Ninja of Marvel World - Chapter 3
Chapter 3: The Economy of Violence
Sunlight filtered through the grimy window of the Queens apartment, hitting Karan’s face at a sharp angle. He didn’t groan. He didn’t roll over and try to bury his head under the pillow to escape the morning.
For the first time in either of his lives, he woke up feeling… alive.
Karan sat up, the cheap mattress springs squeaking beneath him. He stretched his arms overhead, expecting the usual chorus of popping joints and the lethargic heavy-headedness of malnutrition. Instead, he felt a fluid, easy tension in his limbs.
He walked to the bathroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard in the hallway so as not to wake Chloe—or whoever was currently occupying her bed.
He locked the bathroom door and looked in the mirror.
“Huh,” he whispered.
He wasn’t Captain America. He hadn’t transformed into a Greek god overnight. His ribs were still visible, counting out a ladder up his torso. His collarbones were still prominent ridges. But the terrifying, skeletal fragility was gone.
There was a subtle definition to his deltoids. His forearms, previously looking like dry twigs, now had the ropy texture of whipcord. The dark circles that had bruised the skin under his eyes—evidence of insomnia and stress—had faded to a faint grey smudge.
“The System said Level 15,” Karan mused, running a hand over his arm. “But the body is lagging behind the stats.”
It made sense. The ‘Level Up’ had flooded his internal network with Chakra, expanding his energy reserves instantly. But biology was slower than magic. His cells were currently working overtime, fueled by the Jugo lineage and the Mitsuki template, to rebuild his body to match his new energy capacity.
He flexed his bicep. A small, hard knot of muscle rose up.
“Acceptable,” he nodded. “For day two.”
He checked the time on his digital watch.
5:30 AM.
School didn’t start until 8:00 AM. He had plenty of time.
He returned to his room and summoned the System interface.
[Daily Quest: The Road of Youth]
Reset complete.
Karan cracked his knuckles. Yesterday, he had cheated. He had used physics and rubber bands to trick the algorithm. It was smart, but it was also a crutch. Today, he had Chakra. Today, he wanted to know what he could actually do.
He dropped to the floor.
“One. Two. Three…”
He started with pushups. Standard form. Chest to the floor.
At rep fifty, his muscles began to burn. The lactic acid built up, screaming at him to stop. In his old life—and definitely in this body’s previous life—he would have collapsed here.
But now, he felt something else. A warmth in his stomach. The Chakra.
It wasn’t something he consciously commanded yet, but it responded to his distress. As his muscles frayed, the energy seeped into the fibers. It acted like a high-octane fuel, bypassing the biological need for oxygen.
“Fifty-one. Fifty-two…”
He pushed through the burn. And then, he felt the itch.
It was a tingling sensation deep under his skin. The passive regeneration. As the micro-tears in his muscles occurred from the exertion, the Jugo cells were already knitting them back together, stronger and denser than before. He was breaking down and rebuilding in real-time.
He finished the 200 pushups in one set. He was sweating profusely, his chest heaving, but he wasn’t broken.
He moved immediately to sit-ups. Then squats.
The 500 squats were brutal, purely due to the boredom of repetition, but his legs didn’t turn to jelly. They felt like hydraulic pistons—getting hot, but functioning perfectly.
Finally, the pull-ups. He grabbed the bar in the doorframe.
He pulled himself up. His chin cleared the bar. Down. Up. Down.
He managed twenty before his grip failed. He rested for thirty seconds, then did twenty more.
By 6:45 AM, he was done with everything except the running.
“I’ll save the run for the evening,” Karan decided, wiping his face with a towel. “Now, for the tricky part.”
He sat cross-legged on his bed. He needed to learn how to drive this vehicle. Having Chakra was useless if he couldn’t control it; it was like having a Ferrari engine in a lawnmower. Without control, he couldn’t stick to walls, walk on water, or punch through brick.
He didn’t have a leaf. He looked around the room and spotted an old, unpaid utility bill on the floor. He tore a small corner off the paper—roughly the size of a leaf.
He placed the scrap of paper on his forehead.
“Okay,” he breathed out, closing his eyes. “Focus.”
He visualized the energy in his stomach. It was a swirling pool of blue fluid. He needed to draw a tiny stream of it up his spine, through his neck, and to the center of his forehead.
He pushed the energy.
Too much.
The paper didn’t just stick; it blasted off his forehead as if a gust of wind had hit it.
Karan sighed, picking the paper up from the bedsheet. “Gentle. Like a caress, not a punch.”
He tried again. This time, he used too little. The paper slid down his nose and landed in his lap.
He tried again. And again.
On the tenth try, the paper stayed. He held his breath, maintaining the flow. It felt like balancing a spinning plate on a stick.
Ding.
[Skill Created: Chakra Control]
[Level: 0 (0/100)]
Karan grinned. “Gamification makes everything bearable.”
He focused on holding the paper. He watched the timer on his watch.
One minute passed.
[Chakra Control: +8 EXP]
“Eight?” Karan raised an eyebrow. “Base gain is probably 1 EXP per minute. But the A-Rank Talent multiplies it by 8.”
This was the cheat code. The Talent didn’t give him free power; it gave him time. What took a normal ninja an hour, Karan could do in seven minutes.
He kept at it. The paper fluttered, threatening to fall, but he clamped down on the energy flow. Sweat beaded on his brow—mental exhaustion was different from physical fatigue.
Thirty minutes later.
[Skill Level Up!]
[Chakra Control: Level 1 (0/1000)]
The paper fell from his forehead as Karan broke his concentration.
“Level 1,” he muttered, checking the description. “Equivalent to a graduating Academy Student.”
He tried to stick the paper again. This time, it was easier. He didn’t have to strain as hard. The pathway from his stomach to his forehead felt more defined, like a dirt path that had been walked on enough to flatten the grass.
He looked at the requirement for Level 2.
“One thousand EXP,” he groaned. “That’s… over two hours of continuous practice.”
Level 2 would be Genin-level control. That was the threshold for walking on trees. He wasn’t there yet.
“Baby steps,” he told himself. “I have the battery of a Level 15, but the steering wheel of a Level 1.”
It meant he couldn’t use Chakra to enhance his strength in a fight yet—that required Body Flicker or Chakra Enhanced Strength techniques, both of which needed immaculate control to prevent blowing his own limbs off. But the passive benefits—the stamina, sensory perception—were always active.
He stood up, his stomach rumbling. He quickly showered, washing off the sweat of his new life, and ate a meager breakfast of two boiled eggs and a slice of dry toast.
It was time to face the American education system.
—
Midtown Science High School was a massive brick building that smelled of floor wax and teenage hormones.
Karan walked through the gates, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He kept his head down, trying to blend in. He was just a transfer student, a face in the crowd.
Or so he hoped.
He hadn’t even made it to the main entrance when a hand grabbed his backpack strap and yanked him backward.
Karan stumbled but didn’t fall. His new core strength corrected his balance instantly. He spun around.
Three guys stood there. They were wearing varsity jackets—the universal uniform of the high school antagonist.
The leader was a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a buzz cut and a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite and arrogance.
“Well, look who’s awake,” the boy sneered. “Sleeping Beauty finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
Karan looked at him blankly. The memories of the original Karan Malhotra supplied the name, but Karan pushed it aside for a moment, analyzing the threat.
Three targets. No weapons visible. Poor stance. High heart rates—excitement, not fear.
“I heard you fainted yesterday,” the leader continued, stepping into Karan’s personal space. “Got me in trouble with Coach. He made us run laps.”
“That sounds like good cardio,” Karan said calmly.
The leader blinked. He hadn’t expected a retort. The old Karan would be shaking by now, reaching for his wallet.
“You think you’re funny?” The boy shoved Karan’s chest.
Karan didn’t move. He didn’t stumble. He rooted his feet using a tiny, subconscious flare of chakra. To the bully, it felt like shoving a statue.
“You owe me compensation,” the bully growled, trying to save face after the failed shove. “For the emotional distress. And the laps. Twenty bucks.”
Karan sighed. It was so cliché it was almost comforting. The strong eating the weak.
“You know,” Karan said, tilting his head. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“What?”
“You owe me,” Karan said. He held out his hand. “Compensation. For the locker incident. For the headache. And for wasting my time right now. Fifty bucks should cover it.”
The alley went silent. The two lackeys behind the leader looked at each other, confused.
The leader’s face turned red. “You little piece of—”
He swung.
It was a telegraphed, sloppy right hook. To a normal student, it would be fast.
To Karan, whose senses were currently tuned to the frequency of a predator, it looked like it was moving through molasses. He could hear the fabric of the jacket rustle before the arm moved. He could see the shift in the boy’s weight.
Karan didn’t block. He simply leaned his head three inches to the left.
The fist sailed past his ear, hitting nothing but air.
The momentum threw the bully off balance. He stumbled forward.
Karan didn’t clench a fist. He didn’t want to break the kid’s jaw—not yet. Instead, he channeled the fluidity of the Snake style he had inherited from the Mitsuki template.
He whipped his hand out.
SMACK.
The sound echoed through the brick alleyway like a gunshot.
Karan’s open palm connected with the bully’s cheek with perfect precision. It wasn’t just a slap; it was a kinetic transfer of energy.
The bully spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees and collapsed onto the asphalt, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Silence.
The two lackeys stared at their fallen leader, then at Karan.
Karan looked at his hand. “Stingy,” he muttered. Then he looked up at the other two.
“You guys want to dance? Or are we skipping straight to the payment?”
The lackeys fumbled. Terror overrode loyalty instantly.
“We… we don’t have beef, man,” one of them stammered.
“Wallet,” Karan said, extending his hand again. “And his wallet too.”
Trembling hands produced two leather wallets. Karan bent down and fished the wallet out of the unconscious leader’s pocket.
He opened them. He took the cash—a mix of tens and twenties—and tossed the empty wallets back onto the groaning boy’s chest.
“Sixty-five dollars,” Karan counted. He smiled—a cold, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “A pleasure doing business. You guys should try this again tomorrow. I’m trying to save up for a new laptop.”
He stepped over the leader’s legs and walked into the school building, leaving the three of them in the dust.
—
Karan walked into his homeroom class, AP Physics. He slid into an empty seat near the back, his heart rate barely elevated.
He placed his bag on the floor and looked around the room.
That was when the reality of his situation truly hit him.
Sitting two rows ahead of him was a boy. He was hunched over, messing with a vintage film camera. He wore a skateboard t-shirt and had messy brown hair. He looked isolated, intelligent, and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Peter Parker.
Karan’s eyes shifted to the front of the class.
A girl with blonde hair held back by a black headband was organizing her books. She wore a neat sweater vest and a skirt. She was talking to the teacher, her posture perfect.
Gwen Stacy.
Karan froze.
He looked back at the memory of the bully he had just slapped. The face clicked.
Eugene “Flash” Thompson.
“This isn’t a normal America,” Karan realized, his grip on his desk tightening. “This is The Amazing Spider-Man universe. The Andrew Garfield timeline.”
A cold drop of sweat rolled down his spine.
This was bad.
If he travelled to normal world, having power of ninja is a overkill. But in Spiderman world, he is nothing special.
The Lizard turned half the city into biological monsters. Electro fried the grid. The Green Goblin here was a diseased maniac. And Gwen…
He looked at the blonde girl.
She dies, he thought. In this timeline, she falls.
Karan took a deep breath. The nonchalance he had felt in the alleyway evaporated. He wasn’t safe. Being a Ninja Academy Student level fighter meant nothing against a giant lizard that could regenerate limbs or a guy made of pure electricity.
“I need to grind,” he thought, staring at the blackboard. “I need to unlock Ninjutsu. I need Lightning Release. I need Sage Mode.”
He spent the entire physics class not listening to the lecture on vectors, but instead practicing his chakra control.
—
The school day ended in a blur of American history and calculus.
Karan packed his bag and walked out the side exit, intending to head to the grocery store.
“Hey! Freak!”
Karan stopped. He sighed. “Persistent.”
He turned around.
They were in the staff parking lot, which was currently empty. Flash Thompson was back. And this time, he wasn’t alone with two lackeys.
He had the starting lineup of the basketball team with him. Six guys. All tall. All looking very angry that their captain had been slapped by the skinny transfer kid.
Flash had a massive red welt on his cheek in the shape of a handprint.
“You got a lucky shot,” Flash spat, cracking his knuckles. “But let’s see you slap all of us.”
Karan looked at the six giants surrounding him.
He calculated.
Six opponents. Average height 6’2″. Strength: moderate. Skill: minimal. Threat level: Low.
But this was public. He couldn’t use jutsu (not that he knew any yet). He couldn’t do anything supernatural.
He had to use Taijutsu. Pure martial arts.
“Are we doing this?” Karan asked, dropping his bag. “I charge extra for group sessions.”
“Get him!” Flash yelled.
They rushed him.
It was chaotic, uncoordinated. A brawl.
Karan moved.
He didn’t meet their force with force. He flowed.
When a power forward threw a punch, Karan ducked under it, sweeping the boy’s leg. As the boy fell, Karan used his back as a stepping stone to launch himself at the next guy.
He was a blur of motion. A strike to the throat (pulled back just enough to not crush the windpipe). A kick to the solar plexus. A thumb pressed into a pressure point on the shoulder.
It wasn’t a fight. It was a dissection.
Karan moved with the slippery grace of a snake. He dodged, weaved, and countered. Every time he touched one of them, they went down.
Within forty-five seconds, six members of the varsity basketball team were groaning on the asphalt.
Karan stood in the middle of the carnage, barely breathing hard. His shirt was slightly untucked. That was the extent of the damage he had taken.
He walked over to Flash, who was clutching his stomach, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Same deal,” Karan said, crouching down. “Wallet.”
“You… you’re a monster,” Flash wheezed.
“I’m a capitalist,” Karan corrected.
He went from boy to boy, collecting his spoils.
Flash: $40.
Player 2: $20.
Player 3: $15.
Player 4: $200 (Rich parents, evidently).
Player 5: $10.
Player 6: $5.
“Total haul: $290,” Karan noted, shoving the cash into his pocket.
He patted Flash on the shoulder. “Seriously, bring the football team tomorrow. I really need to buy some weights.”
He grabbed his backpack and walked away, leaving the groaning pile of athletes behind him.
—
Thirty minutes later, Karan walked into the apartment.
“I’m home,” he called out.
Chloe was in the living room, painting her nails. She looked up, ready to snap at him about something, but she paused when she saw the pink box in his hand.
Karan placed the box on the coffee table.
“Magnolia Bakery,” he said. “Four cupcakes. Two Red Velvet, two Vanilla. Interest included.”
Chloe stared at the box, then at him. She narrowed her eyes.
“Did you rob a bank?” she asked suspiciously. “You were broke yesterday.”
“I found a job,” Karan lied smoothly. “Part-time security consultant. High risk, high reward.”
He walked to the kitchen and began unpacking the grocery bags he had carried in his other hand.
Cartons of eggs. Chicken breasts. Spinach. Milk. Protein powder.
“Consultant?” Chloe scoffed, opening the box and taking a cupcake. “You look like you need a consultant to open a pickle jar.”
“Working on it,” Karan said, cracking raw eggs into a glass.
He watched Chloe eat the cupcake. The debt was paid.
He drank the raw eggs in one gulp, grimacing at the texture.
Peter Parker is in this city, he thought, staring out the window at the darkening skyline of Queens. The Lizard is coming. I have money. I have food. I have a System.