"So, Frenchie? That work?" Butcher asked.
Frenchie didn’t answer straight away. He took a drag, eyes narrowing as he ran it through, then gave a small nod, the smile coming slow.
"Oui," he said. "That cunt will die."
Butcher’s mouth twitched, satisfied.
"Good," he muttered. "Then we’re not muckin’ about. We’re killin’ a supe."
"You can sort it, yeah?" he added. "Gas, rig, whatever we need—no fuss."
Frenchie gave him a look like the question itself was insulting.
"I told you," he said. "I know how to find things, and I know how to make them work."
Butcher huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, you always did."
Frenchie was already moving, pulling open cases, checking what he had, what he didn’t, mind working faster than his hands.
From the other room, Translucent still shouting, voice carrying through the walls.
Butcher glanced toward it, expression flat.
"Clock’s tickin’," he said. "So let’s get on with it."
Mark stayed out of the setup.
He had already said what mattered, and that was enough. The rest was execution, and Frenchie knew his job. Besides, this approach was cleaner than the bomb idea—faster, quieter, controlled. No spectacle, no unnecessary risk. Just an end.
He leaned back and pulled up the panel.
The number had climbed.
[Popularity Poll: 470,000]
Not bad.
If anything came out of this mess, it was that—attention, recognition, momentum. The only currency that actually mattered right now.
His thoughts shifted.
’System, what’s the price for Rare Gacha?’
There was no point wasting pulls on Common anymore. He’d already seen what it offered, and none of it was enough. If he wanted real growth, something that could actually close the gap, Rare was the only tier worth considering.
The response came instantly.
[500,000]
Mark stared at it for a second.
’That’s daylight robbery. Uncommon is fifty thousand. Why jump ten times?’
The answer didn’t change.
[I do not determine the pricing. The creator of the system does. Complaining will not alter it. Rare templates include abilities that exceed standard limits in this world.]
’Well, I know complaining doesn’t do anything.’
If it did, it would’ve worked by now. He’d been at it since the day he got dropped into this world, and nothing had changed.
[So, do you want to pull some Uncommon templates?]
Mark didn’t think long.
’Yeah. Let’s do it.’
[Do you wish to spend 50,000 popularity to obtain Uncommon templates?]
’Yes.’
The interface shifted.
Three cards appeared, glowing faint green this time—different from the dull common pulls. These felt... better.
The templates revealed themselves.
[Cris Johnson — can see two minutes into the future]
[Recovery Girl — accelerated healing through physical contact]
[Kick-Ass — peak human combat skill with high pain tolerance]
’Wow. Good.’
Compared to the disappointing garbage Common kept throwing at him, these were actually useful.
Well—two of them.
The third was pointless.
Kick-Ass was technically skilled, sure, peak human fighter and all that, but in this world? That barely meant anything. Half the supes out there could punch through walls without knowing how to throw a proper jab. Skill stopped mattering when the other guy could cave your ribs in by accident.
Recovery Girl was better, but still not what he wanted.
He remembered her from MHA—the tiny grandmother with the healing quirk. Strong support ability, a real healer, but the drawbacks killed it for him immediately.
The kissing part alone was enough to reject it on principle.
He was not going around healing people by kissing them. Absolutely not.
Just imagining the scene was disturbing enough already, and reality would somehow make it worse.
Besides, he didn’t want to play support.
That left the first one.
Cris Johnson.
The guy from Next.
Two minutes into the future, continuous prediction, no dramatic activation, no giant cooldowns—just constant forward sight.
Now that was useful.
Especially for him.
Because most of the dangerous things in this world only worked if they could hit you first. And if he could already see the attack before it happened—
then suddenly the gap between him and people stronger than him got a lot smaller.
He selected the template.
The green card shattered into light, and the information slammed into his head hard enough to make his vision blur for a second before everything settled.
Then he saw himself move.
He stood from the chair, walked toward the nearby table, and reached for the drink sitting there. It didn’t feel like imagination or prediction. It felt real, like he was watching something that had already happened.
Halfway through it, he changed his mind.
Instantly, the vision collapsed.
Mark looked down.
He was still sitting exactly where he had been.
A slow grin spread across his face as he understood what the ability actually did. It wasn’t showing him one future set in stone. It was showing him outcomes that shifted with every decision he made.
That was far better.
The moment he changed an action, the future changed with it. Which meant attacks, movements, conversations—none of them were fixed anymore as long as he saw them early enough.
Then Mark stood up.
He already hated this place. The whole basement smelled like rust, smoke, bad decisions, and whatever emotional damage Butcher naturally carried around with him.
Across the room, Butcher and Frenchie were still arguing over setup details while Hughie stood nearby looking completely out of place, staring around absentmindedly like he was only now realizing what kind of people he’d ended up with.
Mark looked at him for a second.
"Hey."
Hughie flinched slightly and looked over.
"I’m heading out for some fresh air," Mark said, jerking a thumb toward the exit. "If those two ask where I went, just tell them."
*****
A/N: Advanced Chapters are available on Patreon.
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