The new training routine had been underway for over a week when, on a Sunday morning, something happened that shattered Peter’s worldview.
Uncle Ben was in the living room watching the morning news, which reported a minor explosion at the Baxter Building.
To Uncle Ben, it was probably just another ordinary local news story, but to Peter, it was a bolt out of the blue.
He had always assumed this was strictly the Marvel Cinematic Universe, meaning only movie plotlines existed.
But now—the Baxter Building was the headquarters of Marvel’s First Family.
The Fantastic Four were real.
Peter rushed back to his room and fired up his computer to search.
In this universe, Reed Richards was only twenty-five, Susan was twenty-two, Johnny was a sixteen-year-old teenager, Ben Grimm was twenty-five, and Victor von Doom was thirty.
It looked somewhat like the Ultimate Universe setup, but the details were completely different.
Reed was brilliant and calm, while Victor von Doom was already the ruler of his own nation.
They had been college classmates, and judging by the scientific papers Victor von Doom published, he didn’t hold Reed in any regard at all, frequently mocking him in his writings.
Peter was momentarily at a loss.
That was the Fantastic Four—did he need to help them?
No, they could certainly take care of themselves.
Maybe once he finished making his suit, he could pop by to say hello, but until then, it was best to hold off.
Having put that matter to rest, Peter enjoyed a rare, relaxing Sunday.
No training, no homework, and best of all, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were heading out to visit friends in the afternoon and wouldn’t be back until late at night.
He had to make the most of this solitary time.
Top priority: get the suit sorted.
He opened a shopping site and started browsing, only to be appalled by the terrible options—all repulsive, low-quality materials.
He actually preferred armor, but after feeling his light wallet, he had to give up on that idea.
Being unable to afford armor didn’t mean he had to wear disgusting spandex unitards either.
In the end, he ordered two bolts of fabric: one red, one black.
He had never liked the classic red-and-blue color scheme anyway.
If he was doing this, he might as well go the Superior Spider-Man route.
Red and black—done deal.
The fabric would take a few days to arrive, which gave him time to learn sewing.
He spent the entire morning following stitch-work tutorials on video streaming sites.
The work was utterly tedious and required no deep thought, so with his genius mind, mastering it was a breeze.
Once Uncle Ben and Aunt May left, Peter changed into clean clothes and went out for fresh air.
He didn’t want to stay cooped up inside all day, especially since he was now in New York City, the greatest city on Earth—he had to go out and explore.
He took the train into Manhattan, taking in the streetscapes along the way.
Even if he looked like an overly excited tourist, he couldn’t care less.
He walked all the way to Harlem, wanting to see its current state.
It was still a scene of ruins.
People were still clearing debris, and though the military had done its best, the extent of the destruction remained terrifying.
A new organization called Rebuild Harlem was busy on site.
Satisfied with fulfilling his curiosity, Peter prepared to leave.
But as he passed the Apollo Theater, he noticed the road ahead was still cracked and damaged.
This was where the Hulk and Abomination had first clashed.
Following the fissures with his eyes, he saw the massive crater where Bruce Banner had landed and transformed.
Peter stepped closer to the crater.
Although police tape was strung up around it, clearly nobody took it seriously, with plenty of people snapping photos.
He stared quietly at the bottom of the crater, and just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye beneath a rock.
He hopped down into the crater and carefully pried away the heavy stone.
Underneath was a dark brown stain.
Blood.
Hulk’s blood.
Peter immediately realized how dangerous this stuff was.
Not only was it volatile, but it could trigger all sorts of bizarre mutations.
He remembered in the original lore that someone who came into contact with this blood became super intelligent, while another mutated outright.
If this seeped into his body, what would happen?
He was curious.
Naturally, he wouldn’t inject this stuff directly into his veins, but he had to figure out its composition.
He slipped the blood-stained rock into his pocket; the size was just right.
Leaving Harlem, he strolled around downtown for another hour before heading home.
Back in his basement lab, Peter placed the rock on the desk.
He scraped a bit of dried blood into a test tube and began diluting it.
Before long, he had prepared a tube of diluted Hulk blood sample.
He tucked the rock into a hidden compartment under his desk, planning to find a safer spot for it later.
Under the microscope, he observed the blood sample.
Dried blood usually indicated dead cells, but the Hulk’s cells maintained astounding vitality.
He tried dropping in glucose and carbohydrates; the nutrients were devoured in seconds.
This stuff was practically alive.
After wrapping up his blood experiment, Peter went out again, heading to the hangar at the abandoned train station.
He hopped the fence and walked toward the hangar, only to find the door wide open.
Peter frowned silently.
He made sure to lock the door every time he left—who could be inside?
He pushed open the hangar door, stepped in, and called out, “Anyone in here?” “What the hell?” a voice called out from deep inside the hangar.
Two people emerged from behind a pile of steel girders—Flash and Liz, with Harry and Mary Jane right behind them.
All four looked flabbergasted to see Peter standing there.
“Parker?!” Flash growled menacingly.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Painting the ceiling.
What else would I be doing?
What are *you* guys doing here?” “Hey, Pete!” Harry called out with a smile, acting like they were still best friends—which they used to be, though that was long in the past.
It was likely Harry who brought the group here; Peter remembered that he and Harry had discovered this place together years ago.
“I was just bringing my friends to check out this awesome spot!
Didn’t expect you to still come around!” Peter felt a sudden wave of second-hand cringe and gave a dismissive answer.
“Once in a while.” He glanced sideways; Mary Jane was beet red, making him narrow his eyes.
Looking over at Liz, her hair was disheveled and she looked thoroughly irritated, while Flash had a sour face.
Peter realized in an instant.
“Oh—so you guys came here to make out.
Got it.” Liz’s face flushed red instantly.
“What?!
No!
Can’t you keep your mind out of the gutter, Parker?!” Peter shrugged.
“That’s not very convincing coming from someone who looks like she just got put through a washing machine.” His gaze shifted to Mary Jane, whose face flushed even deeper.
“Alright then, congrats.
I won’t bother you.
Just remember to lock up when you’re done.” He turned to leave when Mary Jane suddenly spoke up.
“Wait, Peter.” She shot a nervous glance at Harry.
“I should get going too.
My aunt is going to worry about me.” Harry looked hurt.
“What?
Are you serious?
We just got here.” “Yeah, sorry.
See you at school, Harry.
Bye Liz, bye Flash.” The moment the words left her mouth, she bolted out of the hangar as if fleeing for her life.
Peter sighed and followed her out.
When they reached the fence, he gave Mary Jane a boost over.
On the walk back, Peter finally asked, “So…
you and Harry, huh?” Mary Jane’s eyes widened instantly.
“What?
No!” Peter rolled his eyes.
“You don’t have to lie, Mary Jane.
I don’t care who you’re with.
That’s your business, nothing to do with me.” Mary Jane looked away and walked home in silence.
To be honest, Peter hadn’t wanted to pry, but she looked so unsettled that he couldn’t help wondering if something had happened between her and Harry.
“He…
he thought I wanted to make out,” Mary Jane finally said after a long silence.
Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?
Why would he think that?” Mary Jane shook her head.
“I don’t know.” “Mary Jane…
did he force you to do anything?” Peter stopped and asked her.
“What?
No!
He didn’t do anything!
It’s just…” She looked guilt-ridden.
“Maybe I acted in a way that gave him the wrong idea.
I…
it’s actually my fault.
I’ll apologize to him tomorrow.” Peter looked at her, so despondent and submissive.
She was a world away from the bright, vibrant girl he had met when he first transmigrated as Peter Parker, completely drained of life.
It made his chest tighten with frustration.
“Don’t apologize,” Peter said.
Mary Jane looked up at him, surprised.
He explained, “He crossed the line and made you uncomfortable.
He’s the one who should apologize, not you.
Harry…
he used to be a friend, but right now he’s acting like an entitled jerk who expects everything to go his way.
Don’t indulge him.” Mary Jane blinked, then gave a quiet nod.
They walked until they reached the intersection near her house.
At the corner where they had to part ways, she finally murmured, “Peter…
thank you.
I’m glad you showed up when you did.
I…
I know I haven’t been paying much attention to you lately, I—” “Forget it,” Peter interrupted, annoyed at seeing her meekly apologizing.
“It’s fine.
Go on home.
Just remember, don’t let him push you around.” “Peter, I really mean it.
I know I’ve been ignoring you at school lately, and I feel terrible about it.
I’m sorry.” Peter shrugged.
“Whatever, I don’t care.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Mary Jane called out from behind him, “Peter?” Without turning back, Peter wished her good night and shut the front door firmly behind him as he stepped inside.
He wondered if he had been too hostile just now, not even calling her by an affectionate nickname.
But there was a genuine ache in his heart, a painfully real pang as damned teenage hormones tormented him.
The next two weeks flew by absurdly fast.
Training, sneaking off to the railyard for extra practice, devouring knowledge, and crafting his Spider-Man suit kept Peter’s schedule packed to the brim.
Starting in the second week, Colleen Wing noticeably increased Peter’s workload.
She had likely seen his talent, suspecting he could become one of her finest students.
She moved Peter to the advanced class, pushing him through various means to master more techniques.
Peter never used his full strength, yet he gradually understood why The Hand trusted her to train prospective members.
School remained bland and mundane.
Whenever a class felt useless or covered material he already knew, Peter pulled out other books to self-study.
His French was already fluent enough for daily conversation, so he planned to start learning Spanish next.
However, Peter plowed through a substantial amount of Reed Richards’s theories, which proved fascinating.
They covered different dimensions and methods for opening dimensional portals.
Naturally, he already knew these concepts existed—after all, he had come from another world—but reading concrete scientific proofs still felt mind-blowing.
Solo training at the railyard grew increasingly challenging.
Peter pushed himself to physical limits time and again, testing how far he could jump, how much weight he could bear, and just how far his flexibility and balance could go.
He was growing stronger bit by bit.
Thanks to his formidable regenerative ability, no matter how exhausted he was the previous day, he would wake up fully restored the next.
Calling it a cheat code was no exaggeration.
Finally, the suit fabric Peter ordered online arrived.
The design followed the classic look, except the blue was replaced with black.
He had to sew the web patterns himself, cutting black spandex into thin strips and stitching them onto the red fabric to form the pattern.
He then cut useless fabric from the lower half of the red suit to make gloves and leg guards, sewing non-slip pads onto the soles.
The suit was a two-piece set: the top was predominantly red with black fabric pieced along the sides and back; the bottom was entirely black, paired with red high-top boot covers.
He also modified the mask so it wouldn’t press flat against his face, cutting out eye holes and fitting lenses from an old pair of glasses as goggles.
When Peter put on the suit and stood before the mirror, he gasped in horror.
Honestly…
it was hideous.
Utterly shabby, like something a kid drew on a napkin.
The stitching was crooked, and the sizing was a total disaster.
He was simply not cut out to be a tailor; spending so much time on this had been a complete waste.
Peter shoved the failed creation into a compartment beneath the floorboards—where he kept his sensitive items, right alongside the blood-stained Hulk rock.
He didn’t know what he had been expecting anyway.
He had no idea how the original Peter made his suit, but his own needle-and-thread skills were garbage.
If he couldn’t craft a good-looking suit himself, he would focus on the web-shooters for now.
Speaking of which, progress on the shooters was going smoothly.
Peter made a wristband-style base that could be worn directly on the wrist.
The core launcher was the tricky part: he added a knob on top to adjust the discharge pressure, allowing him to fire different types of webbing.
It was a hassle to build, but completely worth it.
Weekend rolled around again, and Peter took the train to the dojo.
Normally weekends were off, but Colleen had mentioned a special arrangement, telling him to prepare for training closer to actual combat.
Arriving at the familiar building, Peter saw a few classmates already waiting.
One stood out in his memory: Marcus, a Black teenager.
Peter remembered seeing him in the *Iron Fist* series—he would join The Hand later on, though right now he was just a kid.
“Peter, over here!” Marcus waved at him.
“Hey, Marcus.” Peter nodded and greeted the others, who merely nodded back.
“Does anyone know what we’re training today?” “Sensei didn’t tell you?” asked a girl named Agatha, whom everyone called Aji.
Peter shrugged.
“Just said it was an interactive session.” “Here’s the deal: we’re going to ‘mug’ Sensei,” Marcus explained.
Peter blinked.
“Are you nuts?
What are you talking about?” The surrounding kids laughed, and Marcus elaborated.
Colleen was teaching them practical combat skills—essentially training a group to corner and surround a target.
Everyone else thought it was just practicing stealth and teamwork, but Peter knew all too well: this was straight-up Hand assassin training, raising future killers.
“So where is Sensei?” Peter asked.
“Sensei Wing is hidden somewhere in the city.
Our mission is to track her down, ambush her to grab her sword, and then race back to the dojo before she catches us.
If we make it back safely, we win!” Peter could practically see the future: down the line, this wouldn’t be hide-and-seek—it would be locate and eliminate.
Returning to the dojo would become exfiltrating to an extraction point.
The Hand folks were as brilliant as they were twisted.
After waiting another hour, almost everyone had arrived, and they began splitting into groups.
Usually teams were formed freely, but since Peter was still a newcomer with little experience, he was paired with Marcus, a boy named Brandon, and Aji.
The four decided to look for clues nearby first.
While most other groups scattered blindly, Marcus insisted on checking Colleen’s usual haunts first.
They ended up wasting an hour in vain; who knew if Colleen had gone to Harlem, Midtown, or all the way to Queens?
That was when Peter suddenly had an idea.
He asked himself: What would Batman do?
How would he track down The Joker?
There was his answer.
Get inside the target’s mind.
Peter began reasoning from Colleen’s perspective: What was her goal?
To train students.
That meant she wouldn’t wander too far.
She would choose an open area where a woman carrying a sword wouldn’t look too conspicuous, while also making it impossible for students to pull off an ambush.