The memories of the old Nicolas gave him some street-fighting experience, but that wouldn't be enough in this world.
"System," he said, "can Enlightenment help with skills?"
[ Yes, Host. ]
[ Enlightenment can be used to remove flaws from techniques, training methods, and learning efficiency. ]
[ However, Host must first possess the base knowledge or practice. ]
Nicolas nodded. "So I still have to put in the work."
[ Correct. ]
A small smile formed on his face.
"That's fine," he said. "I prefer it that way."
He checked the time.
"First, I need to hire a personal trainer," he muttered. "There are plenty around… but since I'm already here, why not find a hot trainer?"
An image came to his mind—Colleen Wing from Iron Fist.
Then reality hit him.
"…And not to mention, I'm broke," he groaned.
The original Nicolas had burned through whatever money he had, eventually dying from a drug overdose—It was the reason Nicolas had taken his place in the first place.
"So yeah," he sighed, rubbing his temples, "step one is making money."
"And the easiest way to do that," Nicolas said as he stood up, "is to loot thugs."
He put the gloves back on, pulled a simple hat over his head, and slipped the mask into place. Then he stepped outside.
Using the original Nicolas's memories, it didn't take long to find a local drug distributor.
A blond man was leaning against a street pole, smoking a cigarette, clearly relaxed.
Nicolas walked straight toward him.
"How much do you need?" the man asked casually, assuming Nicolas was just another customer.
Nicolas raised his hand and pointed a finger at him.
"I need information" he said calmly.
The man blinked. "Huh?"
A small blue energy bead formed above Nicolas's fingertip.
Before the man could react, the bead shot past his head and slammed into the brick wall behind him, burning a red-hot hole straight through it.
The blond man froze.
He slowly raised his hands, panic written all over his face.
"C-cool, man… cool," he stammered, sweat pouring down his face. "What do you want?"
Nicolas stepped closer, his voice low and controlled, deliberately masking his tone.
"Where do you pick up the drugs from?"
"I—I can't tell you," the man said shakily.
Nicolas didn't answer.
Instead, he activated the gravity symbol.
A loose brick nearby ripped free from the wall, floated into the air, then shot upward before being slammed down into the road at high speed—shattering into pieces.
Nicolas looked back at the man.
"That," he said evenly, "will be you next time if you don't answer properly."
The man swallowed hard, eyes wide with terror.
"O-Okay! Okay!" he shouted. "I'll talk!"
Nicolas waited, unmoving.
The man's shoulders slumped as fear finally broke his resistance.
"Alright—alright," he said quickly. "I pick up twice a week. There's a warehouse down by the docks. Old shipping company, no signs, looks abandoned."
Nicolas stayed silent, letting the pressure build.
"They don't let small guys like me inside," the man continued nervously. "We wait in the alley behind it. Someone comes out, takes the cash, hands over the product. No names. No faces."
"Who's in charge?" Nicolas asked.
The man swallowed and shook his head. "People call him Vic. Big guy. Always surrounded by muscle."
Nicolas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain."
"He's the leader of the Albanian syndicate," the man said quickly. "His name is Vic Jusufi. He runs most of the drug movement in this area. Nothing moves without his approval."
"And?" Nicolas prompted.
"That's it," the man said, voice steady now. "He's just a normal human. No powers, no enhancements. Just money, connections, and a lot of armed men."
Nicolas nodded slowly.
"That's enough," he said.
"Money," he said.
The man hesitated, then quickly reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick roll of cash, holding it out with shaking hands.
"Take it. All of it."
Nicolas used gravity to pull the money into his hand without stepping closer.
"Good choice," he said.
He turned away, already losing interest.
Behind him, the man slid down against the pole, breathing hard, grateful to still be alive.
Nicolas disappeared into the darkness, counting the cash as he walked.
"Gym fees," he muttered. "Trainer. Equipment."
He paused, then smirked beneath the mask.
"And maybe," he added quietly, "a certain dojo in Chinatown."
Going around the corner, Nicolas pocketed the cash and muttered, "Should I go after the Albanian syndicate now?"
He immediately shook his head.
"Nah. At my current level, that would be suicide. I need training first."
With that decision made, he didn't push his luck.
Instead, he repeated the same process across Hell's Kitchen, quietly targeting small-time distributors one by one. No killing. Just intimidation, information, and cash.
By the time he was done, he had collected more than $100,000 in cash.
Fortunately, his system had more than just the Enlightenment function—it also included Appraisal, Status, and Inventory. Nicolas stored all the money safely inside his inventory.
[ Congratulations, Host. ]
[ The Albanian Syndicate has become aware of the Host's activities. ]
[ Host has gained fame. ]
[ Enlightenment Points gained: 4 EP ]
Nicolas glanced at the notification and nodded.
"Seems like I can't rob anymore" he muttered. "But I've already got more than enough for now."
He remembered to be careful.
Stopping in a quiet alley, he removed his face mask and cap, storing them in his inventory. He also put away his hoodie, changing back into normal clothes.
Then, like any ordinary guy, he walked down the street while casually scrolling through his phone.
No rush. No panic.
Just another resident of Hell's Kitchen heading home.
Nicolas made it back to his apartment without incident.
The place was small, cramped, and smelled faintly of stale smoke and cheap takeout—exactly what he expected from the original Nicolas's lifestyle. Still, it was quiet, and that was enough.
He locked the door behind him and took a slow look around.
"Let's see what's actually useful," he muttered.
One by one, he went through the apartment. A battered laptop, a few spare clothes, a cheap burner phone, some basic tools, and a handful of documents the old Nicolas had kept hidden in a drawer. Anything that looked even remotely useful went straight into his inventory.
The rest? Junk.