A/N:People often ask how the protagonist—who trained only with Ripple—could possibly fight Peter Parker. I've thought about that. In my setting, this takes place right after Peter's mutation, before his strength and speed have peaked. He's still raw, still figuring out his powers.
Besides, power levels in the Marvel Universe are famously inconsistent. According to Marvel's official scale, Kingpin is rated at Strength Level 4—superhuman, capable of lifting 800 pounds to 25 tons—and there are canon instances where he's overpowered Spider-Man in direct combat. So, using Ripple and Star Platinum against a fledgling Spider-Man? Not unreasonable at all.
...
10:00 PM
West City Wharf
Moonlight poured through shattered skylights in the derelict warehouse, splashing silver patches across the cracked concrete floor.
Peter Parker pushed open the rusted iron door. It groaned like a dying thing.
"You're three minutes late."
The voice came from deep within the shadows.
Peter tensed, scanning the darkness. "Who—?"
Joren stepped out from behind a stack of shipping containers, still dressed in that same deliberately awful outfit—like he'd lost a bet with a thrift store.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Come here."
Joren didn't move. His hands stayed buried in his pockets.
A broken brick lifted off the ground beside him. With eerie precision, it traced a perfect two-meter circle on the floor, scraping a dusty line through the grime.
"Stand inside."
Peter hesitated. "Why?"
Joren just stared.
Realization dawned—this was training. Peter gave a sheepish shrug and stepped into the circle. He immediately felt like a goat waiting for a sacrificial knife.
Before he could crack a joke, several pebbles levitated around Joren, hovering like orbiting satellites.
"What… what is this?" Peter stammered.
Anti-gravity? Magnetic levitation?
But there was no tech—no wires, no emitters. Just empty air and silence.
From Joren's unseen perspective, a bluish-purple figure shimmered behind him—Star Platinum, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly.
Then, without warning—
Thwack!
A pebble smacked Peter square in the forehead.
It didn't hurt—but it startled him. He yelped, rubbing the spot as the pebble clattered to his feet.
"Get out of the way," Joren said, voice flat.
"Out of the—wait, out of the way of what?"
Thwack!
This time, his shoulder.
"I told you to get out of the way."
Now Peter got it.
He dropped into a light crouch, knees bent, muscles coiled. His body thrummed with that strange new awareness—the one that tingled at the base of his skull.
Another pebble shot toward him.
Just as it launched, a sharp prick flared at the back of his head.
He jerked left without thinking.
The pebble whistled past his ear and cracked into the metal container behind him.
Efficient.
A grin tugged at Peter's lips—but it died fast.
Two pebbles. Two directions. Simultaneous.
Thwack! Thwack!
"Ow—again?!"
"Too slow."
The next thirty minutes were hell.
Pebbles came from every angle—high, low, diagonal, spinning. Faster. Tighter. Relentless.
Peter scrambled inside the circle like a pinball, limbs flailing, getting tagged again and again. But slowly… the stinging warnings in his head grew clearer. Sharper.
He stopped watching the stones.
He started feeling them.
A new pebble launched.
!
Peter dropped forward like a stone himself—just as the projectile sliced the air where his throat had been.
The pebble whizzed past his scalp—almost.
He dodged it!
Immediately afterward, he sensed danger to his right and twisted his body left.
Another stone missed its mark.
Gradually, Peter found the rhythm. His movements grew smoother, sharper.
Then came the last pebble.
This time, he didn't dodge.
Instead, he shot out his hand and snatched the pebble cleanly from midair.
Silence settled over the warehouse.
Peter uncurled his fingers, stared at the stone in his palm, and gasped for breath.
He'd done it.
"Good."
Joren's voice cut through the stillness.
"You're adapting well. Lesson one is over. Now it's time for lesson two."
He crooked a finger. "Come here and attack me."
Peter hesitated. "What?"
"Attack me—with everything you've got."
As he spoke, Joren flexed his wrists.
Peter frowned. He knew his own strength—enough to crack a concrete wall with a single punch. Sure, Joren was tough, but flesh and blood was still flesh and blood.
"I'm… afraid I'll hurt you," Peter admitted.
Joren let out a dry chuckle, as if he'd just heard the sweetest joke.
"Oh, dear. What an innocent fellow."
He tilted his head. "If you don't make a move, I'll take that as surrender."
The dismissal stung. Peter's competitive spark flared.
He took a breath, stepped out of the chalked circle on the floor, and yelled—half to scare himself into action—
"Here I come!"
He charged and threw a straight right at Joren's sharp jaw.
The punch could've shattered a tree trunk.
Joren sidestepped—just half a step—and let it whistle past.
The miss left Peter wide open.
Before he could recover, Joren drove his elbow into Peter's lower back.
"Hah—!"
A strange vibration shot through Peter's spine. His limbs locked up. He collapsed face-first onto the concrete.
"Relying on brute force alone?" Joren said, voice calm. "That's just a catalog of weaknesses."
Gritting his teeth, Peter scrambled up and spun into a roundhouse kick.
This time, Joren didn't dodge.
He raised his own leg and met Peter's kick head-on.
Thud.
It felt like Peter had kicked a steel I-beam. Numbness exploded up his leg.
Joren didn't even flinch.
Years of ripple energy training had forged his body beyond human limits.
The moment Peter's kick recoiled, Joren stepped in—hands together like a blade—and chopped down on Peter's shoulder.
Click.
White-hot pain seared through the joint. Peter's arm went dead.
He stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief.
How?
He hadn't used that eerie, invisible power—not even a flicker. Just pure, efficient technique.
"You've got power," Joren said, advancing slowly, "but no control. Like a three-year-old waving a loaded gun."
He stopped just out of reach. "Again."
Peter's pride flared. He roared and lunged.
Predictably, it didn't end well.
Half an hour later, Peter lay sprawled on the floor, bruised, aching, convinced his skeleton had turned to gravel.
He'd never looked—or felt—this wrecked.
Across the room, Joren stood untouched, breathing as evenly as if he'd just finished reading the newspaper.
"That concludes today's lesson."
He turned to leave.
"W-wait…" Peter croaked.
Joren paused.
"How… how did you do that?" Peter rasped. "What is that energy?"
Joren pulled the brim of his hat lower—but didn't turn around.
"I might tell you," he said, "the day you land a single punch on me."
Then he walked out, leaving Peter alone on the cold concrete, staring at the ceiling and questioning every life choice that led him here.
The next day.
Midtown High.
Peter shuffled into homeroom in an oversized hoodie, ducking like he'd robbed a bank.
"Oh my God, Peter!" Gwen Stacy gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "What happened to your eyes? Did you fight in some underground boxing ring?"
Peter tried to smile—but winced as the movement tugged at a split on his cheek.
"No, I just… accidentally rolled down the stairs."
Gwen narrowed her eyes. "How do you roll down stairs and end up with perfectly symmetrical panda eyes?"
He had no answer.
Should I tell her I got curb-stomped by my mysterious classmate for thirty minutes straight?
At first, Joren had been almost gentle—offering tips between counters.
By the end? Pure target practice.
Mumbling something vague, Peter hurried to his seat and slumped over his desk.
From the corner of his eye, he peeked toward the back row.
There sat Joren—leaned back, one leg propped on the desk, flipping through a marine life encyclopedia like he hadn't spent last night dismantling a Spider-powered teenager with his bare hands.
Peter groaned into his arms.
Definitely the devil.