Night had fallen over a sprawling villa in a secluded area of Brooklyn, New York. On the second floor of this opulent mansion, the gang leader Brown Rodrick was lounging on an expensive sofa, comfortably receiving the doting service of a blonde girl who stood close by. Brown, a middle-aged man with brown hair, had an air of smug satisfaction—he'd clawed his way to the top of the Counter-Strike Gang, earning his position through sheer ruthlessness. But he was always cautious; having bodyguards around, even during private moments, was essential for someone in his line of work. Four former soldiers, each heavily armed, were stationed nearby, ensuring his safety without a single lapse in their vigilance.
Opposite Brown stood his right-hand man, giving him a rundown of the gang's recent troubles. "The AK Party's been nosing around our turf, boss. Got a little too ambitious. We had to send a few of their boys to the hospital," he reported.
Brown's mouth curled into a sneer. "They were supposed to cooperate with us on the drug trade, not try to muscle us out. Seems like it's time for a bit of 'corrective action,'" he remarked, his tone dripping with menace.
Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifted, and the bodyguards instinctively formed a protective line around Brown. Frowning, he glanced at his men. "What's going on? Why all the sudden tension?"
It wasn't long before the cause of the disturbance became apparent—a steady, deliberate rhythm of footsteps echoed from the staircase, getting louder with each step. Someone was coming upstairs, making no attempt to be subtle. Brown's heart began to pound. "Where are the guards downstairs? How did anyone get past them?"
The blonde girl beside him shrank closer, her eyes wide with fear. The heavy footsteps continued until, finally, a figure emerged at the top of the stairs.
What they saw made their blood run cold. The man's face was a twisted horror of burn scars, hairless, and deeply marred. His skin looked as if it had been stripped and then healed over with thick, raw scars. Only his eyes seemed to retain any life—dark, gleaming with an unsettling intensity, and locked onto Brown's with a predator's focus.
A high-pitched scream tore through the room as the blonde girl's nerves gave way. The bodyguards didn't hesitate; they raised their pistols and opened fire, aiming straight at the man's head.
Bang! Bang!
But the bullets never hit their mark. Instead, the man had lifted a massive iron door, ripped from its hinges, to shield himself, blocking every shot. As he took a step forward, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoed with a metallic clang, each step amplifying the dread in the room. The door was acting as both armor and weapon in his hands, making him an unstoppable force.
Brown's sneer turned to desperation. "Wait—let's talk this out!" he stammered, throwing out his hands in a futile attempt at negotiation.
The man gave no reply. With a ferocious strength, he hurled the iron door forward like a battering ram. It collided with two bodyguards, sending them crashing to the ground, lifeless. The remaining men scrambled, but one by one, they fell. A fruit knife, pulled from Brown's own kitchen, was embedded in each of their foreheads—a grotesque, silent reminder of the precision of their killer.
In less than five seconds, the man had decimated the room's defenses, leaving only the blonde girl alive, trembling in a corner. The man's eyes settled on her, and his voice, hoarse and almost otherworldly, broke the silence. "Don't worry. I don't kill innocent people. Now leave."
With a gasp, the girl bolted, stumbling in her haste to escape. But the man ignored her. Instead, he dipped his fingers into the blood pooling around the bodies and traced a large, sinister S-shape on the ground, like some kind of ritualistic symbol. Satisfied, he turned and left as quietly as he had arrived, vanishing into the night.
Stat Panel
Name: Noah
Lifespan: 18/500
Strength: 1.6 + 0.2
Constitution: 1.6 + 0.2
Spirit: 1.6+
Charm: 0.3+
Unassigned Stat Points: 0.2
As Noah walked away from the scene, he opened his attribute panel, reviewing the updated stats with a grin. His unconventional training regimen—repeatedly damaging himself and regenerating—had led to substantial gains. The attribute screen showed:
System Update
Total attribute value exceeds 6 points. Talent [Strength Bonus] activated, +0.1 Stat points.
Sulfuric acid applied to epidermis for disguise. Duration: 184 minutes for full recovery. Repeat action 781 times, resulting in +0.1 Strength and +0.1 Spirit.
Noah smirked as he flexed his fingers, feeling the new level of strength and endurance flowing through him. Achieving a physical level of 1.5 had transformed his body into something beyond human. Where most would struggle to survive critical injuries, he could now regenerate almost anything, short of a fatal wound, and bounce back stronger than ever. Tonight's mission wasn't just about revenge—it was an experiment in using his new powers strategically.
The acid burns were a key part of his plan. By disfiguring himself temporarily, he'd created a whole new identity—a vengeful, scarred enforcer who could strike terror into the hearts of the underworld. And it wasn't just about anonymity. This alter ego would allow him to wage a private war against his uncle's criminal empire, targeting it piece by piece without ever being connected to the attacks.
As he approached his temporary hideout, Noah replayed the night's events in his mind, mentally taking notes. He'd established a fearsome reputation with his brutal tactics and his bloody signature. Now, with this mysterious persona, he could wreak havoc among the criminal elite without ever drawing attention to his true self.
And tonight was only the beginning.
It was a bright Thursday morning, and Peter Parker woke with an unusual buzz of energy coursing through him. Still groggy, he reached up to rub his blond hair, but something felt different. His arms, his chest—everything—felt stronger, like he'd just leveled up into some superhero physique overnight.
Peter squinted into his mirror, his reflection confirming what he was feeling. His body had taken on a new, chiseled look, reminiscent of a bodybuilder. Muscles bulged under his skin, more defined than he'd ever seen before. He tentatively made a boxing pose, throwing a couple of punches into the air. The speed of his fists stirred the air with enough force that his mirror vibrated slightly, sending a wave of exhilaration through him.
"What in the world?" Peter muttered, half-disbelieving. He didn't know the reason behind this incredible transformation, but he was eager to test his newfound strength.
Meanwhile, back in Brooklyn, the police were facing a gruesome scene at an upscale villa. George, the police chief, stood at the top of the staircase, grimly taking in the devastation around him. Three bodies lay crumpled near an iron gate, their forms twisted and crushed in ways that defied belief. A large, blood-red "S" was painted across the floor.
"Director, we've secured the area," said one officer, trying to stay professional amidst the horror. The only witness—a trembling blonde girl—stood nearby, her face pale as she relived the nightmare of the previous night.
George approached her, his tone gentler than usual. "Can you tell me what happened?"
The girl stammered out her story, painting a picture of a disfigured man with a terrifying face, covered in scars. His strength and speed had been beyond anything she'd ever seen. As she described him, George's expression hardened. This wasn't the work of an ordinary criminal; it was likely a mutant or someone with superhuman abilities.
Another officer interrupted, handing George a laptop with surveillance footage from the villa. George clicked play, and sure enough, the scarred man was captured entering the front gate, dispatching guards with brutal efficiency. He seemed unstoppable, cutting down anyone in his path with a blend of speed, power, and deadly precision.
George's deputy, Maude, appeared beside him, peering over his shoulder. "Any ideas, Chief?"
George's jaw tightened as he replied, "Looks like this guy was after someone specific. Could be a revenge mission from a rival gang or a professional hit job. The AK Party's been tussling with our deceased lately, so that's one place to start."
As he spoke, George couldn't shake a creeping suspicion. The attacker's manner was too controlled, too focused for an ordinary hit. If it wasn't a rival gang, perhaps it was someone with a deeply personal motive—a vendetta, fueled by rage.
Turning back to Maude, George continued, "We should check if the murderer left any fingerprints and look at the victim's recent call history."
Maude nodded but quickly changed the topic. "By the way, did you follow up with that young recruit you were supposed to recruit? The mayor's still breathing down our necks."
George shook his head with a small chuckle. "I tried asking him, but the kid's too stubborn. Besides," he paused, glancing over at Maude, "I just found out yesterday that my daughter might like him. And no way am I sabotaging her love life, even if I don't like the guy much."
Maude raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "So you're saying you're just giving up?"
George shrugged, laughing. "If he's got his mind set on avoiding the academy, so be it. I'd rather retire in peace than have my daughter married to a cop. New York's a rough place for this line of work."
Just as they finished talking, a young officer ran over, breathless with urgency. "Chief! Another family massacre just came in—this one's nearby. The victim was Ringo Murray, leader of the JK Party."
George's expression darkened. "Then we better move. Let's go."
While chaos brewed in the underworld, back at a high-tech gym, Noah was inspecting himself in the mirror. After a night of regeneration, his acid-scarred face had fully healed, leaving no trace of the burns he'd inflicted as a disguise. Even his hair had grown back.
"Guess the acid burns did the trick last night," he mused, thinking back on his assault on the two crime bosses. Each raid had been carefully timed, using his temporary disfigurement to remain untraceable.
And with each strike, Noah felt himself getting stronger. He'd managed to juggle the hits without losing a second. If everything went as planned, no one would connect him with the mysterious scarred killer terrorizing New York's gangs.
Suddenly, the door to the gym opened, and Smith, an early-riser and Noah's trusted companion, walked in. "Noah, the fitness equipment you ordered last night has arrived. It's outside."
Noah's eyes lit up. "Finally! Let's check it out."
They walked outside to find several blocks of solid iron waiting for him. The largest weights were two massive cubes, half a meter on each side, each weighing about a ton. Each cube had a handle, like a kettlebell from hell. These weren't your ordinary gym weights—they'd been custom-made to handle Noah's unique strength.
Noah smiled, gripping the two blocks of iron. He lifted them effortlessly, testing the weight in each hand. "Perfect," he muttered. With these, he could push his training even further, and as his power grew, he'd only need to add hollow iron blocks to increase the weight.
As he walked back to the gym with his new equipment, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. With these weights, he could fine-tune his physical strength to match his mental discipline. And with his body as sharp as his mind, he'd be ready to take on whatever the world threw at him.
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Just completed Sifu, and it only took me 5 days with 3 hours of playing each day. Why do people say it's hard?
Btw...should I try Berserk? My friends say the fmc gets r-word. And r-word or torture just doesn't sit right with me.
So, this is my first time doing this. I hope you guys can help me improve by providing your feedback, and some stones would be nice. (づ ◕_◕ )づ