Respawned in Marvel: The Ultimate Hunter System - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Erasing the Soul and Negotiating with Meatheads

The rhythmic squeak of the cheap floorboards was the only sound in the apartment as the morning sun slowly crawled across the living room wall.

“One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” Veer muttered, his breathing entirely steady, his heart rate barely elevated above a resting pace. He lowered himself until his thighs were perfectly parallel to the floor, paused for a microscopic second to ensure maximum muscle engagement, and exploded upward. “Two thousand.”

He stood perfectly straight and let out a soft exhale. He didn’t even need to wipe his forehead. Thanks to a Vitality stat of 19, a two-thousand-rep set of deep squats was the biological equivalent of a light morning stretch.

‘Ding!’

[Daily Conditioning Complete]
[Reward: +20 EXP]

Veer glanced at the translucent blue screen hovering in his peripheral vision and let out a cynical sigh.

“Twenty EXP,” he drawled to the empty room, stretching his arms over his head. “I just did enough squats to vaporize a normal human’s kneecaps, and the System gives me the equivalent of a digital pat on the back. Classic.”

He knew exactly what was happening. It was the fundamental rule of any progression system: the higher your level, the steeper the climb. What used to grant him an entire level-up when he was Level 1 was now barely a drop in the bucket at Level 12. The honeymoon phase of explosive growth was officially over; he was now entering the brutal, unapologetic territory of the grind.

“Right. Time to sit still and do absolutely nothing for an hour,” Veer decided, dropping onto the faded carpet and crossing his legs into a comfortable lotus position.

He closed his eyes and summoned the white, dense shroud of ‘Ten’ around his body. The familiar, comforting warmth wrapped around his skin like a tailored suit of liquid armor. For the next sixty minutes, he focused entirely on the hum of his own life energy, maintaining the perfect, unbroken flow of aura.

When he finally opened his eyes, the notification was waiting for him.

[Ten: +6% Proficiency]

“Six percent for an hour of deep meditation,” Veer calculated aloud, staring at the ceiling. “That means to get the remaining ninety-four percent to reach Level 3, I need to sit here for another nine hundred and forty minutes. That’s over fifteen hours. I am literally going to spend my entire second youth sitting on the floor like a glorified garden gnome.”

He shook his head, pushing the math away. He couldn’t afford to get frustrated. Instead, he mentally pulled up the System Library.

The towering, infinite bookshelves materialized in his mind’s eye. If ‘Ten’ was the art of keeping the aura contained and flowing for defense, he needed the opposite. He needed the ability to vanish.

A sleek, black, leather-bound book floated down into his mental grasp.

[The Principles of Nen: Zetsu]

He absorbed the conceptual knowledge in seconds. ‘Zetsu’ was the total cessation of aura flow. It required the user to violently shut every single aura node on their body, stopping the outward leakage of life energy entirely. By doing so, the user effectively erased their presence. To anyone relying on energy sensing or even basic instinct, a person using ‘Zetsu’ simply ceased to exist.

‘Ding!’

[Skill Registered: Zetsu Lv0 (0%)]

“Let’s try drowning my soul,” Veer muttered.

He closed his eyes again. Instead of visualizing the energy flowing out and wrapping around him, he imagined thousands of tiny doors across his skin slamming shut. He actively commanded his life force to retreat deep into his core and stay there.

It was an incredibly uncomfortable sensation at first. It felt like holding his breath, but on a spiritual level. The natural state of a living creature was to radiate energy; forcing it inward felt entirely wrong.

He held it. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. He started to feel a strange, cold emptiness creeping over his skin where the warm shroud of ‘Ten’ usually sat.

He kept the nodes locked tight for an agonizing one hundred minutes.

‘Ding!’

[Skill Leveled Up: Zetsu Lv1 (0%)]

Veer snapped his eyes open. The change was immediate and jarring.

The apartment felt different. He felt different. The protective, invisible Kevlar of his ‘Ten’ was completely gone, leaving him feeling utterly exposed and naked. If Flash Thompson were to somehow sneak up and hit him with a baseball bat right now, it would genuinely hurt. The absolute defense was disabled.

But the trade-off was magnificent.

With his aura forcibly contained within his body, his internal recovery rates skyrocketed. He could feel his AP pool bubbling, ready to replenish at twice its normal speed. Even better, without the “noise” of his own aura radiating outward, his senses were sharply amplified. His Perception stat of 11 effectively doubled. He could hear the faint, erratic scratching of a mouse inside the drywall three apartments down.

“I am officially a ghost,” Veer smirked, relaxing his focus and allowing his aura nodes to naturally open again. The comforting presence of his normal energy returned, dulling his hyper-senses back to their manageable baseline.

He glanced at the digital clock on the stove. It was 7:15 AM.

“Well, so much for learning ‘Ren’ today,” he sighed, pushing himself off the floor. ‘Ren’, the explosive outward projection of aura used for offense, would have to wait. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to miss first period.

Veer stripped off his sweaty workout clothes and stepped into the cramped, lukewarm shower. As he washed the grime away, he caught a glimpse of himself in the foggy, cracked bathroom mirror.

He wiped the condensation away with a towel and just stared for a moment.

The transformation over the past thirty days was nothing short of miraculous. The skinny Indian kid who used to fold in on himself to avoid drawing attention was completely gone. His Vitality and Strength stats had forcefully rewritten his DNA.

He had grown at least three inches taller, his posture naturally straightening into a confident, relaxed stance. But it was the musculature that was truly shocking. He didn’t look like a monstrous, bulky bodybuilder; instead, he looked like a professional, elite-level fitness model. His shoulders were incredibly broad, tapering down into a tight, V-shaped torso defined by a deeply cut eight-pack. Every muscle fiber was dense, highly defined, and coiled with explosive power.

If he were to stand chest-to-chest with Flash Thompson right now, they would share the exact same mass and physique, except Veer’s muscle definition looked like it was carved out of marble, whereas Flash just looked like a teenager who ate too much protein powder.

“If I walked into school wearing a tight t-shirt, I’m pretty sure Flash would just spontaneously combust from insecurity,” Veer chuckled darkly.

But he had no intention of doing that. Drawing unnecessary attention was a tactical error. He dried off and deliberately pulled on a plain black t-shirt that was two sizes too big, following it up with his signature, oversized grey hoodie. The baggy fabric completely swallowed his impressive physique, making him look just as unassuming and average as he had a month ago.

He walked into the kitchenette and quickly whipped up a massive, six-egg omelet loaded with spinach, bell peppers, and lean turkey, pairing it with a large bowl of oatmeal.

He ate with mechanical efficiency.

‘Ding!’

[Nutritional Intake Optimal.]
[Reward: +1 EXP]

Veer smiled around a mouthful of eggs. “Say what you want about the System, but rewarding me for not eating processed garbage is a feature I can get behind. If eating a Twinkie gives negative EXP, I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

—

The hallways of Mid-Town High were their usual brand of chaotic, hormonal misery.

Veer navigated the sea of students with the effortless grace of his Agility stat, slipping between backpacks and open locker doors without brushing a single shoulder. He had just reached his locker and was swapping his history textbook for his calculus binder when he caught a familiar floral scent.

“Hey, Veer.”

He closed the metal door to find Gwen Stacy standing there, clutching her ever-present clipboard. Today, however, she was also holding a stack of small, neatly printed envelopes.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Veer said, leaning casually against the lockers. “Who are we organizing an intervention for today? Did the chess club get caught gambling again, or are we just aggressively fundraising for the debate team?”

Gwen rolled her eyes, though a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She had grown somewhat accustomed to his constant, dry sarcasm over the past month, even if she still didn’t understand half of his dark jokes.

“Neither, actually,” she said, holding out one of the small envelopes. “I’m passing these out. It’s my birthday this Saturday.”

Veer took the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It was high-quality cardstock. “A birthday party. Fascinating. Will there be a bouncy castle, or are we straight to the existential dread of aging?”

“It’s just a small get-together at my house,” Gwen laughed softly. “Pizza, some music, hanging out in the backyard. My dad is going to be grilling. I’d really like it if you came, Veer. You’ve been… well, you’ve been surprisingly tolerable lately. And I think it would be good for you to get out of your apartment.”

“Tolerable. Put that on my tombstone, Gwen, it’s a glowing endorsement,” Veer deadpanned. He looked at the invitation, and a sudden, very heavy reality crashed down on him.

A birthday party meant a birthday gift. A birthday gift meant money.

He was absolutely, devastatingly broke. The small allowance his parents had given him before the exchange program was completely dried up, spent on high-protein groceries to fuel his System’s metabolism. He couldn’t ask them for a single dime; his father was already drowning in the loan interest. He couldn’t show up to the Police Captain’s house empty-handed and eat their free food; his pride, forged in the fires of a lifetime of poverty, simply wouldn’t allow it.

He needed a massive influx of cash. Immediately.

“I’ll check my highly demanding schedule of staring at the wall,” Veer lied smoothly, tucking the envelope into his hoodie pocket. “But I should be able to make it. Thanks, Gwen.”

“Great! See you in AP Calc,” she smiled, turning and walking down the hallway to hand an invitation to a passing Peter Parker.

Veer watched her go, the sarcastic smile dropping from his face instantly. He had spent a month passively searching for the underground fight clubs. Passive was no longer an option. He had to go straight to the source of all illicit, meathead knowledge in Mid-Town High.

He had to talk to Flash Thompson.

—

Veer found him during the lunch period.

Flash was holding court near the football field bleachers, surrounded by his usual entourage of sycophants and athletes. He was mid-story, aggressively pantomiming a football play, when his eyes locked onto Veer approaching across the grass.

The transformation in Flash was instantaneous and embarrassing.

The bully stopped mid-sentence. His eyes went wide, his face paled slightly beneath his tan, and he instinctively took a half-step backward. He dropped his hands, widening his stance into a defensive posture, looking like a cornered animal preparing for a predator to strike.

His friends, noticing the sudden shift, turned around. When they saw it was just Veer—the scrawny Indian kid in the baggy hoodie—they looked incredibly confused by their leader’s sudden panic.

Veer stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He looked at the defensive stance and sighed.

“Relax, Eugene,” Veer said, his voice entirely calm, carrying a tone of deep, profound boredom. “Put your shoulders down before you pull a muscle. I didn’t come out here to fight.”

Flash swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t drop his guard. He glanced nervously at his friends, clearly trying to salvage his pride in front of an audience.

“What do you want, Singh?” Flash sneered, his voice artificially loud and laced with venom. “Did you get lost on your way to the library? Why don’t you do us all a favor and go back to whatever third-world slum you immigrated from, you punk.”

It was a harsh, racist insult, the kind that used to make the original Veer cry in the bathroom stalls.

Veer didn’t even blink. He just stared at Flash with the detached, slightly amused expression of a biologist observing a particularly stupid insect.

“Flash, listen to me very carefully,” Veer said, his voice dropping into a smooth, conversational cadence that completely ignored the insult. “We both know exactly how a fight between us ends. You know I am vastly, astronomically stronger than you. And yet, for the past thirty days, I haven’t shoved you into a single locker. I haven’t tripped you in the cafeteria, and I haven’t waited for you in the parking lot to bounce your head off the pavement.”

Flash’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting back and forth.

“I didn’t become the monster you were to me,” Veer continued smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. Flash immediately took a step back. “Because if I started to bully you with the same enthusiasm you showed me… well, I don’t think you’d have any reputation left in this school. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’d be crying in the counselor’s office by Wednesday. Is that a timeline you really want to explore?”

The absolute, chilling confidence in Veer’s voice, combined with the vivid memory of his own fist being stopped dead by a single, immovable palm, finally shattered Flash’s bravado.

Flash’s face flushed a deep, humiliated red. “That last time… that was a fluke, alright? It was a mistake. I tripped. I won’t lose to you again.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that,” Veer agreed instantly, offering a patronizing smile. “The asphalt was notoriously slippery that day. Now that we’ve protected your fragile ego in front of your friends, can we get down to business?”

Even after claiming it was a fluke, Flash didn’t make a single move to attack. He just exhaled a long, frustrated breath, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch.

“Whatever,” Flash muttered, breaking eye contact and looking at the grass. “What do you want?”

“I need a location,” Veer said directly, dropping the sarcasm. “I heard you have connection with some shady people who handles the sports betting in Queens. I need you to tell me where the illegal fighting tournaments are being held.”

Flash’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in pure shock. His friends exchanged bewildered glances.

“You?” Flash blurted out, a harsh, incredulous laugh escaping his lips. The sheer absurdity of the request made his eyes shine with sudden, malicious glee. “Are you serious? You want to go to the underground arenas? Are you looking to participate, or do you just want to buy popcorn and watch people die?”

Veer let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am currently experiencing what my economics teacher would call a ‘severe liquidity crisis.’ In simpler terms, I am profoundly broke. So, why not try earning some cash where the taxman doesn’t look?”

Flash stared at him, the malicious smile stretching into a full-blown, mocking grin. All of his fear was suddenly eclipsed by the sheer comedy of the situation.

“Singh, you are massively overestimating yourself,” Flash sneered, stepping closer, his confidence artificially inflating. “You think because you got lucky and pushed me over once that you’re some kind of badass? The guys in the cages down there aren’t high school linebackers. They are absolute monsters. They are ex-cons, cartel enforcers, and guys juiced up on experimental street drugs. They won’t just beat you; they will literally tear your limbs off and beat the hell out of you with them.”

“That sounds like a terribly unhygienic way to die,” Veer replied, completely unfazed. “But I appreciate your deep concern for my physical well-being, Eugene. It’s touching, really. Now, are you going to give me the address, or do we need to test how ‘slippery’ the grass is today?”

The veiled threat worked instantly. Flash’s smile vanished, and he took a quick step back, clearing his throat.

“You’re an idiot,” Flash muttered, shaking his head. “Fine. If you want to commit suicide, I’m not gonna stop you. But I don’t have the address on me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not a bowling alley, Singh, it’s an illegal fight club,” Flash rolled his eyes, looking at Veer like he was stupid. “The location changes constantly to avoid the cops. It’s never in the same warehouse twice. I have to contact my source, see where the ring is being set up tonight, and get the entry password.”

Veer nodded slowly, processing the information. That explained why his nightly patrols had yielded absolutely nothing.

“Alright,” Veer said, pulling out his cheap, chunky flip phone. “Get the details. You have until five o’clock this evening to send me the address and the password.”

He dictated his phone number. Flash pulled out a top-of-the-line smartphone and begrudgingly typed it in.

“I’ll text you,” Flash said, pocketing his phone. He looked at Veer, a mixture of pity and lingering resentment in his eyes. “Make sure your life insurance is paid up, Gandhi. I’m not paying for your funeral.”

“Don’t worry,” Veer smiled, a dark, genuinely terrifying glint flashing in his dark eyes. “If I die, I’ll just haunt your locker. Have a great practice, Eugene.”

Veer turned his back on the bully and walked casually back toward the school building, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets.

Tonight, he was going to test his Aura against the worst New York had to offer, and he was going to make enough money to buy Gwen Stacy a truly excellent birthday present.