Age of Heroes
Owen Colt retired from the special forces for one reason only: the era of heroes was about to begin.
And how did he know? Easy. Owen had reincarnated. Don't ask why. He doesn't know either. One day he simply closed his eyes… and when he opened them again, he was a damn baby in front of an orphanage.
He remembered the girl who left him there. Yes, girl. A pregnant teenager, clearly with no means to raise a child. She left him wrapped in blankets, with a guilty look and tears in her eyes. He didn't judge her. In a world like this, leaving him somewhere safe was already a lot.
But that wasn't what bothered him.
What really pissed him off was learning that the orphanage was funded by none other than Howard Stark. At first, he thought it was just a coincidence. A name similar to Iron Man's father, nothing more. But when he saw a documentary on the History Channel about World War II and the legend of Captain America… everything clicked.
He had reincarnated in the most chaotic, broken, and doomed universe there is.
A world where every week a new villain with a god complex shows up—either to take over the planet, wipe out entire races, or consume reality itself. Some of them even believe they're doing the right thing. Worse yet: sometimes the heroes cause more harm than good.
So Owen, being a damn baby with no superpowers or magic systems, knew exactly what he had to do: strengthen himself as a human. Because if he wanted to survive, he couldn't wait for miracles.
The first step was using his knowledge from the previous world. By age five, he was doing high school math. They treated him like a genius. Offered him scholarships, special schools. He accepted just enough. He wasn't a genius—just a guy with an edge.
Then, once he was old enough, he enlisted.
Military. "More or less" free training and access to weapons, tactics, and real-world experience. He trained like his life depended on it… because in this world, it did. He mastered every area: marksmanship, combat, strategy, technology. He became a machine. It didn't take long before he was transferred to special forces.
Ironic? Maybe. But he knew what he was doing.
An average guy would die waiting for powers.
He wasn't going to wait.
He was going to survive. Learn. Be ready.
His plan was clear: train, survive, and retire before the caped gods of chaos showed up. And then, when the world started going to hell with aliens, wizards, and deities, he'd be out.
Because if he knew one thing for sure, it was this:
The first to die would be the soldiers.
And he had no intention of being one of them.
He resigned. Before getting torn apart by some green monster or dying escorting a billionaire playboy to the Middle East.
He thought the worst was over. That now he'd have a peaceful life.
Spoiler: Nope.
As he walked home, a bad feeling pierced his chest. Something didn't add up.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out his pistol. He had a legal permit. Getting it was too easy… maybe suspiciously easy.
He kept moving forward with the gun raised.
The smell of blood hit him before he reached the door. Strong. Heavy.
His house had high walls, good security. Quiet neighborhood.
In theory.
He pressed against the wall. No noise. Just the stench.
He took a deep breath, aimed his weapon, and turned the corner in a smooth motion, dropping to one knee, ready to retreat if something went wrong.
The first thing he saw were the eyes. Wide open. Lifeless.
Blood covered the floor like someone had burst a bag of paint.
One body. Just one.
Up against the front door.
He analyzed everything in seconds. No one else. No enemies. No obvious trail.
He approached without lowering the gun. The guy was sprawled like an old rag.
He nudged the shoulder with his foot. Nothing.
He leaned down. Two fingers to the neck. No pulse.
"Dead," Owen muttered, holstering the gun.
Then he saw the trail. The guy had climbed one of the walls, crawled to the door… tried to pick the lock, the pick still hanging from it. He didn't make it. Bled out before he could get in.
"What a pain…" Owen growled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
First day back home. And already a corpse at the door.
Then he recognized him.
He crouched again. Took a better look.
"Victor Keim…"
During a rescue mission, Owen had lost his entire squad. They were supposed to extract a scientist working on a government black project.
Victor was the only one who survived with him.
And if not for Owen, he'd be dead already.
But Owen had dragged him back through hell, with bullets flying and the sky on fire.
Now he was here. Bloody. Dead. On his doorstep.
"Damn it... This is going to be even more of a pain," Owen muttered, looking up at the sky in resignation.
Because when a military scientist shows up dead at your house, it's no coincidence.
He pulled out his phone to call emergency services. He knew he had to. He couldn't just hide a corpse because dealing with the inevitable police questioning felt annoying.
But just as he was about to dial, something stopped him.
A gut feeling.
His instincts—sharpened by years of combat and survival—screamed that something was off.
They never failed.
Never.
He put the phone away with apparent calm, while his hand subtly slid toward the weapon hidden under his jacket. He forced himself to look relaxed, like he was just casually walking away from the scene. One slow step, then another…
Then he felt it.
The attack came like a shadow from nowhere.
A whistle sliced the air. A dart flew past the corner where he'd just been standing.
Tranquilizer? Poison?
No time to find out.
He rolled on the ground with trained reflexes, drawing his weapon. But it was already too late. The figure attacking him was already on top.
A kick whistled through the air, aimed straight at his neck.
Owen raised his arm to block it, feeling the impact rattle his bones. With his other hand, he quickly aimed at the attacker's abdomen, but a skillful palm deflected his arm, and the shot vanished into the darkness.
The attacker gave no quarter.
But neither did Owen.
Using the momentum, he swung an elbow with his free arm, striking forward with force. The opponent blocked by crossing their arms, but underestimated his power. Owen wasn't an ordinary man. Lifting a hundred kilos was part of his daily warm-up. He might not be a super soldier… but against regular humans, that was more than enough.
The attacker was pushed back. Just a few steps.
But it was enough.
Owen raised his weapon again, finger already on the trigger—
"Tch!" The figure moved like lightning.
A swift grip on his arm, an agile leap. The attacker latched onto his body, legs snapping around his neck in a brutal hold.
Owen growled, clenching his teeth.
But he didn't fall.
Instead, he hurled himself forward with all his weight. The landing was rough. But his head was somewhat cushioned between… thighs?
His mind registered it mid-chaos: it was a woman.
Feline agility.
Smaller frame, but strength… equal to or even greater than his.
Damn it.
The impact made her loosen her grip for just a second. And a second was all Owen needed.
He broke free with a sharp twist, never letting go of his gun—because on the battlefield, letting go of your weapon meant death.
He sprang up, aiming straight down.
Bang!
The kick came with pinpoint precision, striking his wrist and sending the bullet into the concrete.
"Damn it!" he growled, stepping back.
This wasn't an ordinary fight.
It was the toughest of his life.
Not even when he rescued Victor in the middle of a bullet storm—machine guns, heavy artillery, even a damn tank—had he felt this outmatched.
Because now, it was just one person.
One.
And she was fighting like an entire elite unit.
The woman spun and swept the back of his knee with a precise strike. Owen dropped to one knee, gasping.
Another kick flew at his face.
No!
He rolled forward, feeling the edge of the attack graze his hair.
He pushed himself up.
So did she.
Both rose in unison, like mirrored reflections in a duel.
They locked eyes.
No words.
Just silence.
A pause charged with tension.
And finally, Owen got a good look at her.
A mane of red hair, like fire in the wind.
Eyes sharp as blades.
A body sculpted by combat, clad in a tight black suit clearly designed for stealth, but hiding nothing.
"Perfect," Owen muttered with a crooked grin.
Because now he knew something else.
He wasn't facing a simple assassin.
He was face-to-face with a professional.
And if he was going to survive the night…
He'd have to fight like never before.