Max lay sprawled on his bed, the soft hum of Horizon's systems fading as he blinked awake on Earth again. The contrast was jarring—no neon rivers, no fractal skylines, just the quiet of his room, the dim city lights of Marvel's New York bleeding in through the window.
He exhaled, folding one arm behind his head, and with a thought, his System bloomed into existence above him—a translucent cascade of panels, flickering like cosmic cards shuffled in a dealer's hands.
"Marvel's settled for now," he murmured, his tone thoughtful. "The Avengers have their crucible. Horizon will test them better than I ever could. But me… I've got other cards to play."
His gaze sharpened. "System. Show me the list of traversable worlds."
The air above him shimmered, and then it came—an endless constellation of names and sigils, each representing a different universe. They weren't just titles; each icon pulsed with the energy of its world, giving off impressions that tugged at his mind.
He sat up slightly, scanning through them, his eyes darting like a gambler weighing bets.
[Traversable World Tickets – Active Inventory]
Naruto (Shinobi Age – Pre-War)
Bleach (Soul Society Arc – Unstable Timeline)
One Piece (Grand Line – Era of the Worst Generation)
Danmachi (Orario – Dungeon Awakening)
Fate/Stay (Multiple Branches Available)
Overlord (Yggdrasil Collapse Point)
Cyberpunk 2077 (Night City – Divergent Run)
RWBY (Before Beacon's Fall)
Solo Leveling (Pre-Gate Global Awakening)
Elden Ring (Shattering Era)
DC Universe (Pre-Crisis Convergence)
Record of Ragnarok (Divine Arena Onset)
Original [???] (System-Generated Experimental World)
The list kept scrolling, endless, some names familiar, others hidden behind distortion—worlds he wasn't yet authorized to peek at. Each one radiated both promise and danger.
Max smirked faintly. "Choices, choices… Marvel's just the beginning. But where do I sharpen my teeth next? Do I want chaos… or control?"
His finger traced the air as if selecting cards from a deck. Naruto's sigil glowed faintly—wars, clans, jinchūriki, gods playing with mortals. Bleach pulsed with that razor-thin line between soul and void. One Piece flared with the scent of salt, freedom, and storms. Cyberpunk's glyph flickered like glitching neon, whispering of chrome, greed, and madness.
And then there were the unknowns—worlds blurred, unstable, the System warning him that they were "experimental realms." Untamed, unpredictable, maybe even broken.
Max chuckled softly, leaning back again. "Hah… I could play god in some, ghost in others. But whichever I choose… the board changes. For me, for them."
His eyes glowed faintly as the System whispered probabilities, outcomes, risks.
In the end, Max pressed on Cyberpunk.
"I really want to go there… especially after watching the anime," he muttered. And, he tapped the confirmation.
The instant he did, lights surged—like circuitry burning into reality. His vision cracked, bled neon, then collapsed into static.
–––
He woke to cold. His body jerked as a sensation like knives stabbed through his skin. He gasped, chest convulsing, lungs sucking in air that burned like acid.
"…What the hell?" he rasped.
When his eyes adjusted, he realized he was submerged—his naked form suspended in a tank of iced liquid, wires burrowing into his arms and spine. Frost clung to the glass. His body trembled violently, teeth chattering.
The System's tone was uncharacteristically sharp.
[Host have successfully transmigerated, Current identity initialized.]
Information bled into his head:
Age: 19.
Status: Kidnapped from Night City's lower districts.
Captured by Scavengers. Sold off to Raffen Shiv for organ and braindance extraction.
His breath hitched. "…Seriously? This is what I spawn into?"
Through the haze of cold, Max tried to move—his muscles sluggish, heavy. Beyond the glass of the tank, distorted shadows shuffled. The faint thrum of machinery echoed. He could just make out guttural voices, laughter, and the clank of metal on metal.
The System continued, calm despite his rising panic.
[Scenario Anchor Loaded: Cyberpunk 2077 – Alternate Line.]
[Primary Identity secured: 'Nameless Kidnapped Resident.' Current Threat Level: Terminal.]
Max raised his brow. His breath misted white against the glass as he stared out at the dark, filthy warehouse lit by flickering neon strips.
"…Alright," he whispered, voice raw, a grim smile tugging at his lips despite the cold.
"If this is how it starts… then let's play."
[Host has one Random Gacha draw available. Would Host like to use it?]
"Yep. Do it," Max nodded.
Gas hissed inside the tank. The scav thugs outside moved closer, dragging metal crates and laughing crudely, but Max's focus was elsewhere.
[Congratulations, Host! You have drawn: Player Account (V – Level 60 Corpo Build).]
The words slammed into his head like a data spike. Max blinked—then grinned. "Ohhh… so it's giving me my playground build, huh?"
His body shifted instantly. Tech-implants lit under his skin, old flesh replaced by sleek, Tier-5++ chrome. Reflex boosters, neural accelerators, subdermal armor—everything from his optimized netrunner-corpo loadout. His HUD flickered alive, icons and combat modules cascading into place across his vision.
Max flexed his hands, feeling the smooth hum of high-grade cyberware answer back.
"Good. Nothing better than a Netrunner who zeros people while playing Sudoku," he chuckled, voice low and sharp.
But it wasn't just chrome. The account had given him everything. Over a billion eddies, every iconic weapon, all cars, and every apartment Night City had to offer—delivered straight into his inventory as though it were a game save file.
With a grin, Max reached into his digital arsenal and materialized one of his favorites: Raiju, the iconic tech machine gun. Its sleek frame gleamed with power, coils humming as blue arcs of electricity crawled along the weapon. Fully automatic, piercing through cover, and devastating when unleashed—one of Phantom Liberty's most broken toys.
"Let's see how this sings," Max muttered, looking at the wall as his Stalker optics activated showing him people behind the wall.
He aimed. The barrel roared. Red-hot tracers tore through the warehouse, shredding scav bodies and cover alike. Sparks and blood mist filled the air. By the time the magazine was spent, silence fell. The floor was littered with corpses—smoking, twitching, already cooling. Not a single scav remained alive in that section.
The gun clicked empty. Max lowered Raiju, smoke trailing from its barrel, and exhaled.
"Efficient," he said, almost casually.
***
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