'Wait, now that he got bitten, does it mean Peter is technically stronger than me?'
Ethan's fist slammed into the heavy bag. Then again. And again. The chain rattled faintly above, protesting with each sharp impact.
The dojo was quiet. Empty in the way that made every breath feel louder, every stray thought harder to ignore. Colleen hadn't shown up yet. Neither had the more advanced students. Just a few kids earlier who were too young to teach and too soft to last.
The thought of being physically inferior to some no-life boy who never completed a single workout was enough to put some more passion in his hits, but he knew he'd have to accept it.
Peter Parker wasn't the problem, after all. He was just the pebble that started the slide. The latest reminder of how this world worked.
Some people got everything for free.
It was full of people who didn't make any effort yet were so much more powerful than him he could barely register as a threat.
Not unless he figured out how to collapse a building or snap their necks Darth Vader-style, though at his current level, this kind of stunt is just wishful thinking.
Still, the thought that despite years of physical and mental training, he was still somehow lesser to people who didn't even try.
Well, it stung quite a bit.
Ethan stepped back and rolled his shoulder. Sweat soaked through his shirt, darkening the fabric around his chest and spine. He raised one hand lazily, fingers spread, and with a casual pulse of thought, he shoved the heavy bag back. It swung hard, like someone twice his weight had shoulder-checked it, before slowing into a steady rhythm.
He didn't use the ability openly here. Not when Colleen was around, he could do without a cult of ancient murders knowing he could do shit like this. But it was always there, coiled behind his eyes and spine, always ready to move something that shouldn't move, to shift weight without effort.
That was his advantage. Not dropped from the sky or granted in a freak accident, something he had to nurture and train, raw and real, pulsing in his veins since the day he woke up in this ridiculous stitched-together universe.
But even that had limits.
He couldn't fly. Couldn't tear through steel. Couldn't collapse a skyscraper with a thought…at least not yet.
It was strength, yes. A rare one. But it wasn't enough to put him in the same category as the monsters lurking behind the curtain of this world.
Mutants with omega-class gifts. Billionaires in flying suits. Aliens with larger than life ambitions. Soldiers cooked up in labs. Sorcerers reading from books made of human skin.
He'd read the files. The comics. The wikis. The lore. He knew how stacked the deck really was.
And most of them? They hadn't earned it. Not the way he had to earn every inch, every pound he could lift, every skill he learned.
He trained. Fought. Scraped together scraps of power from alleys, side hustles, backroom deals. He raided gang dens not for justice, but for funding. Struggled with control. Pushed himself until his head pounded and his nose bled from overuse.
And even then, he barely made a dent.
Still.
He raised both hands now, palms open. The heavy bag froze mid-swing, trembling slightly in the air. Not bad for a morning warm-up.
He twisted his fingers—flicked—and the bag snapped sideways, hitting the steel column next to it with a dull thump.
The control was getting better. Smoother. Cleaner. He didn't need to squint anymore, or clench his jaw until his teeth cracked.
It was coming together. Slowly.
And now, with money starting to flow, the real game could begin.
Ripping off Subway Surfers had been a gamble. A brain-dead little dopamine trap with catchy music and smooth swipes, born in a basement with Peter Parker half-asleep next to him and a busted FrostMobile dev kit coughing smoke every other hour.
But it worked. The numbers didn't lie. Ads, microtransactions, engagement graphs that ticked ever upward.
No more raiding small fries for $500. No more fencing stolen goods through shady middlemen. He didn't need to dance with the devil just to buy decent gear.
He was financially viable now.
That meant upgrades. Real ones.
No more stitched-together tactical gear that was too bulky, too simple for a world of capes and cowls where everyone and their moms had the best equipment money could buy.
No more mismatched armor plates and streetwear. Now he could commission something smart. Practical. A suit that could disappear in shadow, resist light impact, hold hidden gear. Lightweight. Modifiable. Maybe even reactive.
A neural-linked mask interface wasn't out of the question, if he could somehow trick Gwen into helping. HUD, voice modulation, subdermal comms. Nothing Stark-level. Not yet, maybe not ever. But something. A presence. An identity.
A threat.
He wouldn't become a superhero. That wasn't the point. It was about survival
From the back of the dojo, the sliding door creaked open.
Colleen Wing and her abs of steel, his sensei walked so Mikasa could run and give issues to many boys out there.
She didn't say anything. Just nodded faintly and moved past him toward the weapon racks. He nodded back, casually wiping his brow. His pulse didn't even spike anymore around her. Not because she wasn't dangerous, she was, but because he couldn't afford to show it.
She didn't know what he knew. About the Hand. About her ties. About the ancient, bloody network watching from the shadows with eyes like knives for any promising young blood they could trick into becoming their tool.
He liked her. Respected her. Trusted her even, up to a point, mainly when his training was concerned, she rarely if ever denied him growth.
But if he got too close? The wrong people might take interest.
And Ethan Cain did not want their interest.
So he trained. Pushed himself. Listened carefully, spoke sparingly.
Improved. Adapted. Overcame…
And kept his distance.
"Warming up hard today?" she asked, grabbing a staff and spinning it absently.
"Yeah," Ethan cracked a smirk, wiping his face with a towel. "Just had some things to work through."
"Must've been loud things. Bag looks pissed." She noted, raising a brow, "Don't break it again, those things are not cheap."
"It deserved it." He chuckled.
Colleen gave him a long, thoughtful look, but didn't press further. That was one thing he appreciated about her, she didn't pry, perks of being a bag of secrets herself.
In a world full of meddlers and masked therapists, that kind of restraint was rare.
"Ten minutes of drills," she said. "Then spar."
"Looking forward to it."
He was. It grounded him. Gave him something to measure and kept the nagging voice that told him he was wasting his time at bay.
He wasn't the strongest. But he was growing, and that would be enough if folks like Sentry didn't exist.
. . .
Colleen didn't say "begin." She never did, not since they started sparring semi-seriously.
Enemies won't give him a nice warning before starting, and he could get behind that.
But she was being courteous, using a staff instead of her sword, wooden or not, she would destroy him if she used her weapon of choice.
Her staff cracked through the air like a gunshot, a sharp arc aimed for his temple. Ethan twisted his upper body just enough to avoid the brunt, feeling the wooden shaft glance off his forearm pad with a sharp thock.
He gritted his teeth, pivoted his stance, and went for a low counter-hook.
Too slow, way too slow.
She caught his wrist with the tail end of the staff, redirected his momentum, and stepped inside his guard.
Strike. Strike. Sweep.
He stumbled back on the last one but didn't fall. Not this time.
He inhaled slow, deep, and reached for the ever increasing reserves of energy that fueled his telekinesis.
Not far. Not big. Not showy.
Just a slight push on his own back foot. A whisper of force propelling him forward half a step quicker than his body allowed.
He weaved under her next swing. Felt the air of it graze his scalp. Came up with a tight jab to her ribs, not enough to do real damage, but enough to say I'm still here.
She grunted, adjusted.
Ethan let his hand drop slightly, palm angled to the side, where her follow-up blow was coming.
He didn't try to stop the hit, just made himself a bit tougher.
A narrow, invisible wedge of force dispersing the kinetic energy just as it struck him.
Still hurt. Still off balance. But not broken.
"Sloppy," she said, admonishing herself.
He just grinned.
She surged forward again, spinning the staff low and fast. He mirrored the motion, using his own telekinesis like a pressure valve, dispersing the force from her strikes across the mat, letting them bleed off his body rather than soak.
To her, he just seemed a bit more durable.
The effect was inconsistent. Some blows dulled. Some still bruised through padding.
But it bought him time.
Time to read her movement. To close the gap between reaction and response.
Time to survive.
Ethan moved like someone who had to account for reality, limited range, a narrow window of output before his concentration fractured.
He couldn't just rip the staff from her hands or hurl her across the room.
Not that she'd let him even if he tried.
Colleen Wing fought like water through a broken pipe; erratic and forceful and absolutely unforgiving, punishing him for his many, many mistakes. Using way too many styles at the same time, how was he supposed to read an opponent like that?
Well, he couldn't, but what he could do was give himself a bit more speed than before and strike her right in the liver.
It almost worked.
She stutter-stepped, blinked, then lashed out with a spinning back elbow that cracked against his jaw before he could re-center.
Ethan hit the mat hard, saw black for a half second, then rolled to his feet with a gasp.
"That one was cheap," she muttered, not angry, just evaluating.
"Don't fight fair," he said, massaging his jaw. "Not when you can fight smart."
"Keep telling yourself that," She smirked.
Then she came at him again.
They moved in a blur of instinct and calculation. Ethan stopped trying to match her speed, though his telekinesis let him bridge that gap and even outspeed her, it was not consistent.
Instead focused instead on placing little hands in the path of impact. Soft nudges to cover his mistakes, strategic cushions, stronger punches. Barely enough to register, but enough to shift the tempo.
His arms burned. Sweat clung to his back and neck. Every strike he landed felt like it cost him double. Every one he took drained him even more.
But he was still standing.
Colleen finally backed off. Lowered her staff. Watched him carefully.
Ethan breathed hard, hands loose at his sides, eyes never leaving hers.
"You're stronger than you were last month," she said, offering a rare smile.
"You're one to talk." He panted, giving her the stink eye, his jaw still hurt from that one strike.
"Doesn't matter. You're learning." She tilted her head.
He didn't reply.
She turned to grab a towel from the wall, letting the moment stretch.
Ethan rolled his shoulders, mentally cataloguing the bruises forming beneath the pads. One at the collarbone. One on the thigh. Another on the side of his neck where her elbow snuck through.
And his jaw…his poor, beautiful jaw.
At least the telekinesis helped lower the damages.
It wasn't magic. It was math. Physics. Timing.
He didn't have a spider sense.
But he was dangerous.
And that was a start.
'That, and I could throw a bunch of shit at her if I really needed to win.' He smirked, imagining the face his stoic sensei would make as he bombarded her with everything he could get his wicked psionic hands on.
It looked pretty hot.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.