Sunlight crept through the cabin window and found his face.
Warm. Bright. Annoying.
The boy stirred beneath the blankets, his expression souring before his eyes even opened. "Tch... damn sun..."
Elric—though nobody had called him that in ages—threw one hand up to block the light. His face asked the question his mouth didn't bother with: Why is morning even a thing?
He rolled over. Then again. And again.
After several futile attempts to reclaim unconsciousness, he surrendered. Sleep wasn't coming back. With a groan that echoed through the empty cabin, he forced himself upright. His hair jutted out in every direction, and for a solid minute he simply sat there, staring at nothing in particular.
Was today really worth the effort?
Eventually, moving like his body weighed a thousand pounds, he shuffled to the kitchen area. He grabbed the water container, took a long drink, and sighed with satisfaction.
Okay. Maybe consciousness wasn't so bad.
He pushed open the cabin door and stepped outside. The cold morning air hit him like a plunge into ice water.
"...Aah, that's better."
The drowsiness evaporated. His mind sharpened.
Elric stretched until his joints popped, then dropped into his routine. Push-ups first, then sit-ups. Basic stretches to work out the stiffness, followed by a light jog around the clearing. Nothing excessive—just enough to get his blood moving.
The forest woke around him. Birds called from the trees, cautiously at first, then with growing confidence. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped under an animal's weight.
When he finished, he stood breathing calmly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
The forest had gone quiet again. Too quiet.
He headed back inside and gathered his gear. Hunting equipment. His bow. The quiver of arrows he'd crafted over the past few months. Simple tools, but reliable.
As he worked, his thoughts wandered.
Six months now. Six months since the last time he'd gone back to that place, and he still didn't know when—or if—he'd ever be able to return.
"How long until I can go back?" he muttered. "Will I even get the chance...?"
His gaze drifted toward the window, toward the distant skyline where the ruined city sat like a corpse on the horizon.
Elric. That was his name.
But the truth was more complicated.
He wasn't really from here—not from this cabin, this city, this country, or even this planet. Hell, not even from this universe. At least, his soul wasn't.
Sure, his body had been born here. But his soul? That was a different story entirely.
In his previous life, Elric had lived on another world. Earth. A place that looked almost identical to this one, actually—same continents, same oceans, same problems. Just fewer superheroes.
He'd lived a normal life there. Boring, even. Nothing special about him. No grand destiny or secret talents. Just a regular guy who liked regular things.
The day he died, he'd been going out to buy ice cream. That was the whole plan. Get ice cream, come home, maybe watch some TV.
And then—BAM.
A truck. But not just any truck. An ice cream truck. Falling from the sky. From the fifth floor of an apartment building.
He still remembered it perfectly—standing at his door with keys in hand, looking up just in time to see a brightly painted vehicle crash through the ceiling and flatten him like a pancake.
His last thought had been almost calm: Ah... so this is how it ends, huh? Truck-kun... why do you take even the innocent sweet-tooths?
He wasn't even surprised. It was such a stupid, absurd way to die that he knew immediately—he was getting isekai'd. That was the only explanation.
And he was right. Sort of.
When that flying ice cream truck obliterated him, his soul didn't transfer cleanly to another world. It shattered into countless fragments, each scattering across different universes, living different lives. Each piece shaped by its own circumstances, forging its own path.
And here was the worst part—he lost his memories completely.
Until six months ago.
Six months ago, something changed. He'd been pulled into a strange space—endless, white, empty. No walls, no floor. Just nothing.
And there, he met himself. Another version, one who'd grown up in a world of pirates and oceans and Devil Fruits.
They didn't talk much. There wasn't a need. The moment they connected, everything flowed between them—power, memories, skills, knowledge. It all came rushing back. His life on Earth. His death by flying dessert truck. The bizarre truth of his fractured reincarnation.
And the worst realization of all: where he'd ended up this time.
This wasn't some generic fantasy world. This was the Marvel Universe.
And not some safe corner of it either—not New York where superheroes handled most problems, not some quiet Midwestern suburb.
No. He'd been born in Sokovia.
One of the absolute worst places to exist in the entire Marvel timeline. A country torn apart by a decade-long civil war. No peace, no safety—just endless violence. Missiles in the streets, gunfire every night, death around every corner.
And he wasn't some chosen hero with powers. No mystical artifact, no super-soldier serum, no radioactive spider. Just a normal kid born to a poor family in a war zone.
His parents? Dead. Killed early in the civil war, back when he was too young to remember them clearly.
Since then, he'd lived in the slums, scraping by on scraps. Eating once a day if he was lucky. Some days, not at all. Life had been a slow, grinding crawl through misery.
This world was lethal. He had three bullet scars on his body—not from gang fights or recklessness. Just random. Stray bullets. Wrong place, wrong time. The first incident left him with two bullets, the second with one. He'd just been walking. That was all.
In Sokovia, simply existing was enough to get you killed.
It was honestly a miracle he'd survived this long.
But six months ago, everything started to change. Because now he had a cheat—his soul was connected across dimensions. Each fragment could share strength, experience, skills.
And that pirate version of himself? He was strong. Skilled, experienced, free.
That encounter had changed everything. Power had flowed into him—knowledge, techniques, the muscle memory of someone who'd spent years fighting, surviving, thriving.
He wasn't helpless anymore.
"Hah... my luck really sucks," Elric muttered, adjusting the bow slung across his back. He stared out at the forest, then toward the distant ruins beyond. "Marvel of all places... and I get born in Sokovia..."
He let out a long breath.
Of all the worlds he could've landed in, it had to be one of the most dangerous. A world where gods walked the earth, where aliens invaded, where a single angry purple guy could erase half of all life with a snap.
And he was stuck in a war-torn country that would eventually be lifted into the sky and dropped like a bomb.
Yeah. His luck really sucked.
But despite everything—despite the scars, the hunger, the constant shadow of death—something had changed.
Behind his tired eyes, behind the weary expression, a spark had ignited.
The boy who once had nothing wasn't powerless anymore.
He grabbed his gear, checked his supplies one last time, and stepped toward the door.
Another day. Another hunt. Another step toward survival.
And maybe—just maybe—toward something more.