Marvel Universe — Earth-99999.
Toby Parker. That is my name in this life.
Yes — I am a time traveler, a transmigrator who crossed into the Marvel Universe.
The cause of my transmigration was the so-called "Great Fortune Event."
But in this cycle of fate, I was not the victim in my previous life.
I was the perpetrator.
In my past life, I was a long-haul truck driver.
One day, I was driven to the brink by a father and son attempting to stage an accident. When the old man fell in front of my truck, his son shouted:
"You didn't hit him, so why did you help him up?!"
I had a notoriously explosive temper. I was an orphan, with no parents and no one to restrain me. The type who would curse out an entire team in CrossFire if someone insulted me during the loading screen.
How could I tolerate this?
The People's Dagger, is it?
Wait right there. I'll get it for you.
I climbed back into the cab, started the engine, engaged the clutch, shifted gears, and accelerated in one smooth motion — without a second's hesitation.
The truck surged forward.
The father and son were crushed beneath the wheels.
Trying to take advantage of me?
Try your luck in the next life.
Fuck you.
As a truck driver, killing two people wouldn't have meant instant execution — at worst, I would have faced a death sentence.
But immediately after running them over, a red-blue-and-black spider somehow slipped into the cab.
By the time I noticed it, it was too late.
The spider had already crawled onto the back of my hand.
Before I could flick it away, it seemed to sense the danger and bit down hard at the base of my thumb.
Within ten seconds, my entire body went numb. My heart seized. My vision collapsed into darkness.
Then I lost consciousness.
If this was retribution for murder…
…it came far too quickly.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw a blue-eyed nurse wearing a surgical mask and cap.
She lifted me gently and handed me to a sweat-soaked woman with a kind face.
I raised my tiny, wrinkled hand and stared at it.
A newborn's hand.
I had transmigrated.
The woman holding me was clearly my mother — a woman who had just given birth.
Moments earlier, the nurse had addressed her as Ms. May Parker.
That name triggered only one possibility.
I had been reborn into the Parker family.
Uncle Ben. Aunt May.
The family that would one day raise Spider-Man.
What the hell…
Twenty years later
Timeline: 2008
Location: New York City — Hell's Kitchen
Hell's Kitchen — sometimes called "Little Gotham" — is a place where gang wars are routine.
But one man taking on an entire gang?
Even in Hell's Kitchen, that was unheard of.
At least… until tonight.
Even the masked vigilantes who patrol these streets wouldn't claim they could storm a gang headquarters alone.
That would be like throwing a flashbang into a toilet — suicidal, blinding, and guaranteed to attract disaster.
Yet tonight, someone did exactly that.
And not only did he storm the gang's base…
he annihilated it alone.
Thunder rumbled.
Rain poured in sheets, swallowing muzzle flashes and gunfire.
On this storm-drenched night, inside the Neon Gang compound, a towering figure in a black-and-red full-body suit strode forward through the courtyard.
A gang member dangled lifelessly from each of his hands.
He stepped over corpses as if they were puddles.
Inside the shrine at the compound's center, Okamoto Reiichi — leader of the Neon Gang — huddled with the last surviving members.
Though armed with pistols and knives, their bodies trembled uncontrollably, their eyes wide with animal terror.
All because of the "Grim Reaper" who had appeared ten minutes earlier.
Nearly two hundred gang members had been slaughtered.
Only about twenty remained.
Seeing his men recoil before a single attacker, pressing themselves against ancestral tablets in panic, Okamoto roared:
"Baka yarō! How can Japanese samurai produce such cowards?! No one retreats! Kill that bastard — or commit seppuku to atone for your shame!"
Terrified but cornered, the gang members forced themselves into the courtyard. Guns trembled in their hands as they aimed at the shrine gate.
Though calling themselves Japanese, they had long adapted to American street warfare.
No katana.
No iaidō.
Only firearms.
The moment the gate creaked open, they opened fire blindly.
Toby did not dodge.
Instead, he raised the two corpses he carried as shields.
Bullets tore through flesh and bone.
Even if rounds penetrated both bodies, the remaining force was insufficient to pierce his expensive, custom-made bulletproof Spider suit.
Panic had destroyed their discipline. No crossfire. No suppression. No coordination.
They simply held the triggers.
Their magazines emptied quickly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
When the gunfire stopped, Toby tossed the shredded bodies aside like trash and sneered.
"You idiots. Think you're playing a shooter with infinite ammo? You're empty and still pulling the trigger."
The reminder hit them like lightning. They fumbled to reload.
Too late.
"Huh? You actually changed magazines? Save it for your next life."
He lowered his stance.
Through the black mask, narrow blood-red lenses glinted with cold, predatory light as lightning split the sky.
Awakening.
Hunt time.
He launched forward.
His massive frame became a crimson afterimage crashing into the crowd.
The first gangster struck by Toby flew backward as if hit by a speeding truck. His body twisted unnaturally before slamming into the shrine wall with a wet, crushing impact — embedded like pulp in plaster.
The rest fared no better.
Toby descended upon them like a wolf among sheep, unleashing a brutal slaughter.
His strength — easily measured in tons — meant that even a glancing blow shattered bones and organs. Any direct hit meant instant death.