Rain tapped softly against the glass.
I woke with a dull ache behind my eyes, my thoughts sluggish, my mind heavy—as if I had slept far too long. Slowly, I opened my eyes.
Darkness.
I sat up abruptly.
This wasn't my room.
Golden chandeliers hung from a high ceiling. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood. Velvet curtains, marble flooring, antique furniture—everything screamed wealth. Lavish. Excessive.
Before I could process it—
Pain exploded in my head.
I gasped, clutching my temples as foreign memories flooded my consciousness. Scenes flashed before my eyes, overlapping with my own memories, like watching a movie forced directly into my brain.
A name surfaced.
Aryan Spencer.
When the pain finally subsided, I understood.
I had transmigrated.
The original owner of this body was also named Aryan—an absurd coincidence. He had been adopted by an elderly man with no children of his own. That man, my adoptive grandfather in this life, had trained him from childhood to inherit his company.
And a week ago…
He died.
Depression. Alcohol. Loneliness.
The original Aryan couldn't bear it. His consciousness faded—and I took his place.
I swallowed hard as the final piece clicked into place.
This world…
There was a man named Tony Stark, a billionaire playboy genius.
And Captain America wasn't just a myth—he was in history books.
This was 2008.
The beginning of Marvel.
My breathing quickened.
In this life, Aryan Spencer was an introvert. No close friends. No romantic ties. A graduate of MIT with dual master's degrees in electronic engineering and computer science.
At twenty-four, he was already the CEO of Umbrella, a private, non-listed unicorn company focused primarily on software.
Normal. Clean.
Too clean.
A sharp beep broke my thoughts.
An alarm clock rang beside the bed.
"Master Aryan," a calm elderly voice called from beyond the door, "breakfast is ready."
The butler.
I exhaled slowly and stood.
Unlike my previous life, I felt no regret.
Back then, I had built a company from nothing. It thrived—until competition became brutal and shareholders turned greedy, caring only about short-term profit. The company collapsed.
I collapsed with it.
I died at twenty-five, drowning in failure and despair.
But now?
I was alive again.
In the Marvel Universe.
A world of gods, demons, aliens, sorcerers, and dimensional horrors.
Anything was possible.
As that thought settled—
The world froze.
A translucent panel materialized before my eyes.
[Welcome to the True Creative System]
Information poured into my mind.
The system granted me access to a personal dimensional space—one where I was omnipresent, omniscient, and omnipotent. Within it, everything obeyed my will.
Its core function was simple—and terrifying.
Convert money or valuable items into game currency.
Gold. Artifacts. Even the bodies of powerful beings.
And with that currency…
I could purchase powers from across the Marvel Multiverse.
Magnetism. Telepathy. Telekinesis. Weather control. Cryokinesis. Reality warping.
But power had a price.
Epsilon-level abilities started at $100,000.
Omega-level abilities?
$10 billion.
I laughed bitterly.
So even in a world of miracles… money still matters.
After reviewing everything carefully, I made my first choice.
Perfect Super Soldier Serum — $15,000,000
The moment I confirmed the purchase—
Warmth surged through my body.
My bones cracked softly. Muscles tightened. My heartbeat thundered as power rewrote every cell in my body. The pain wasn't unbearable—it was exhilarating.
When it ended, I staggered into the bathroom.
Blue eyes stared back at me from the mirror. Black hair. Sharper features. A body sculpted with strength that felt effortless.
So this is what perfection feels like.
⸻
Later that morning, I arrived at the office.
Paperwork waited. Meetings followed. Life moved on.
A knock sounded at my door.
"Come in."
A woman stepped inside.
"Good morning, sir. These are today's documents."
My pupils shrank.
Sharon Carter.
Agent 13.
Which meant only one thing.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was watching me.
I forced myself to remain calm. Telepathy would have been useful—but fifteen billion dollars was beyond me for now.
After she left, unease lingered.
Umbrella wasn't biotech. No weapons. No super-soldiers.
So why the attention?
That question followed me until evening.
Once alone—
I vanished.
The office dissolved, replaced by endless gray fog.
My dimension.
New information surfaced: to expand it, I would eventually need to devour other dimensions—or the real world itself.
Unlike beings such as Mephisto, I could remain in reality—but my power couldn't manifest freely.
Not while Ancient One and other sorcerers guarded Earth.
Still… my dimension was special.
I could invite others.
Not their bodies.
Their consciousness.
A memory stirred from my past life.
A certain novel…
Lord of the Mysteries.
Sefirah Castle.
A slow smile spread across my face.
"That might actually work."
With a thought, the fog reshaped itself.
A majestic ancient palace rose from the mist. Towering stone pillars. A vast dome. Endless gray fog rolling beneath an otherworldly throne.
A door of light pulsed softly, radiating pale gray brilliance.
Sefirah Castle.
Perfect.
Here, I could grant powers in tiers, profit from others' ambitions, and even support heroes—or villains—from the shadows.
Storage areas sealed.
Authority absolute.
Long-distance communication enabled—triggered by chanting my honorific name.
After all…
Not every hero in this world was rich.
And I intended to become indispensable