"His father's been arrested. If we keep him here, we'll be arrested with him!"
"But his father founded this organization. This manor was secretly purchased by him. It's his family's property!"
"This is the organization's headquarters! The moment he used it as headquarters, it stopped being private property!"
"I think we should send him away. He hasn't even awakened his powers yet. His father's in custody—his identity as a mutant must already be exposed."
"We can't let him drag all of us down. I agree. Send him away."
"I agree. Give him some cash and a car at most."
"His father wouldn't want the organization destroyed because of him. Let's vote!"
…
Richard woke slowly to the muffled argument outside his door. The voices were sharp, tense, layered with something that sounded dangerously close to fear. He opened his eyes with a scowl. Being dragged out of sleep by shouting was enough to irritate anyone.
He was about to sit up and tell the idiots down the hall to keep it down when something felt wrong.
The quilt. The mattress. The ceiling.
He froze.
This wasn't the cramped dorm room at his university. The bed was enormous. The ceiling arched high overhead with carved molding. Sunlight filtered through tall windows framed by heavy curtains. Everything about the room screamed wealth.
Where am I?
He pushed himself upright, scanning the unfamiliar bedroom. Dark hardwood floors. A chandelier. Oil paintings in gilded frames. The air even smelled different—faintly of polish and old money.
Confusion hit first. Then unease.
Before he could stand, a violent spike of pain exploded behind his eyes.
"Damn it—!"
He clutched his head as the world tilted. His vision blurred. His body trembled uncontrollably. It felt as if someone had shoved a red-hot blade straight through his skull.
Images began flashing through his mind, one after another, too fast to process. Memories that weren't his. Childhood scenes. Training sessions. Conversations with men and women in black tactical gear. A stern, composed father speaking about "mutant rights" and "survival."
The barrage continued until, abruptly, it stopped.
The pain vanished just as suddenly as it had come.
Richard sat there on the bed, breathing hard, sweat dampening his back. His expression darkened.
The memories weren't his.
But now he understood.
Transmigration.
More specifically, he had transmigrated into the body of a mutant named Richard Wesley in the Marvel Universe.
He had been an ordinary college student. He read web novels. He laughed at absurd power fantasies. He never once imagined he'd become the protagonist of one.
Calm down.
He forced himself to inhale slowly.
This isn't cosmic horror. You didn't just meet an eldritch god. You just… crossed over. That's all. People do it in novels every day.
He swallowed.
It's fine.
It's manageable.
After all, he'd devoured hundreds of transmigration stories. He might be a rookie in practice, but in theory? He had experience.
And in those stories, transmigrators didn't suffer long.
They rose.
They thrived.
They dominated.
Excitement slowly replaced panic.
If he was here, in the Marvel Universe, as a mutant… then that meant opportunity. Infinite opportunity.
After stabilizing his breathing, he focused inward.
Every transmigrator had one thing in common.
A cheat.
A golden finger.
He concentrated on that thought.
If there was a system, now would be the time.
The instant the idea formed, a translucent holographic panel materialized before him.
[Host: Richard]
[Race: Human (Beta-Level Mutant)]
[Current Template: Sephiroth (Fusion Rate 5%)]
[Exclusive Weapon: Masamune]
[Skills: Eight Swords Flash (Lv.1 0/100), Earthshaker (Lv.1 0/100), Sky Splitter (Lv.1 0/100), Heart Rend (Lv.1 0/100), Iai Slash (Lv.1 0/100)]
[Magic: 30]
[X-Gene Ability: Plunder]
[Task: None]
[Storage Space: Activated]
Information flooded his mind the moment the interface appeared.
Template System.
A system that allowed him to load character templates and acquire their abilities.
And not just one.
Multiple templates could be equipped simultaneously.
That meant stacked power sets.
Layered evolution.
His pulse quickened.
The first template was Sephiroth.
He almost laughed.
Anyone who knew Final Fantasy VII knew Sephiroth. The iconic silver-haired antagonist. The final boss whose presence alone defined the narrative. His popularity rivaled, sometimes surpassed, even the protagonist.
Power. Elegance. Destruction.
And now that template was his.
He dismissed the interface with a thought.
Instead of standing immediately, he lifted his left hand.
Sephiroth was left-hand dominant.
If he wanted to increase fusion rate, he needed to mirror the template.
Following the system's guidance, he focused.
A pale green flash shimmered in the air.
The Masamune appeared in his grip.
His first reaction was simple.
It's absurdly long.
The blade extended nearly two and a half meters, slender and gleaming like liquid silver. The handle alone stretched nearly half a meter. The blade's width was narrow—barely a few centimeters—and thin enough to catch the light like a razor line.
In his previous life, he doubted he could wield even a standard katana properly.
Now, the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, familiarity surged through him.
It felt natural.
Instinctive.
As though he had trained with it for decades.
He rose from the bed in a smooth motion.
The bedroom was enormous—easily sixty square meters with a ceiling nearly five meters high. Spacious enough to swing without obstruction.
He stepped forward.
Straight slash.
Horizontal cut.
Diagonal arc.
Forward thrust.
Upward sweep.
Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next. There was no hesitation. No stiffness. His body responded like a machine calibrated for combat.
The blade hummed softly as it carved through empty air.
The movements weren't flashy yet, just fundamental forms—but they carried precision and lethal beauty.
After testing several basic motions, his eyes sharpened.
Time to try something real.
He inhaled, gathering magic instinctively.
Eight Swords Flash.
In a blink, his arm moved.
One slash.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
The cuts overlapped so quickly they seemed simultaneous, leaving faint afterimages in the air.
The sequence finished as smoothly as it began.
A faint chime echoed inside his mind.
"Eight Swords Flash proficiency +1."