"Harry, Harry!"
"Huh?" The young man in the car finally stirred awake, blinking at the man beside him to make sure the call was meant for him.
"Harry, welcome home," said the middle-aged man — Norman Osborn's assistant.
"Mm…" The young man didn't look at him again. He replied softly and turned to gaze at the old house before him. It looked ancient — unfamiliar yet strangely familiar, like something half-remembered from a dream.
A servant opened the car door, and another hurried forward to open the mansion's grand entrance.
The young man followed the middle-aged man up the staircase. After several turns, they reached a long corridor leading to a dark room at the far end.
"The room's a bit dim," the assistant said quietly. "But perhaps it's better that way." He entered first.
The young man followed in a daze. The place felt familiar — like a scene he'd once glimpsed in memory — and now, he finally understood why.
Through the translucent bed curtains, he saw the figure lying motionless. Without thinking, he stepped forward and sat beside the bed. The man's skin had a faint, unnatural green tint, eerie and ghastly in the half-light. Yet looking at the dying man before him, the young man felt an inexplicable anger rising within.
"I didn't expect to die like this," Norman Osborn said with a bitter laugh.
"Looking at my own son feels like staring at a stranger." He turned his head to face the young man.
"Harry, you had a bright future ahead of you. But you were too clever — and threw it all away," Norman said regretfully.
"Enough! You sent me off to boarding school when I was eleven. On my sixteenth birthday, you gave me a bottle of whiskey — or rather, your assistant did. I knew it was him, because the card said, 'Sincerely, Norman Osborn.'" Harry shot to his feet, his voice trembling with anger as he hurled the words like knives.
"I don't expect your forgiveness. Not anymore," Norman said hoarsely, struggling to lift his body.
"Guess what? Because I don't believe in miracles," he said sharply.
"How could you understand?" Norman continued, his tone suddenly distant and resolute. "Your childhood had to be sacrificed — not just for my sake, but for your own."
Yet, despite everything, he was still a father. "Your hand… has it started to twitch?" Norman asked suddenly.
Harry's body stiffened. His right hand clamped tightly over his left, as though hiding something beneath his skin.
Norman's gaze cut through him like two blades. "When you can't sleep at night, the thing inside you stirs. It wants to emerge. Sooner or later, it'll show your true face."
Harry trembled, unable to reply.
Norman wasn't surprised. He sank back into the bed and said calmly, "Reverse cell hyperplasia. I never told you — it's genetic. The Osborn family curse."
His eyes met Harry's again. "It started when I was your age."
"Give me your hand," Norman said, extending his trembling fingers.
"The most important legacy I leave you isn't the Osborn Group — it's this." He placed a small cube in Harry's palm. "My life's work. Everything I've done to prolong my existence."
"I hope you can finish what I could not," Norman said, though his tone carried no trace of hope.
But Harry barely heard him. The cube in his hand — that was his hope. His chance to live.
He clenched it tightly and turned away, leaving the old mansion behind.
"From today onward," he thought, "I am Harry Osborn."
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.
Three times, a cold mechanical voice echoed in Harry's mind.
"Host has met recognition criteria. System initialization beginning."
'One percent… twenty… forty… sixty… eighty… one hundred. Recognition complete. System activation successful.'
'Default host: Harry Osborn.'
"Huh?" Harry froze mid-step, his body rigid, eyes wide. "Wait, what?"
"What's wrong, Harry?" the assistant asked, turning at the sound of halted footsteps.
"Ah—nothing." Harry steadied his pounding heart. "Let's go."
He didn't meet the man's eyes. Instead, drawing on his years of reading novels, he spoke silently in his mind: System.
No response.
He tried again. Activate the system.
Ding dong."System activated."
A faint, colorless screen appeared before his eyes. Harry glanced at the attendant — no reaction. So, only he could see it.
The screen hovered wherever he looked, moving with his gaze but never blocking his sight. It could shift and adjust at will, though that wasn't needed now.
At the top, glowing text appeared:
The host is unique and irreplaceable. If the host is not destroyed, the system endures. If the host dies, the system perishes.
(Note: This message appears only once.)
Below that:
System Function: Input
Explanation: Allows entry of all items and abilities, excluding living beings.
(Note: This message appears only once.)
Then, in the center of the display:
Host Name: Harry Osborn
Age: 21
Physical Condition: Unhealthy
Abilities: Mental Rage (self-directed, dormant), Body Mutation (from immutable genes)
Items: Casual Suit (poor quality)
At the bottom, large golden letters read:
Immutable Law – Equivalent Exchange (System Auto-Evaluation).
Ding dong."System converting…"
A flash of white light rippled across the screen, transforming its layout.
It is divided into two large panels and a smaller header above that reads Equivalent Exchange in shining golden letters.
On the left:
Host Name: Harry Osborn
Age: 21
Physical Condition: Unhealthy
Abilities:
Mental Rage (self-directed, dormant) (20)
Body Mutation (from immutable genes) (20)
Item: Casual Suit (bad) (0)
On the right:
Exchangeable Points: 40
Beneath that, listed vertically:
Mental Rage (self-directed, dormant) (20)
Body Mutation (from immutable genes) (20)
Between the two lists was a large double-headed arrow.
After reading carefully, Harry understood. The arrow meant the exchange worked both ways. He could store unwanted abilities or items on the left, earning evaluation points to trade for new ones on the right.
For example, giving up Mental Rage would yield 20 points he could use to obtain another ability or item.
"This is incredible." Harry's eyes shone. "Finally, I can get rid of what's destroying me."
He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "Wait—no. Maybe I've got an even better idea."