Ninja of Marvel World - Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Academy in a Night

The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic humming of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled bass of a car stereo passing on the street below.

Karan sat in the center of his small room, the remnants of three pizza boxes stacked in the corner like a greasy monument to his metabolism. He wiped a smudge of tomato sauce from his lip and closed his eyes.

It was 2:00 AM.

Most teenagers were asleep. The studious ones were finishing homework. The rebellious ones were sneaking out.

Karan was trying to turn into a chair.

“Focus,” he whispered, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Visualize the wood. The varnish. The lack of a pulse.”

He channeled his chakra. He could feel the energy pooling in his stomach—exactly 99 units. It was a precise, finite number. It represented the absolute ceiling of a Ninja Academy Student. He was a full cup, waiting to spill over into something greater.

He wove the hand signs. Dog → Boar → Ram.

“Transformation Jutsu.”

Poof.

A cloud of white smoke exploded in the room, smelling faintly of sulfur and ozone.

When the smoke cleared, Karan was still standing there. But he wasn’t Karan. He was a perfect replica of his biology teacher, Mr. Harrington. He looked down at his hands—they were older, wrinkled, with a wedding ring he didn’t own. He touched his face; he felt glasses and a receding hairline.

“It works,” he said, his voice sounding nasally and middle-aged.

He checked the System.

[Chakra: 89/99]

“Ten points to cast,” Karan noted, reverting back to his original form with another puff of smoke. “And one point per minute to maintain. It’s expensive.”

He sat back down. The Transformation Jutsu at Level 1 was limited. He could only mimic biological human forms he had seen. If he wanted to turn into a dog, a bird, or a lamp—the classic ninja infiltration tricks—he needed to grind the skill to Level 2 and Level 3 respectively.

“Next,” Karan muttered. “Clone Jutsu.”

This was the Bunshin no Jutsu, the E-rank technique that Naruto Uzumaki had famously failed a thousand times. Unlike the Shadow Clone Jutsu, which created solid, physical copies capable of fighting and learning, the basic Clone Jutsu created optical illusions. Afterimages.

He wove the signs. Ram → Snake → Tiger.

“Clone Jutsu!”

Three identical Karans flickered into existence around him. They stood perfectly still, their eyes dead and unblinking.

Karan poked one. His finger passed right through the chest, disrupting the chakra flow. The clone wavered like a glitch in a video game before stabilizing.

“Intangible,” Karan observed. “Useless for combat, unless I use them as a distraction. Good for feints.”

[Chakra: 86/99]

“One point per clone. Cheap. Efficient.”

Finally, the big one. Body Flicker Jutsu. Shunshin no Jutsu.

This was the bread and butter of high-level shinobi combat. It wasn’t teleportation, though it looked like it to the untrained eye. It was simply vitalizing the body with chakra to move at speeds the eye couldn’t track.

Karan stood at one end of his tiny bedroom. The wall was ten feet away.

“Careful,” he warned himself. “Don’t pull a Wile E. Coyote.”

He channeled chakra into his legs. Not the slow, steady reinforcement he used for running, but a sudden, explosive burst.

Tiger.

“Shunshin.”

ZAP.

The world blurred.

THUD.

Karan found himself plastered against the opposite wall, his nose throbbing. He peeled himself off the plaster.

“Okay,” he groaned, rubbing his face. “That… was fast.”

He had crossed the room in a literal blink.

[Chakra: 85/99]

“One unit of chakra moves me at 10 meters per second,” Karan calculated, looking at the dent his forehead had made in the drywall. “That’s 22 miles per hour. Instantly. From a standstill.”

That was faster than Usain Bolt’s top speed, achieved with zero acceleration time. And this was just Level 1.

He sat back on his bed, his head spinning slightly from the impact and the chakra drain.

In one night, he had learned the curriculum that took most ninja children four years to master. The System provided the manual, but the Mitsuki Template provided the genius. Mitsuki was a synthetic human created by Orochimaru—arguably the greatest scientist in the shinobi world. His capacity to understand, deconstruct, and execute jutsu was unnatural.

“I’m a prodigy,” Karan realized, looking at his hands. “A broke, hungry prodigy living in Queens.”

He lay back on the pillow. The excitement of the magic was dampening the anxiety of the reality. He closed his eyes, listening to the city outside, and let the chakra in his coils settle.

—

The next morning, the social hierarchy of Midtown Science High School had shifted by a fraction of a degree.

Karan walked through the hallway, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t hunching anymore. His stride was fluid, his head up.

He saw Flash Thompson by the lockers, surrounded by his usual court of varsity jacket-wearing sycophants.

Flash looked up. Their eyes met.

Usually, this was the part where Flash would make a comment about “Slumdog Millionaire” or try to trip him.

Today, Flash suddenly found his shoes very interesting. He turned his back, engaging in a loud, fake conversation with his friend about last night’s game.

The other jocks, the ones Karan had dismantled in the parking lot, parted like the Red Sea. They didn’t look scared—they were too proud for that—but they looked wary. They looked at Karan like one might look at a stray dog that had turned out to be a wolf.

“Peace through superior firepower,” Karan mused, walking past them without a word.

He entered his homeroom and took his seat.

Peter Parker was there, fiddling with a lens cap. He looked up, gave Karan a shy, awkward nod—the universal greeting of the socially invisible—and went back to his camera.

“Still no bite,” Karan noted that current Peter is really weak. “The spider is still waiting.”

The bell rang, but the teacher hadn’t arrived yet.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Gwen Stacy walked in.

The room shifted.

Gwen was the queen bee, but a benevolent one. She was the head intern at Oscorp, top of the class, and the daughter of the Police Captain.

She was wearing a cream-colored sweater and a plaid skirt, her blonde hair held back by her signature black headband.

“Happy Birthday, Gwen!” a girl in the front row squealed.

“Happy Birthday!”

“Did you bring cake?”

Gwen laughed, a bright, genuine sound. “Thanks, guys. No cake, my dad would kill me if I got crumbs in the car again.”

Karan watched from the back. He stood up. Social obligations were a part of survival.

He walked up to the cluster of students around her desk.

“Happy Birthday, Gwen,” he said.

Gwen looked up. Her blue eyes landed on him. She paused for a microsecond—perhaps noticing that he looked different, less like a shadow and more like a person.

“Thanks, Karan,” she smiled. “I didn’t think you knew.”

“Hard to miss,” Karan gestured to the crowd. “The whole school is vibrating.”

“Well,” Gwen tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m having a thing tonight. Just at my house. Backyard, music, pizza. You should come.”

She looked around the group. ” everyone should come. Seriously. My dad bought way too much soda.”

Peter Parker, standing at the periphery, looked like he was about to hyperventilate.

“I’ll be there,” Karan said smoothly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He walked back to his seat.

As he sat down, a strange thought hit him.

He pulled out his phone—the cracked, cheap Android—and checked the date.

October 14th.

He frowned. He accessed the memories of the original Karan Malhotra.

Name: Karan Malhotra.
DOB: October 12th.

“Two days ago,” Karan whispered, a cold chill running down his spine.

Two days ago, the phone had exploded. Two days ago, he had woken up in the clinic.

The original Karan Malhotra had died on his birthday.

He had turned seventeen, clicked a pop-up ad, and ceased to exist.

“Happy Birthday to me,” Karan thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m seventeen now. Legally an adult in some states, still a child in the eyes of the law here.”

He looked out the window at the American flag flapping in the wind. He was living a dead boy’s life. The least he could do was live it well.

—

The evening sun was setting over the park, casting long, golden rays through the trees.

Karan was finishing his final lap.

[Running: 29.8/30km]

He wasn’t panting. He wasn’t sweating. He was running at a steady 15 kilometers per hour, his breath synchronized with his stride.

He crossed the invisible finish line.

Ding.

[Daily Quest Completed!]
[Reward: 100 EXP, 10 Points]
[Trait Activation: A-Rank Talent (x8 Multiplier)]
[Total: 800 EXP, 10 Points]

Karan stopped, took a sip of water, and summoned the status screen.

[Level Up Available!]

He had been holding off. He wanted to do it all at once.

“System,” he commanded mentally. “Level Up. Maximize.”

The familiar heat surged in his stomach. But this time, it was more intense. It wasn’t just a warm soup; it was a roaring fire. The energy rushed through his meridians, expanding them, thickening the walls of his chakra pathways.

Level 21… 22… 23.

It stopped.

[Status Updated: Genin]

—

Name: Karan Malhotra

Ninja Level: 23 (100/300)

Status: Genin

Bloodline: Jugo (Passive Regen, Nature Affinity)

Affinities: Wind, Lightning

Talent: A-Rank

Skill: Chakra Control Lv2, Body Flicker Lv1

Jutsu: Transformation Lv1, Clone Lv1

…

Points: 20

[Quest]

[Mall]

—

“The jump,” he noted. “It’s significant.”

As an Academy Student (Levels 1-20), he gained roughly 5 units of chakra per level. It was a slow drip.

But crossing the threshold to Genin (Level 21) changed the scaling. He was now gaining 20 units of chakra per level.

“I have 160 chakra,” Karan grinned. “That’s 160 clones. Or 1600 meters of Body Flicker. I can fight now. I can actually fight.”

But he needed a signature move. He couldn’t just slap people forever.

He opened the [Mall].

He browsed the Jutsu list. Fireball Jutsu (C-Rank) was 10,000 points. Too expensive. Chidori (A-Rank) was a million.

He scrolled down to the E-Rank and D-Rank section.

There, nestled in the utility section, was something that fit his bloodline perfectly.

[Summoning Contract: Ryuchi Cave (Lesser Snake)]
Cost: 50 Points.

Karan frowned. “I only have 30 points.”

He looked at the daily quest reward history. He had 10 from day one, 10 from day two, 10 from today. That was 30.

“Wait,” he checked the Achievement tab.

[Achievement Unlocked: Reached Genin]
Reward: 50 Points.

“Jackpot.”

He claimed the reward. Total Points: 80.

He purchased the contract.

A scroll materialized in his hands. It was old, smelling of damp earth and scales.

Karan bit his thumb—a classic anime trope that actually hurt quite a bit—and smeared the blood on the parchment.

“I, Karan Malhotra, sign the contract.”

The scroll glowed purple and vanished.

[Skill Acquired: Summoning Jutsu (Snake)]

Summons a generic white snake from Ryuchi Cave. These snakes are clones. They possess the hive mind of the Cave. They are venomous.

Cost: 1 Chakra per snake.

Karan sat on the park bench. He wanted to test it.

He wove the signs. Boar → Dog → Bird → Monkey → Ram.

He slammed his hand on the bench.

Poof.

A small, white snake, about two feet long, appeared. It slithered up his arm, flicking its tongue.

Karan looked at it. And then, he felt the Jugo Bloodline activate. It wasn’t a sound in his ears; it was a feeling in his brain. An intent.

Warm… Master… Hunger…

The thoughts were simple. Broken images. The snake wasn’t reciting Shakespeare. It had the intelligence of a toddler.

“Can you understand me?” Karan asked softly, looking into its red vertical slit eyes.

Yes… Master… Order?

“Bite that apple core,” Karan pointed to a piece of trash on the ground.

The snake launched itself. It struck the apple core with terrifying speed, injecting a clear liquid.

Within seconds, the apple core began to fizz and dissolve.

“Neurotoxin and acid,” Karan noted. “Deadly.”

He dispelled the snake. It vanished in a puff of smoke.

“160 snakes,” Karan thought. “I can summon a literal pit of vipers. That’s… unsettling. I love it.”

—

Karan needed a gift.

He couldn’t walk into some shop. He didn’t have that kind of money.

He took the subway to a seedier part of Queens, a few blocks away from the sanitized world of Midtown High. He found the place he was looking for—a pawn shop with bars on the windows and a sign that said “WE BUY GOLD” in neon that flickered ominously.

This was the “Thief Market.” Not an official organization, just a place where things that stolen from market or houses ended up.

Karan walked in. The air smelled of dust and old electronics.

“Help you?” the guy behind the counter grunted. He was watching a wrestling match on a tiny TV.

“Sneakers,” Karan said. “Size 7. Women’s. Something… recognizable.”

The man reached under the counter and pulled out a box. It was a pair of Jordan 1s. High tops. The colorway was white and powder blue.

“Authentic?” Karan asked.

“As far as you know,” the man shrugged. “Forty bucks.”

They were worth two hundred easily.

“Thirty,” Karan countered.

“Thirty-five.”

“Deal.”

Karan paid with the crumpled bills he had taken from Flash’s friends. He inspected the shoes. They looked brand new. Probably stolen from a porch yesterday.

“Morality is a luxury for the rich,” Karan told himself as he walked out with the box. “Gwen gets cool shoes, the pawnbroker gets lunch, and I get social credit. Everyone wins. Except the guy who got his package stolen.”

—

The Stacy residence was a large, two-story colonial house in Forest Hills. It radiated authority. There was a police cruiser parked in the driveway.

Music thumped from the backyard—generic Top 40 pop.

Karan walked up the driveway. He checked his reflection in the side mirror of the cruiser. He was wearing his only decent outfit: a black hoodie and dark jeans. They were clean, at least.

He walked around the back.

The yard was packed. There were fairy lights strung up between the trees. A DJ table was set up on the patio. There were coolers everywhere, filled with red cups.

But as Karan scanned the crowd, he noticed the distinct lack of stumbling.

“Soda,” Karan realized, sniffing the air. “Coca-Cola and Sprite. Captain Stacy is running a dry ship.”

He spotted Gwen near the drinks table. She was laughing, holding a cup. She looked radiant, the center of gravity for the entire party.

Karan approached.

“Happy Birthday, again,” he said, holding out the box.

Gwen turned. Her face lit up. “Karan! You made it.”

She took the box. She didn’t wait to open it later. She popped the lid.

Her eyes widened. “No way. Jordan 1s? The UNC colorway?”

She looked at him, genuinely shocked. “Karan, these are… these are expensive.”

“I know a guy,” Karan smiled mysteriously. “They fell off a truck. Metaphorically.”

Gwen laughed. “They’re amazing. Thank you. Seriously.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “Go get some food. My mom made like, five hundred sliders.”

“Music to my ears.”

Karan drifted away, letting Gwen return to her admirers. He found the food table. It was a buffet of teenage dreams: sliders, pizza rolls, chips, dip, cookies.

He grabbed a plate and piled it high. His metabolism was a furnace. He needed the calories to maintain the muscle mass he was building so aggressively.

He found a quiet spot near a large oak tree—ironically, perfect for tree climbing practice—and leaned against it, eating a burger in two bites.

He watched the party.

It was… nice.

In his past life, he had been a solitary man. He watched anime, worked a dead-end job, and slept. He hadn’t been to a party in twenty years.

But now, he felt the hormones of a seventeen-year-old washing over him. The music sounded better. The girls looked prettier. The energy was infectious.

He tapped his foot to the beat.

“Hey, man.”

Karan looked to his left. A kid with shaggy hair and dilated pupils sidled up to him. He recognized him—one of the burnouts from shop class.

“You holding?” the kid whispered, looking around nervously.

Karan paused, a slider halfway to his mouth.

“Holding what?” Karan asked, though he knew exactly what.

“You know,” the kid winked. “The stuff. You usually have the good stuff.”

The ghost of the old Karan. The drug addict. The dealer.

Karan looked at the kid. He looked at the desperation in his eyes, the twitchy hands. It was like looking in a mirror from three days ago.

Karan swallowed his food.

“I’m out of the game,” Karan said, his voice dropping an octave. ” permanently.”

“Oh, come on,” the kid whined. “Just a little—”

“I said,” Karan whispered, “I’m out. Go drink a Sprite, kid. It’s better for you.”

The kid flinched, mumbled an apology, and scrambled away.

Karan watched him go. He took a deep breath of the cool evening air.

He felt good. He wasn’t the victim anymore. He wasn’t the addict.

He was a Genin.

He took another burger from the tray and bit into it, watching Gwen Stacy dance with her friends under the fairy lights.

“Being seventeen isn’t so bad,” Karan thought, smiling as the sugar and the music and the chakra buzzed in his veins. “I could get used to this.”