The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

I stared at my ceiling and considered my new stats. Fifteen across the board. The basic competency floor for a Hero candidate at a third rate school. Not impressive, but not pathetic either.

My phone buzzed. Six-fifteen AM. Time to get moving.

I slid out of bed and threw on my workout gear – a plain black t-shirt and grey athletic shorts. Nothing fancy, but who needed fashion during an ass-kicking?

The memory of yesterday’s training session flashed through my mind. My hand on Sloane’s backside. That little noise she made. Her face turning red. The mini-explosions popping around the gym.

Yeah, this morning was going to be awkward as fuck.

"System, what’s the probability of Sloane murdering me today?"

〘 Current calculation: 18.7% chance of significant bodily harm. 0.4% chance of actual homicide. Analysis: Subject will likely express anger through training intensity rather than direct violence. Her combat conditioning includes strong aversion to causing permanent harm to training partners. 〙

"That’s comforting."

〘 It wasn’t meant to be. 〙

I made my way downstairs, each step feeling lighter than it had yesterday. Stat increases were no joke. My body moved with a smoothness that felt almost alien – like operating a character with better controls.

The sound of heavy impacts echoed from the gym. Sloane was already there, which meant she’d gotten up even earlier than usual. Not a good sign.

I paused at the doorway.

Sloane stood in front of the heavy bag, delivering punches that made the chain creak ominously. Each impact sent the bag swinging. Her form was perfect – shoulders rotating into each strike, hips pivoting, full-body power transfer. Her pink hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her tank top stuck to her skin with sweat.

She wasn’t just hitting the bag. She was trying to murder it.

I cleared my throat.

Sloane’s head snapped toward me. Her blue eyes locked onto mine.

Have you ever stared into the eyes of someone who was imagining exactly how they’d dispose of your body?

That was the look Sloane gave me. Not anger. Something colder. Something that calculated entry and exit wounds.

"Uh, good morning?" I offered.

Sloane’s jaw tightened. The air around her hands shimmered with heat. Tiny sparks danced between her fingers.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I’d never been so thankful for a meaningless notification in my life.

"Oh! Would you look at that. Important call. Very important. Life-changing stuff. I should take this upstairs. We’ll, uh, rain check the training?"

Sloane didn’t respond. She just turned back to the bag and threw a punch that made the whole thing swing sideways.

I retreated upstairs with the tactical grace of someone fleeing a crime scene.

Once safely back in my room, I checked my phone. No actual call, of course. Just a random app notification. My savior was a burrito delivery coupon.

"So that went well."

〘 Conflict avoidance detected. Recommendation: Use this time to increase subject comfort through continued domestic capability demonstrations and low-pressure interactions. 〙

I flopped onto my bed. "Translation: make her breakfast and try not to get exploded."

〘 Correct. 〙

"What if I just... left for a while? Let things cool down?"

〘 Tactically sound. Current household tension metrics indicate distance would benefit emotional regulation. Recommendation: Return before 9 AM to fulfill breakfast obligation. 〙

The system was right. I needed to get out of this house before Sloane decided to use me for target practice. But where would I go at six in the morning?

I pulled up the calendar on my phone, trying to figure out what day it was. May 12th. Which meant school was out – both high school and college. According to the memories floating around in this head, Lukas Belmont had graduated with honors and gotten accepted to Streighton University. A perfectly respectable college for normal people with normal aspirations.

But I wasn’t normal anymore. I had a gacha system jammed in my brain and spectral arms that could reach fifteen feet. Going to Streighton would be like using a Ferrari to deliver newspapers.

Heroes were the ones who made the real money in this world. The top ten pulled in millions annually. Radiant’s net worth was higher than most small countries.

I hadn’t asked for this second chance at life, but I’d be damned if I spent it putting fries in bags or sitting in some cubicle while people with powers lived like gods.

The mall would open at nine. I could hide there for a few hours, then come back and make peace offerings in the form of fancy breakfast food. Sloane couldn’t stay mad at me if I stuffed her with enough calories.

I changed into jeans and a black hoodie, grabbed my wallet, and headed for the front door. The sounds of Sloane’s continued punishment of the heavy bag followed me out.

The morning air hit me with a pleasant chill. Spring in Verano meant cool mornings and warm afternoons. Perfect weather for wandering aimlessly while contemplating your new supernatural abilities and how not to die before using them.

With nowhere particular to go until the mall opened, I decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. The Fitzgerald estate sat in Creston Hills, where every house looked like it belonged in a magazine and every lawn had been manicured by someone making minimum wage. The streets were empty this early, just the occasional jogger or dog-walker giving me curious glances.

I found a coffee shop that had just opened and ordered the largest black coffee they had. The barista looked at me like I’d asked for liquid cocaine.

"You want anything in that?" she asked.

"Just darkness and regret," I replied.

She smiled. "Bad morning?"

"You could say that. Life’s complicated when you’re trying to become a Hero."

"You’re going for Halloran?"

I nodded.

"Aspect?"

"Unmarked."

Her expression shifted to pity so fast it should have given her whiplash. "Oh. Well. Good luck with that."

Everyone had the same reaction. Like I’d just told them I was planning to climb Mount Everest in flip-flops. Maybe I was.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, taking my coffee.

The barista shrugged. "Just being realistic. My brother tried for Halloran twice. Has a solid Aspect too – metal manipulation. Still didn’t make it."

"Where is he now?"

"Working here," she said, gesturing to the back room. "Pays the bills while he tries to get an independent license."

That was the reality for most people. Even with powers, the Hero system had limited slots. The academies took the best, and everyone else ended up normal. Or they went vigilante and eventually got arrested.

===

〘Traore’s Thoughts〙

Hey guys, I decided to make a Power Stone Goal for this novel.

Every 200 Power Stones this week = +1 Extra Chapter. (MAX 14 ChapterS)

We can have the normal 2 Daily Chapters + 2 Extra Chapters Every Day, is all up to you ;)