Now that everything had more or less stabilized—no incoming explosions, no spontaneous dimensional tears—I figured it was time to actually make a plan. A real one.
Step one: check the phone.
The Nokia was still on the table—solid, reliable, outdated in just the right way. The kind of phone you could throw at a car and worry about the car. I hadn't properly gone through the messages in it yet. Just skimmed a few when I first woke up here.
I flipped it open. The interface was minimal, but everything was neatly organized.
Contacts. Notes. Messages.
No internet, no camera. Just… exactly what someone like me would need, apparently.
I opened the message thread labeled "Setup – Elias Kinou."
There were a few things I'd missed:
Details about the forged ID and bank account.
A brief list of "frequent contacts" I apparently had.
And a final line:
"Feel free to explore. You're not being watched. Not yet."
Vague. Helpful. Slightly ominous.
Probably referring to mutants, or maybe cosmic busybodies who liked poking around multiverses. Either way—not a comforting line.
I scrolled down, just in case there was more.
And that's when it hit.
Ping!
White text scrolled across my vision like a software update shoved straight into my retinas.
Celestial Grimoire Update
18 New Spells Added
Note: New entries integrated into existing categories.
Source Reference: Marvel (X‑Men)
You've earned one random spell for free.
Selection range: Cost Free – Cost 50cp
New command unlocked:
/Marvel(X-Men Cinematic Universe) – View all available mutant-based spells.
Claiming this spell officially disqualifies you from complaining about power creep, broken mechanics, or psychic mutants showing up uninvited. Yes, even if one of them is Deadpool. Especially if it's Deadpool.
I blinked.
Of course they'd drop a system update right when I was trying to piece together how any of this made sense.
It had the same energy as one of those fanfics where the system casually drops,
"Oh, by the way, that friendly NPC you just high-fived? Secret eldritch god. Have fun."
And now I apparently had mutant magic.
Awesome.
Rolling random spell reward...
Selected: Psi-Trace
The Grimoire pulsed faintly.
Then glitched.
Just for a second—like the system changed its mind.
The name flickered, warped, and reformed into something else entirely.
Spell Draw
Name: Mind-Shield Protocol
Reason: First-world bonus active. Mental stability prioritized.
Source: Marvel (X-Men Cinematic Universe)
Chapter: Control
Cost: 50 CP
Effect: Your mind is more resistant to psychic probing and domination. Basic mind-reading attempts are fuzzier or deflected unless significantly more powerful. Not perfect protection, but enough to hide casual surface thoughts or throw off weaker telepaths. Triggers a mental alert when stronger telepathic probes are detected.
I blinked.
Not flashy. Not dramatic. No golden flame or eye beams.
Just a quiet layer of defense between my thoughts and anything that might try to read them.
Honestly? Probably the smartest pick.
"With telepaths all over the place—classic Marvel—there was no way I wanted to get brain-hacked five minutes into day one. Especially not by Charles Xavier."
And with how many versions of that guy are floating around, I had no idea which one I'd get: friendly school principal, secret mind-control enthusiast, or the fanfic flavor who thinks privacy is optional if you've got a glowing chair and a god complex.
Mind-Shield Protocol wasn't going to stop someone like him, not really. But it might fuzz things just enough to let me notice.
And if I noticed, I could run.
That was good enough for now.
I could work with this.
I flicked my eyes back toward the HUD, letting the menus slide into place with practiced ease. No new pings. The world hadn't exploded yet—so, progress.
I pulled out the Nokia again and double-checked the inbox. Most of the messages I'd already scanned during my first chaotic morning here, but one was marked as unread. Tucked between vague logistics and a Thursday drop-off.
Weird.
I didn't remember skipping this one.
From: Archer
Subject: Passive recon
Routine job.
Observe subject: Robert Drake
Area: East River piers, early morning window.
No contact. Minimal presence.
Notes: Possible enhanced. Environmental distortion logged.
Payment: Standard. No paper trail. Usual silence applies.
Huh. That hadn't registered earlier.
I didn't recognize the name.
Robert Drake.
And that in itself was a little suspicious.
If someone had powers strong enough to cause "environmental distortion" and didn't have a public file, profile, or screaming headline attached to their name, then one of two things was true:
They were hiding.
Or someone was hiding them.
Either way, Archer thought it was worth paying to keep eyes on him.
Low engagement, passive recon.
Classic plausible-deniability setup.
I frowned slightly, re-reading the note.
No contact. No identifiers. Just watch, confirm presence, and disappear again.
This wasn't babysitting.
This was testing me.
Still, it was manageable.
I needed practice.
And more importantly: it gave me a target to focus on. Something practical.
I wasn't exactly eager to jump into world-saving right away. Hopefully. I needed reps. Situational awareness.
And an excuse to test how much Mystical Infiltration was instinct, and how much was something I was still learning to control.
As I started using Mystical Infiltration, I noticed it wasn't quite what I expected.
This wasn't invisibility.
This was precision.
Not a spell you cast and forget—more like a skill you sink into.
Reading the environment. Managing your mana output. Learning how to let your presence blend in, not just disappear.
It felt less like game mechanics and more like a meditative discipline—like mastering stillness in a way most people never even thought about.
Mind‑Shield Protocol worked on the same logic. Not a wall, but a ripple. A subtle buffer that might not stop a telepath—but it might warn me before they got in too deep.
And that was enough. Enough to react.
I pulled my hoodie up, felt my weight shift into balance, and let the stealth take over—not as magic, but as method.
Let's see who Robert Drake really is— and whether I'm the only one watching.
But first: logistics.
I glanced at the mission details again. East River piers.
Just past dawn.
Close enough to walk. Far enough to sweat if I rushed.
I looked at the motorcycle keys.
Tempting. Fast. But not subtle. Not the kind of entrance a magical spy-in-training should make on his first gig.
Then I glanced at the open window
Ledges. Rails. Cracked brickwork.
Not quite a rooftop jungle, but close enough to improvise.
It wasn't about getting there quickly. Not really.
It was about control.
Could I keep Mystical Infiltration stable while moving?
Would climbing or jumping throw off the mana flow?
Would physical stress tighten my focus—or shatter it?
I wasn't worried about being seen. The magic wasn't flashy or loud—it was built to slip past attention entirely. The real question was whether I could hold it together under pressure.
Urban traversal made sense. Enough risk to push the spell. Enough isolation to screw up without witnesses.
The fire escape groaned under my weight as I vaulted it, taking a short drop into a narrow alley lined with trash bags and that ever-present New York scent: damp concrete, old coffee, and the regret of three-day-old pizza.
Not exactly James Bond, but I was moving. Quietly.
I kept low, scaling a chain-link fence and landing on the other side with a half-roll that didn't feel completely embarrassing. The spell held. Not flashy—just that subtle, blank presence wrapping around me like a thought no one wanted to finish.
Mystical Infiltration didn't feel like casting a spell. It felt like adjusting how real I was to the world.
And it worked. Mostly.
I could move fast, even jump, without the stealth breaking. But focus mattered. Lose that, and the whole thing wobbled like bad Wi-Fi.
I learned that the hard way two blocks later when a pigeon took off near my face.
Loudly. With purpose.
I flinched so hard I tripped over a milk crate and hit the ground harder than I'd like to admit. The spell blinked—just for a second—but enough that a guy walking his dog glanced my way, frowned… then kept walking, apparently deciding I wasn't worth the existential confusion.
Mental note: bird ambushes count as surprise attacks. Maintain calm, or risk becoming briefly visible and extremely undignified.
By the time I reached the East River piers, the sun was rising in shades of orange and metal. The area was still quiet—industrial, half-forgotten. Good place for someone trying to avoid attention.
I moved into position with casual ease, just another body walking through the fog. Nothing suspicious. Nothing sharp to focus on.
No need to crouch behind anything.
The technique did the heavy lifting—flattening my presence until I was just part of the background noise.
So far: no alarm bells. No weird energy spikes. No sudden explosions of "welcome to the superhero universe."
Just the lapping of water and the soft hum of an early city morning.
Target hadn't shown up yet.
But I had.
And now I knew:
Stealth wasn't about speed. It was about staying real enough to move, but forgettable enough to vanish.
And also, birds are jerks.