In a California middle school in the United States, a mixed-race boy sat at his desk, yawning.
The teacher was still lecturing on basic physics.
The classroom was filled with Black and white students, but not a single Asian face-except his.
Ryden Hunt looked at the teacher on the podium with open disdain.
In his eyes, the man was talking nonsense.
Ryden was the son of Ethan Hunt, a famous scientist at the U.S. Science Research Institute and an early-generation immigrant from the East.
His mother was the school's English teacher, a local Californian through and through.
If Ryden weren't a reincarnated soul, he probably wouldn't feel out of place.
With his mixed heritage and a name that blended East and West, he fit the Western aesthetic perfectly.
A pile of scattered parts sat on the lab table, meant for students to assemble whatever gadgets they imagined.
The teacher lounged at the front, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, as long as no one asked questions.
The "free-range" education style was on full display.
If you were a genius, this was your stage.
If you were trash, you could just enjoy the "happy hour."
Most students were chasing each other around. Lab class was basically a study hall for messing around.
Ryden tilted his head, reflecting.
After a month since his reincarnation, he had finally understood what kind of world this was, where he was, and who he was.
Everyone dreams of reincarnation, but no one knows if it's real.
After all, no one comes back to hold a press conference and say, "Hey, I crossed over!" That would be ridiculous.
The year was 1938.
One year before the outbreak of World War.
In this world, there was the familiar Stark Industries, but also the unexpected cities of Gotham and Metropolis.
Two completely different styles were merged together, making it impossible to tell whether this was the Marvel Universe or the DC Universe.
"Hey, Ryden, what are you doing? The teacher said we're testing power generation principles. Did you stay up all night playing games? Hey, you didn't even invite me!"
A slightly chubby Black boy patted Ryden on the shoulder.
Like in every novel, the protagonist always had a few friends.
Terrence was Ryden's elementary school classmate, and they had entered middle school together.
Their bond was solid.
Ryden shrugged and screwed a part into the assembly.
"It's fine. Just a small experiment. What games? I was reading at home. Heh heh... this... this is a great invention!"
On the table sat a strange coil-an iron ring wrapped layer by layer with wire-along with scattered components.
From afar, it looked like a mess.
Up close... well, it looked like a pile of familiar stuff.
If anyone mocked him, Ryden would definitely snap back.
What do you know? This is the famous Ark Reactor!
Okay, it was just a replica. A small-scale imitation.
Ryden wasn't talented enough yet to build a functional miniature reactor.
Since his arrival, he had no superpowers.
No world-ending wealth.
All he had were a pile of books left by his parents and a small suburban house.
That was it.
Terrence stared at him suspiciously.
It wasn't that he doubted Ryden's intelligence.
But six months ago, an "accident" had occurred because Ryden attempted a suicidal, insane experiment.
Luckily, he survived.
Was he starting the "death-seeking experiment method" again after just a month?
Ryden had already fully integrated the original body's memories.
Seeing his friend's expression, he knew exactly what Terrence was thinking.
A month ago, the original owner of this body had lost his parents when agents blew up the entire technology institute where they worked.
Driven by revenge, he tried to build a powerful bomb.
Instead of a bomb, he burned the house down.
The unstable explosives sent the poor guy flying. Fortunately, the blast wave only caused a head injury.
The incident caused a massive stir.
Ethan Hunt was a top scientist, and the destruction of the institute was a slap in the face to the Americans.
So when Ryden claimed it was just a lab accident, even the military paid attention.
As the saying went, "the son of a mouse knows how to dig holes."
Ryden was labeled a talented researcher, which conveniently kept him out of real trouble.
"Hey, don't look at me like that. I'll start thinking you like men. Relax. This is just a concept. I don't want to die again!"
Ryden joked, expression relaxed.
Terrence finally let out a breath and patted his chest.
"I was just about to say that. Don't go dying on me. Who would I play with then? You're smart. You'll definitely become a scientist like your dad. Wanna go to the park after school?"
What was there to do in the 1930s?
No electronics. Very few movies-and those were expensive.
Kids entertained themselves with cards or games that were fun for children but painfully childish to adults.
Ryden had the soul of someone in his twenties.
There was no way he was going to play house.
That was too embarrassing.
"Fine, I knew a shut-in like you wouldn't go. But hey... seeing that rascal look on your face again... it means you've moved on."
Terrence grinned, white teeth flashing.
"One should always look forward. Forget the park. If you're interested, want to hit Old Forest Street tonight? My experiment's missing a few materials."
Ryden invited him casually.
Despite his age, Terrence was built sturdy thanks to good genes.
Terrence curled his lip. He knew Ryden too well.
This guy was a complete jerk. Always talked big, but really just wanted a pack mule.
"You're not buying a mountain of stuff for me to carry again, right? I won't help for free. For a classmate, friend price is five cents. Otherwise, not even ten would do."
A complete ripoff.
This was the pre-war era. One dollar could feed a family of three for a week.
Money carried real weight back then, unlike the millions and billions of the future.
"Fine, you greedy merchant. Only because we're classmates."
Ryden didn't mind.
With what his parents left behind, he wasn't rich, but he lived comfortably.
As a scientist, money went out fast-but it came in fast too.
Ryden spent the rest of class working.
His mind was filled with physics formulas and periodic tables that once looked like gibberish.
Thanks to the original owner's brilliant mind, Ryden inherited a vast amount of seemingly useless knowledge.
It made sense.
Someone watched by the military couldn't be ordinary.
Capitalism was a blood-sucking vampire. It only swarmed when it smelled profit.
While others slept or chatted, Ryden focused on his experiment.
This world was dangerous.
He needed to turn knowledge into weapons for self-protection-and fast.
If Gotham existed, then Wonder Woman would appear in the war.
And Steve Rogers.
The future Captain America. Idol of twenty-first-century kids.
Experimentation was tedious.
Especially without AI.
Every step had to be written down by hand.
Ryden deeply envied Tony Stark for having a digital butler like Jarvis.
To a researcher, that was divine.
The difference between a gas stove and primitive firewood.
Dense coils were wrapped around an iron ring behind a plastic barrier. Components were embedded with a soldering iron.
A smaller iron ring in the center formed an acceleration channel.
Insulation separated everything to prevent shorts.
When powered, the coils began to rotate.
Heat expanded the components against thermal-sensitive materials, accelerating current through physical pressure.
The iron coil soon glowed with a faint blue luster.
A luminous ring.
It wasn't practical yet.
But Ryden was thrilled.
This was the prototype of Iron Man's repulsors.
In his past life, he could only watch that armor on a screen, dreaming while slaving away at work.
Now he was here.
And he would fulfill his dream.
Chasing beautiful women.
...Okay. That was secondary.
His real goal was to be a "freeloading hero."
Enjoy the public's admiration while hanging around Batman, Iron Man, or Cap.
Fighting and killing weren't his thing.
As Ryden smirked to himself, the surrounding students quietly backed away.
They feared the "Science Madman" was about to trigger another disaster.
He had nearly blown himself up before.
If they graduated alive, the whole class would probably thank him for his mercy.
When physics class ended, Ryden packed up his parts.
He wasn't donating his hard-earned materials to the school.
The teacher glanced at him over his glasses.
As long as Ryden's grades were good, he didn't care what the boy did.
Ryden could have danced on the table.
He wouldn't have cared.
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