It wasn't a dream.
When I woke up the next morning, my brain still ached from the memory of the soul sea—the contradictory ocean, the impossibly shifting reflections, the distant Sefira Castle, the pulsing Uniqueness at its center. And of course, the flicker of a monocle on my reflection, mocking me, greeting me, welcoming me.
Everything felt too vivid to be imagined.
I wasn't just Luke anymore.
I wasn't just Amon by coincidence.
I was an Error.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Unstable.
And still very, very mortal.
The excitement from discovering my cheat yesterday still hummed faintly inside me, like an ember refusing to die out. But the fear… the fear hadn't left. It lurked beneath every breath, reminding me that one wrong move—one wrong use of power—and I would lose control and become something monstrous.
But for the first time since I woke in this world, I had a direction.
A path.
A purpose.
> "First stabilize Sequences 9, 8, and 7…
Only then touch Sequence 6."
That was my mantra.
My survival guide.
My only chance of living long enough to see the MCU's future disasters.
I breathed out slowly.
For the first time in four years… I wasn't hopeless.
---
1936 — Age 6
Two years passed like whispered secrets.
By now, I had learned how to slip through the cracks of the orphanage like a ghost no one noticed. At six, I was small, quick, and light on my feet—perfect for acting as a Marauder.
Sequence 9 required one thing above all else:
Stealing.
Not mindless stealing, but purposeful stealing.
Observing blind spots, exploiting them, slipping into the rhythm of human carelessness and impatience.
I started small.
Bread from the kitchen.
Keys when the matron wasn't looking.
A coin from a visitor's pocket.
A toy from a child who wouldn't stop crying.
Each theft sent a faint ripple through my soul sea—
a tiny click,
a subtle alignment of something inside me.
At first, it scared me.
But over time, I began to crave it.
I learned more than how to steal.
I learned how people think.
Where they put valuables.
How they turn when they hear a sound.
When their attention drifts.
Which matron checked windows, and which forgot.
Which kids bragged, and which lied.
Humans were walking patterns.
Predictable, vulnerable, blind.
And every time I slipped something into my pocket without being caught, the dread of my future faded a little.
> "I'm not stealing because I need food,"
I told myself one night, lying awake in my creaky bed.
"I'm stealing because I need growth."
By the time I turned six, the Marauder characteristic inside me was fully digested. My soul sea was calmer—the Sequence 9 layer finally blended into me, no longer trying to tear me apart.
Now I could use Marauder abilities naturally.
Small ones.
Harmless ones.
But real.
I was no longer just a frightened child in Marvel's world.
I had claws now.
And I intended to grow them sharper.
---
1940 — Age 10
Time didn't move abruptly.
It slid forward like a shadow lengthening across the floor—quiet, unnoticed, steady.
By ten, I had changed more in personality than in size.
My face was still childish.
My body still small.
But my mind…
My mind was sharper than any adult in the orphanage.
Sequence 8 required acting, deception, emotional mimicry.
And honestly?
Humans made it too easy.
People desperately wanted to believe in the version of you they expected.
So I gave them exactly that.
Acting Innocent
When a matron scolded another child, I widened my eyes and looked frightened.
"Oh," she'd gasp, "don't worry Amon, I'm not angry at you."
Acting Dutiful
When donors visited, I straightened my back and spoke politely.
They always smiled warmly.
People love polite children.
Acting Emotional
If someone doubted me?
A single sniffle.
A trembling voice.
A lowered gaze.
Boom.
Instant guilt.
Every expression felt like slipping into a new costume.
A playful kid.
A shy kid.
A hardworking kid.
A sad, pitiful child who just wanted to be believed.
Every act was a string I pulled.
Every reaction was a thread I manipulated.
Every lie was another "click" in the soul sea.
Another fragment of the Swindler characteristic dissolving into me.
Manipulating Children
Two boys fought over a ball.
I whispered a few words, nudged their anger, redirected blame—
and they both forgot why they fought in the first place.
I slipped away unnoticed, feeling the satisfying resonance of Sequence 8 digestion.
Manipulating Donors
Fake sniffles → extra bread.
Pitiful expression → coins.
Shy smile → candy.
Humans were unbelievably easy to fool.
And the more I acted, the more real those personas became.
Not because I believed them—
but because I understood how to use them.
MC POV
> "People are predictable.
People are transparent.
People believe whatever makes them comfortable."
By age ten, the newspapers became my daily reading.
Europe is turning aggressive.
Germany moved like a storm cloud rising.
Nazi symbols appeared.
Whispers of secret research teams began to surface.
Every headline felt like a countdown to Hydra.
And that meant one thing:
> "War is coming.
I need to stabilize Sequence 8 before WWII hits."
That urgency pushed me harder.
By late 1940, I felt the shift.
Sequence 8 was done.
Fully digested.
The Swindler layer settled inside my soul sea like a smooth, cold mirror.
My manipulations felt natural now—not forced.
I no longer had to think about acting.
I was the act.
An Error in child form.
---
The world was changing.
I could feel the tension even in the orphanage walls. Donors whispered about conflict. Soldiers walked the streets with grim faces. Radios buzzed with updates on Europe.
While the world moved toward chaos…
I was preparing myself quietly.
Silently.
Like a shadow no one noticed.
I stood by the cracked orphanage mirror one evening, candlelight flickering.
My reflection wavered.
And for the briefest heartbeat—
a faint monocle glimmered over my eye.
Sequence 8 was done.
Sequence 7 was waiting.
And beyond it…
War.
Hydra.
The Tesseract.
Captain America.
My lips curled into a slow, quiet smile.
> "Marauder…
Swindler…
Next comes the Cryptologist."