Ninja of Marvel World - Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The Art of the Glitch
Karan stepped out of the heavy double doors of the high school, the metal bar clanging shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his bones. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, which felt far too heavy for his current shoulders, and began the trek into the city.
New York City. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps.
In the movies he had watched back in India—usually pirated copies with questionable subtitles—this city was a gleaming metropolis of glass and steel, where Spider-Man swung between skyscrapers and billionaires in iron suits threw parties in towers that pierced the clouds. It was supposed to be the center of the world, a paradise of opportunity.
Karan looked around, his brow furrowing.
“They really used a good filter in the movies,” he muttered to himself.
He was in Queens, not Manhattan, but the disillusionment was the same. The streets were not paved with gold; they were paved with cracked asphalt and discarded chewing gum. The towering buildings were there, yes, looming like silent giants, but at street level, the reality was grittier.
He walked past a row of shops—a bodega, a laundromat, a pawn shop. People of every conceivable color and nationality bustled past him. To his Indian mind, conditioned by forty years of living in Delhi, his first instinct was to label them all foreigners.
Look at that foreigner jaywalking, he thought, eyeing a tall man in a business suit. Look at those foreign tourists taking pictures of a pigeon.
Then, the realization hit him with a dry chuckle.
Wait. I am the foreigner here. They are the locals.
It was a jarring shift in perspective. In India, a white face or a black face stood out like a lighthouse in a storm. Here, he was just another drop in a very murky ocean.
He inhaled deeply, expecting the crisp, liberated air of the West. Instead, he choked back a cough.
The smell was… distinct. It wasn’t the dust and spice of India. It was a cocktail of stale urine, frying oil, and a sickly-sweet undercurrent of rotting garbage. Black bags were piled high on the sidewalks, mountains of refuse waiting for collection trucks that seemed to be on an indefinite holiday.
“First world country,” Karan scoffed quietly, stepping over a puddle of questionable liquid. “They have enough money to build aircraft carriers, but not enough to clean the gutter.”
He passed an alleyway where a group of people sat huddled under blankets, their eyes glazed, needles and pipes evident in the shadows. The poverty here was different from home. In India, poverty was often a community affair; here, it felt incredibly lonely. These people were ghosts, ignored by the thousands rushing past them.
Karan kept his head down. He was a sixteen-year-old boy with the physique of a starving stray dog; he wasn’t in a position to save anyone.
It took him thirty minutes to reach his apartment building. It was a red-brick structure that had probably been nice in the 1970s but now looked like it was held together by layers of graffiti and hope.
He climbed the three flights of stairs—the elevator had an ‘Out of Order’ sign that looked yellowed with age—and unlocked the door to 3B.
The apartment was small. The living room doubled as the dining room, which doubled as the hallway. The carpet was a shade of beige that successfully hid stains, and the air smelled faintly of cheap perfume and stale takeout.
“I’m home,” he called out.
Silence.
He wasn’t surprised. He shared this cramped space with a girl named Chloe. She was twenty-two, blonde, and possessed the kind of frantic energy that came from chasing a dream that was running away from her. She told everyone she was an actress waiting for her big break on Broadway or Hollywood.
In reality, she worked as Striper at a club downtown called The Velvet Trap.
Karan dropped his bag on the sofa and walked to the kitchen counter. There was an envelope there—a letter from his parents. He didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. A check. And he knew, with a sinking feeling, that the number on that check would be smaller than last month.
“Inflation is up, rent is up, but the allowance goes down,” Karan sighed, tossing the envelope aside. “My parents must think I’m living in a deflationary bubble.”
He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He looked up at the mirror.
The face staring back was handsome in a boyish way, with sharp cheekbones and dark, intense eyes. But the rest of him was a disaster. His collarbones looked like handles. His arms were sticks. If a strong gust of wind blew through Queens today, Karan was fairly certain he would end up in New Jersey.
“This won’t do,” he said, gripping the edge of the sink. “If I want to survive—if I want to actually use this Ninja System—I need to fix this chassis.”
A blue screen flickered into existence next to his reflection.
[Daily Quest: The Road of Youth]
Time Remaining: 22 Hours
He looked at the numbers.
Squats: 0/500
“Five hundred squats,” Karan whispered. “I can’t even do fifty without my legs turning to jelly.”
He walked back into the living room, his eyes scanning the clutter. He needed an edge. The System was an algorithm, a set of rules. And as any good programmer or gamer knew, rules were meant to be bent.
His eyes landed on a resistance band hanging over the doorknob of Chloe’s room. It was a thick, purple rubber loop she used for her glute workouts.
A slow, devious smile spread across Karan’s face.
“Physics,” he murmured.
He took the resistance band and looped it over the sturdy pull-up bar Chloe had installed in the doorframe of the bathroom.
Usually, you stood on the band and pulled it up to create resistance. Karan did the opposite. He grabbed the band with both hands, pulling it down until it was taut, and then tucked it under his armpits.
The tension of the rubber band wanted to snap him upward.
He positioned himself. He lowered his body into a squat. Gravity pulled him down, but the heavy-duty rubber band acted like a spring, supporting his weight and practically launching him back up.
Down. Up.
He looked at the System counter.
Squats: 1/500
“Gotcha,” Karan grinned.
He wasn’t lifting his body weight; he was lifting maybe 30% of it. The rubber band was doing the heavy lifting. But the System, simple machine that it was, only registered the motion of his hip joint breaking parallel and returning to a standing position.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
It was still tiring. His legs were weak, and even with the assistance, the sheer volume was daunting.
Thirty minutes passed. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the carpet.
Squats: 100/500
He took a break, drinking tap water from a plastic cup. He wiped his face with his shirt and went back to it.
The repetition was hypnotic. In his previous life, he had been lazy. He would have quit at ten. But the fear of this new world, combined with the tantalizing promise of power, kept him moving.
Two hours later.
Squats: 500/500 – COMPLETED
Karan collapsed onto the sofa, his legs trembling uncontrollably.
“Okay,” he panted. “Next.”
Situps: 0/100
He slid off the sofa onto the floor. He wedged his feet under the heavy TV cabinet. Using his hands, he grabbed his thighs and hauled his torso up, using his arm strength to compensate for his nonexistent core muscles.
The System counted it.
Pushups: 0/200
He couldn’t do a single standard pushup. Not one. So, he went to the kitchen counter. He leaned against it at a forty-five-degree angle—an incline pushup. Much easier.
The System counted it.
Pullups: 0/100
This was the hardest. Even with the resistance band assisting him, he couldn’t pull his chin over the bar.
He stared at the bar, frustrated. Then, he had an idea. He grabbed a chair and placed it under the bar. He stood on the chair, grabbed the bar, and simply bent his knees to lower himself, then used his legs to stand back up, keeping his arms locked.
Technically, it was a “negative” rep combined with a squat.
The System hesitated. Then:
Pullups: 1/100
“You stupid, beautiful machine,” Karan laughed breathlessly.
By the time he finished the calisthenics, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, orange shadows across the dirty apartment.
Running: 0/30km
Karan stared at the number. “Thirty kilometers. That’s a half-marathon and then some. I can’t cheat gravity on this one.”
He thought about the logic. Running was distance over time via leg movement.
He grabbed his keys and ran downstairs. There was a CitiBike station a block away.
He rented a heavy blue bicycle. “Let’s see if wheels count.”
He pedaled. He rode for a block, keeping his speed low, mimicking the pace of a jogger.
He checked the System.
Running: 0/30km
“Damn it,” Karan cursed. The System was smart enough to detect the lack of impact, or perhaps the mechanical advantage of the gears.
He docked the bike, frustration gnawing at him. He started to jog.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His cheap sneakers slapped against the concrete. Within two hundred meters, his lungs were burning. Within five hundred meters, he could taste blood in the back of his throat.
He managed two kilometers of a pathetic, shambling jog before he had to stop, leaning against a lamppost, wheezing like a broken accordion.
“I can’t… I can’t do thirty,” he gasped. “My heart will explode.”
He started walking. The counter moved, but agonizingly slow. At this pace, it would take him six hours.
He watched a kid zoom past him on the sidewalk. The kid was wearing rollerblades, gliding effortlessly over the cracks.
Karan’s eyes widened.
Skates.
Unlike a bike, skates required leg movement. You had to push out, stabilize, and use your core. But the wheels preserved momentum. One stride on skates was equal to five strides of running.
He checked his phone map. There was a thrift store three blocks away.
Twenty minutes later, Karan was strapped into a pair of scuffed, neon-green rollerblades that looked like they belonged in a 1990s Barbie commercial. They were a size too big, but he stuffed his socks with paper towels.
He pushed off.
Whoosh.
He glided ten meters with a single push.
He checked the System.
Running: 2.1/30km
It counted.
Karan laughed, a manic sound that made a passing pedestrian cross the street to avoid him.
He spent the next hour gliding through the streets of Queens. He wasn’t fast, and he fell twice, scraping his palms, but the mileage racked up. The wheels absorbed the energy that his pathetic legs couldn’t provide.
By the time he rolled back to his apartment building, night had fully fallen.
Running: 30/30km – COMPLETED
[Daily Quest Completed!]
A golden light bathed his vision, invisible to the rest of the world.
[Rewards: 100 EXP, 10 Points]
[Trait Activation: A-Rank Talent]
Your latent potential amplifies the experience gained.
[Multiplier: x8]
[Total Reward: 800 EXP, 10 Points]
Karan sat on the bottom step of his building, unbuckling the skates with trembling hands. “Eight hundred,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s huge.”
The points didn’t multiply—money was money—but the experience points? That was the game-changer.
He hauled himself upstairs, his legs feeling like lead, but a strange buzz of excitement kept him moving.
As he unlocked the apartment door, he heard sounds coming from Chloe’s room.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
And the unmistakable sound of a bed frame hitting the wall.
“Oh, yes! Just like that!”
Karan rolled his eyes. She’s home. And so is Brad.
Brad—or was it Chad? Or maybe Mike?—was her current boyfriend. He was a gym rat who looked like he was carved out of ham.
Karan listened for a moment. The rhythm was frantic. It sounded like they were trying to break the furniture.
In the movies, Karan thought as he took off his shoes, this goes on for an hour with sensual music and perfect lighting. In reality…
The noise stopped abruptly. A low groan. Then silence.
“3 minutes,” Karan checked his cheap digital watch. “New record.”
He shook his head and retreated into his own small bedroom, locking the door. He didn’t want to be part of the post-coital cigarette smoke that would soon fill the living room.
He sat on his narrow bed and summoned the System.
—
Name: Karan Malhotra
Ninja Level: 0 (800/1) [LEVEL UP AVAILABLE]
Status: Civilian
Bloodline: Jugo (Passive Regen, Nature Affinity)
Affinities: Wind, Lightning
Talent: A-Rank
Points: 10
—
“Do it,” Karan commanded mentally. “Level Up.”
He pressed the button.
Immediately, the world tilted.
It wasn’t a sound; it was a sensation. A heat bloomed in the pit of his stomach—the solar plexus. It felt like he had swallowed a ball of hot soup that refused to cool down.
The heat didn’t stay contained. It exploded outward, rushing through invisible channels in his body. It flooded his limbs, his spine, his brain.
He gasped, clutching his stomach. It didn’t hurt, but it was intense. It felt like his cells were being carbonated.
He looked at his arms. Under the pale skin, the veins bulged slightly. The nonexistent muscles twitched and tightened. He wasn’t transforming into Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the pathetic, wasted look was receding. His forearms looked slightly thicker. The hollows of his cheeks filled out just a fraction.
The counter on the screen spun wildly.
Level 0… Level 1… Level 5… Level 10…
It kept going.
Level 15.
It finally stopped.
[Current Status Updated]
—
Name: Karan Malhotra
Ninja Level: 15 (120/136)
Status: Ninja Academy Student
Bloodline: Jugo (Passive Regen, Nature Affinity)
Affinities: Wind, Lightning
Talent: A-Rank
Jutsu: None
…
Points: 10
[Quest]
[Mall]
—
Karan stared at the screen, panting as the heat settled into a warm, buzzing hum beneath his skin.
“Level 15,” he whispered.
He tapped on the Status.
[Power Scaling Guide]
Level 1-20: Academy Student (Chakra Awakening to Basic Control)
Level 21-40: Genin (Low-End Soldier)
Level 41-60: Chunin (Team Leader/Specialist)
Level 61-80: Jonin (Elite)
Level 81-100: Kage (Village Leader/Strategic Weapon)
Level 100+: ???
“So, I’m almost a Genin,” Karan realized. “In one day. That’s the power of an A-Rank talent multiplier.”
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feeling in his stomach.
The Chakra.
It was there. A pool of energy. It felt fluid, volatile.
He tried to move it to his hand. He visualized the energy flowing up his arm.
He shook his hand.
“Okay. I have the battery,” he noted. “But I have no wiring. I have zero control.”
He remembered Mitsuki’s memories. The first step was always the Leaf Concentration Practice. Sticking a leaf to your forehead using chakra. It sounded simple, but with this much raw energy and zero discipline, it would be like trying to thread a needle with a sledgehammer.
He was about to try finding a piece of paper to practice when a different sensation overwhelmed him.
His stomach roared.
It wasn’t just hunger; it was a primal, starving emptiness. The rapid muscle growth and the awakening of chakra had burned through every calorie in his body. He felt like he could eat the drywall.
“Food,” he croaked. “Need food now.”
He scrambled off the bed, his new coordination making him move faster than he expected. He unlocked his door and practically sprinted into the kitchen.
The apartment was dim. He yanked the fridge open.
Empty. A jar of pickles, some expired milk, and… yes. Two slices of cold pepperoni pizza in a cardboard box.
He didn’t even heat them. He shoved both slices into his mouth at once, chewing ferociously. The cold cheese and grease tasted like ambrosia.
It wasn’t enough. His stomach was a black hole.
He scanned the counter. There was a pink bakery box. Magnolia Bakery.
He opened it. Four gourmet cupcakes with swirls of pastel frosting.
Karan’s rational brain said: Those belong to Chloe. Do not touch.
Karan’s lizard brain said: Calories. Sugar. Consume.
He grabbed a red velvet cupcake and decimated it in two bites. Then a vanilla one.
“Hey!”
The sharp voice froze him in place, chocolate frosting smeared on his lip.
He turned slowly.
Chloe was standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She looked like a mess, but a beautiful mess. Her blonde hair was a tangled bird’s nest. She was wearing nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties. Her makeup was smudged under her eyes, giving her a raccoon-like appearance.
She wasn’t looking at him with lust. She was looking at the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand with murder in her eyes.
“Did you just eat my cheat meal?” she hissed.
Karan swallowed the heavy lump of cake. He looked down at himself—a skinny Indian teenager with pizza sauce on his chin and frosting on his fingers, standing in the dark kitchen.
“I…” Karan’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I was… I felt like I was dying of hunger. The pizza was gone.”
Chloe stared at him, her hands on her hips. Her gaze traveled over his skinny frame. She sighed, the anger deflating out of her. She looked too tired to fight.
“You look like a skeleton, Karan,” she muttered, walking past him to the fridge. She grabbed a bottle of water. “Whatever. Just… buy me a new box when your parents send the check.”
She twisted the cap off and chugged the water, ignoring the fact that she was half-naked in front of a teenage boy. To her, he was just a piece of furniture that occasionally ate her food.
“I will,” Karan promised, wiping his mouth. “I definitely will.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved a hand dismissively and turned back to her room. “Keep it down out here. Brad’s asleep, and I have a shift at the club in four hours.”
She slammed her door shut.
Karan stood alone in the kitchen, the taste of sugar lingering on his tongue.
He felt the energy in his stomach settling, the frantic hunger subsiding into a dull ache.
He smiled.
He owed Chloe four dollars for cupcakes. He owed his landlord six hundred dollars for rent. But for the first time in two lifetimes, Karan Malhotra felt rich.