( i used Ai to help me many things to edit 😅😅😅.many will say written by ai so i am saying that i used Ai😅😅 it's hard to write dialogue 😢 i am doing for my Passion.i want to the create masterpiece like "Marvel gocha essence" but i cant create anything like that so fast,Hector is Goat😁😁)
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In his previous life, it had been an absence, a void between the predictable sounds of human misery. Here, in this small room that smelled of pine and old wool, silence was a thick, vibrant medium, saturated with data. He lay in the bed, the rough linen sheets a tangible reality against his skin, and listened. The house was a symphony of minuscule vibrations. The slow, grinding settlement of timber in the walls was a deep cello note. The skittering of insect life in the foundations was a percussive rhythm. Beyond the window, the wind moved through the high branches of the pines, a sibilant whisper that spoke of distance and a wilderness untouched by the tedious concerns of the people in this wooden box.
James Howlett—the name was a tag on a specimen, a label for this new collection of flesh and bone—exhaled slowly. The air tasted of dust, of the oil used to polish the floor downstairs, of the faint, ever-present scent of his mother's lavender water, a sweet, cloying thread of weakness woven through the atmosphere.
He focused inward, on the machinery of the body. The memory of the pain was a crisp, archived file. The tearing sensation in his hands, the shocking protrusion of bone. It was not a memory of trauma, but of discovery. The vessel was equipped with integrated, concealed weaponry. Its primary characteristic appeared to be regeneration. The evidence was there on his knuckles; skin that had been split was now seamless, smooth and unblemished as if the violation had never occurred.
For three days, he had performed the part of the convalescing child. He accepted the broths brought by his mother, meeting her watery, anxious gaze with a performance of weary confusion. He endured the hesitant, heavy presence of his father, John Howlett, who would stand in the doorway, his scent a complex mixture of whiskey, leather, and a frustration so profound it was almost a taste in the air. James would mimic the expected responses—a nod, a whispered "I'm alright, Father," a downward glance that communicated shame and shock.
It was a flawless pantomime.
Alone, he experimented.
He would clench his fist, focusing on the specific, internal trigger, the psychosomatic signal that had preceded the event. He felt the immediate, deep-seated strain in the bones of his forearms. It was a pressure, a potential, like a muscle flexing in a limb he never knew he possessed. On the first night, he had allowed a single, sharp tip of bone to pierce the skin, just enough to feel its reality, its deadly sharpness. A bead of blood welled, black in the moonlight, and was reabsorbed in moments, the skin healing behind the retracting claw as if it were a needle withdrawn from water.
He did it again. And again. Each time, the process became more fluid, less a spasmodic reaction and more a controlled extension. Retract. Extend. Retract. It was the repetition of a craftsman honing his most essential tool. The urge to swing them, to feel their weight cut the air, to test their efficacy on the wooden bedpost or the wall, was a persistent, low-frequency thrum in his blood. It was the body's native desire, the animal instinct. He acknowledged it, and then suppressed it with an immovable will. Control was paramount. Secrecy was survival. This power was not for display; it was for the portfolio, a hidden asset whose value lay in its surprise.
His senses were a more constant, and initially, a more challenging, adjustment.
The world was not merely seen and heard; it was ingested. Every breath was a complex chemical analysis. He could isolate the scent of the horse in the stable fifty yards distant from the scent of the mold on the north side of the house. He could hear the rustle of a field mouse in the grass outside, its tiny heartbeat a rapid flutter against the vast, slow heartbeat of the land itself. The drone of a fly two rooms away was a distinct, irritating buzz.
He spent hours lying still, teaching his mind to filter the barrage. He would focus on a single source—the sound of his father's boots pacing in the study below—and push all other input into a blurred background. It was a mental discipline, a recalibration of his own consciousness to manage the enhanced hardware of this body. He was the programmer, and this was the beta test of a new, superior operating system.
On the fourth night, a profound quiet had fallen over the estate. The arguments had ceased. The emotional tempest of the household had subsided into an exhausted lull. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to the bed, practicing the absolute suppression of his claws. He would bring them to the very precipice of emergence, to the point where the pain became a sharp warning, and then force them back, over and over, until the act was as thoughtless as blinking.
It was during this exercise that the world dissolved.
There was no sound, no light. It was a cessation. The sensory input—the smell of pine, the feel of the wooden floor, the distant sounds—vanished, replaced by an absolute, silent void. It was not the nothingness he had sought after the gunshot. This was an imposed nothingness, a structured emptiness.
Then, light.
It manifested not before his eyes, but within his mind. A geometric pattern of cool, blue lines etched itself into his consciousness, a framework of impossible complexity. It had no physical presence, yet its reality was undeniable. At its center, symbols formed in a language he had never seen, yet understood instinctively.
<< System Initialization Complete. >>
The words were not heard. They were cognized. They simply were.
<< Greetings, User. >>
James did not startle. His body remained perfectly still on the physical plane, his breathing even. Internally, his consciousness, the core of what was Johan, became a sphere of pure, focused attention. This was a new variable. An external entity.
Identify yourself, he thought, the command a sharp, mental projectile.
<< I am the System. An interface. A tool. >>
Your origin. Your purpose. The thoughts were cold, demanding. He felt no awe, only a profound and immediate suspicion.
<< I was authored by a consciousness that exists beyond the dimensional membranes you perceive as time and space. My purpose is singular: to facilitate your journey. I am an auxiliary function. >>
Facilitate how? His mental voice was a scalpel. What is your source of energy? What are your parameters?
<< My functions are supported by the latent energy of the multiversal continuum. My parameters are bound to your will. I offer structure to potential. I possess a transactional module and a temporal acknowledgment reward. >>
A shop. A daily login. The concepts were transmitted not as words, but as pure information, and he understood them instantly. It was a mechanism for acquisition. A way to obtain resources outside the local physical laws.
Why? Why provide this?
<< The Architect observes. The Tool assists. There is no why beyond existence itself. You are a unique point of data in an infinite set. The System exists to ensure the data point is not prematurely terminated. To see what you will build. >>
The explanation was utterly devoid of morality, of agenda. It was a statement of function, as neutral and pitiless as gravity. It resonated with him. This was not a god, not a demon. It was a utility. A function of a universe far stranger and more vast than he had previously computed.
The interface shifted. The welcome message faded, replaced by a new, stark display.
<< Initialization Reward: 500 Points credited. >>
A numerical value appeared in the corner of his perception: 500.
Below it, two options manifested as intuitive concepts: [DAILY LOGIN] and [SHOP].
He focused his attention on the [SHOP]. The blue lines reconfigured, blossoming into a vast, scrolling catalogue. It was not a list of items with descriptions, but a direct transmission of knowledge into his mind.
He saw, or rather, knew, the options.
There were physical enhancements: [Density Manipulation (Minor)] - 1000 Points. [Metabolic Overclock] - 1000 Points. Far beyond his means.
There were skills: [Telepathic Shielding] - 1500 Points.
There were knowledge packages: [Body magic circuit system ] - 2,000 Points. [Genetic lock] - 12,000 Points.
And there were… objects. Things that defied local logic. A [Seed of Yggdrasil] - 1,000,000 Points. A [Shard of the Cosmic Egg] - 5,000,000 Points.
It was a archive of cosmic scope, a thief's market of reality itself. The prices for the significant items were astronomical, making his 500 points seem pathetic. But it was the principle that mattered. It was a door. And he now had the key.
He scrolled, his consciousness filtering the immense data stream with ruthless efficiency. He ignored the grand, the mythical. He sought the practical. The immediately applicable.
He found it.
[Passive Sensory Filter] - 450 Points.
A sub-dermal neural modification.Allows the user to consciously attenuate or enhance sensory input to non-lethal levels. Prevents data overload. Automatic threat-tagging of anomalous inputs.
It was perfect. It would solve the problem of the constant, grating sensory barrage, turning it from a handicap into a refined instrument. Control.
Without hesitation, he initiated the transaction. A simple, mental command.
<< Confirm purchase: Passive Sensory Filter for 450 Points? >>
Confirm.
<< Transaction complete. Balance: 50 Points. Administering modification. >>
There was no pain. A wave of coolness passed through his cortex, a sensation of intricate re-wiring, of microscopic filaments aligning. It lasted less than a second.
When it was over, the world returned. But it was different.
The overwhelming cacophony was gone. The scent of the room was clear, but no longer assaultive. The sound of the wind was a melody, not a roar. He could still access the full, raw data if he focused, but his baseline perception was now clean, manageable. It was like stepping from a blinding desert sun into a shaded, orderly room. The relief was not emotional, but operational. A significant inefficiency had been corrected.
He turned his attention to the [DAILY LOGIN] function. He focused on it.
<< Daily Login acknowledged. Reward: 10 Points. >>
His balance updated to 60.
random points per day. It would take time. But time was a resource he now knew how to leverage.
The System interface remained, a silent, semi-transparent overlay on his perception. He willed it to recede, and it faded to the very edge of his awareness, a tool waiting in a mental sheath, much like the claws in his arms.
He stood up and walked to the window. The night was the same. The pines were the same. But everything was different. The scope of his understanding had been violently expanded. He was not just a reincarnated soul in a superhuman body. He was a User in a system authored by a being beyond his comprehension. His journey was an experiment, and he was both the subject and the conductor.he can't do his monster act for now first i need Knowledge about the world and strange powers.
The face that looked back at him from the dark glass was still that of a child. But the consciousness behind it was processing a new, fundamental equation. The world was not a place of random chaos. It was a construct, with rules that could be manipulated. And he had just been given a set of keys.
He felt the first genuine impulse since his awakening—not an emotion, but a pure, intellectual drive. The desire to acquire more points. To unlock the deeper functions of the Shop. To see what else this reality was capable of offering.
The mask of James Howlett was now fortified with a secret of cosmic proportions. The monster was no longer just hiding in a boy's skin. It was interfacing with the architecture of existence itself. And it was just beginning to learn the controls.
The following day, he descended for breakfast for the first time. He moved slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes downcast. He was the picture of a boy struggling to return to normalcy.
"James," Elizabeth said, her voice brimming with forced cheer. "You're feeling stronger?"
He looked up at her, his new sensory filter automatically tagging the subtle pheromones of her anxiety, the micro-expressions of hope and fear on her face. The data was clear, concise, and instantly analyzable.
"A little, Mother," he said, his voice soft. He allowed a small, fragile smile to touch his lips. It was a masterful calculation.
John Howlett watched from the head of the table, his gaze weighing. James could smell the man's cautious optimism, a sharp scent overlaid on the base notes of his perpetual concern.
"The air is good for you," John stated, not a suggestion, a fact. "You should walk the grounds later."
"Yes, Father," James replied, nodding obediently.
Inside, the System's interface hovered, a silent testament to the absurdity of their concerns. They worried about his trauma. They sought to heal his spirit. They had no idea that the person they were speaking to had just purchased a piece of cosmic technology and was currently planning the most efficient way to farm daily login rewards.
He ate the plain oats placed before him, tasting every individual grain, analyzing the composition of the milk. The world was a web of information, and he was now, truly, at the center of it. The game had changed. The board was larger than he had imagined. And he was the only player who knew the true rules.
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