Aryan Spencer woke up with the distinct, prickly sensation that the universe had just performed a very sloppy 'copy-and-paste' job on his soul.
He lay perfectly still, staring at a ceiling that featured far too much gold leaf for a man who, only yesterday, had been eating lukewarm noodles in a studio apartment that smelled faintly of damp. He realized two things with startling clarity:
First, his bed was made of something so soft it felt like sleeping on a cloud that had recently gone through a luxury spa treatment.
Second, his brain was currently stuck on a loading screen.
Loading memories... 99% complete. Please do not restart your consciousness.
A montage of his former life flickered behind his eyelids like a low-budget indie film. It was a bleak production: fluorescent office lights, the soul-crushing beep of a microwave at midnight, and the harrowing realization that Monday morning was a recurring villain that couldn't be defeated.
Then, the film snapped. Blackness.
Suddenly, a new reel started playing, this one directed by someone with a much higher budget and a complete lack of ethics. This new life smelled of "Old Money" and imported leather. It featured a sprawling mansion, a fleet of cars that cost more than small countries, and a staff of domestic helpers who bowed so frequently Aryan worried for their spinal health.
Aryan blinked, his pupils finally adjusting to the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Oh," he said, his voice echoing in the vast, silent room. "I've transmigrated. How terribly trendy of me."
He sank back into the silk pillows. "Honestly? I'll take it. My old life had the personality of a saltine cracker. Let's see what flavor of nonsense this world is serving."
As if the universe had been waiting for his permission, the memories shifted again, rearranging themselves into a terrifying mosaic. He saw a blue-and-red cape fluttering against a skyscraper. He saw a corporate logo—Vought International—that felt less like a company and more like a religious cult with a paramilitary wing. He saw "heroes" who saved kittens for the cameras and spent their off-hours practicing creative sociopathy.
Aryan sat bolt upright, the silk sheets sliding off him. "Oh. Oh, dear. This isn't just a new world. This is The Boys."
His mouth twitched into a dry, nervous smile. "The world where justice is a PR stunt and the 'Good Guys' are just serial killers with better dental plans. Splendid. Just splendid."
Before he could spiral into a full-blown existential crisis, a cheerful, electronic Ding! resonated inside his skull. It was a bright, clinical sound, the kind of noise a microwave makes when it's finished heating up a burrito—only this time, the burrito was his fate.
[Welcome, Host! You have been successfully bound to the Plundering System.]
A semi-transparent interface shimmered into existence before his eyes. It glowed with a polite, helpful luminescence, completely unbothered by the fact that it had just dropped Aryan into a meat grinder.
——
Plundering System v1.0
Host: Aryan Spencer
Survival Rating: Questionable (Have you considered a Will?)
EXP: 0
Core Stats:
* Defense Lv.1: (You are slightly sturdier than a wet paper bag.)
* Self-Recovery Lv.1: (Scrapes heal quickly. Existential dread remains permanent.)
* Inventory Space: 1 m³ (No living creatures, please. It gets messy.)
——
Aryan stared at the floating text. "Is that it? No flight? No laser vision? I don't even get a morally questionable jawline? I'm essentially a baseline human in a world where people can sneeze and level a city block."
The System remained stoically silent, then blinked again.
[Beginner Gift Pack Unlocked!] Reward: Ultimate Hacking Proficiency Description: You now speak 'Binary' better than the people who invented it.
The knowledge hit him like a physical weight. Suddenly, the world wasn't made of wood and stone; it was made of data. He could feel the Wi-Fi signals in the room tickling his brain. Encrypted firewalls looked like cheap screen doors he could kick through with a polite "excuse me."
"Well," Aryan mused, rubbing his temples. "That is unspeakably unfair. I love it."
The System cleared its metaphorical throat.
——
[First Task Available] Target: Vought International – Underground Research Facility
Objective: Plunder abilities.
Risk Level: Extremely Fatal.
Bonus: Continued existence.
——
Aryan leaned back, crossing his arms. "Let me get this straight. You want me—a man whose primary combat skill is 'sarcastic deflection'—to break into a Vought black site? A place filled with unstable, chemically-enhanced demi-gods who have never heard of the Geneva Convention?"
[Correct.]
"It's a bold strategy, System. Truly. I particularly like the part where I almost certainly die in the first five minutes."
[Host survival probability calculated...]
[Current success rate: 3.7%]
"Why would you tell me that?" Aryan snapped. "That's not motivating. That's just rude."
——
[System recommends optimization. Granting Conditional Compensation...]
* Grant: Basic Combat Mastery
* Grant: Firearm Proficiency (All Standard Weapons)
* Condition: These are skills, not superpowers. You are still squishy.
——
The data download was instant. Aryan's muscles twitched as his body learned how to move, how to breathe, and exactly how to dismantle a human being using nothing but a ballpoint pen and a bit of leverage. He felt... dangerous. Not "Man of Steel" dangerous, but "John Wick on a very bad day" dangerous.
"Right," Aryan said, standing up and testing his balance. "Time to go shopping."
Preparation was not a cinematic montage; it was a grueling exercise in digital theft and black-market logistics. Through a series of untraceable transfers that would have made a Swiss banker weep, Aryan acquired a small mountain of equipment.
He spent the afternoon stacking crates of ammunition in his sprawling garage. "Responsible adults call this 'prepping,'" he told a nearby suit of decorative armor. "I call it 'not wanting to be turned into a human smoothie by a guy in a cape.'"
As the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long, bruised shadows over the city, Aryan looked at his reflection. He wasn't wearing a cape. He didn't have a logo.
He had a matte-black motorcycle that technically didn't exist, a bulletproof vest he'd affectionately named 'Please-Don't-Fail-Me,' and a metallic mask that was as expressionless as a tax auditor.
He arrived at the industrial zone—a place so desolate it looked like the setting of a horror movie where the protagonists are particularly dim-witted. He killed the engine and pulled out a signal jammer.
"Rule number one," he whispered, clicking the device on. A low, angry hum filled the air. Cell service died instantly. Vought's internal frequencies scrambled into white noise. "Never let the Final Boss load in."
He adjusted his mask and looked toward the hidden elevator entrance.
"One normal guy against a facility full of supes who can't call for help." Aryan grinned, checked his sidearm, and stepped into the shadows. "This is either the birth of a legend... or the world's most expensive suicide note."