Both carried that undying conviction to protect humanity—each in their own badass, over-the-top way.
And Alex?
He's not just some tourist in this new world anymore.
He's standing dead-center, arms wide open, breathing it in like it's his own damn world
Let's break it down with a little analogy—because who doesn't love those, right?
Imagine booting up a new game. At first, you're all "WOOO NEW WORLD!"—button mashing, collecting loot, gawking at every shiny object. But then… the story slaps you in the face. You connect. The characters hurt, you hurt. Suddenly, that NPC who dies in the tutorial? Yeah, now you're bawling harder than when your goldfish died in second grade.
That's Alex right now.
He's no longer seeing this world as fiction.
It's his world now.
And the kicker?
He didn't even stop to question it.
Not because he's numb—but because the system threw him into the blender the second he touched down. Missions stacking up like unwashed dishes, threats coming at him like subscription emails—you get the picture.
He simply rolled with it.
And hey, it's working out pretty well, right?
If the system's handing out dubs, why smash the vending machine?
Catch y'all in the next one.
—Yours truly, Mephis