New York City, S.H.I.E.L.D. Field Division.
In Training Room C9, a young man was unleashing a flurry of punches at a heavy bag, his movements fierce and focused. He wore a white compression tank top and loose black quick-dry pants. Each swing of his fists sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, filling the room with the sound of force and velocity.
The sandbag shuddered violently with every strike. Fortunately, it was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s specially reinforced models; otherwise, it would have burst apart under the relentless blows.
This high-intensity, no-rest barrage continued for a full seven or eight minutes before the young man finally stopped, chest heaving.
His white top was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his skin and perfectly outlining the sculpted contours of his upper body.
Standing around six-foot-two, with short black-brown hair, sharply defined features, and deep-set black irises encased in frosty-blue rims, he looked like a striking blend of Eastern and Western ancestry. Yet the faint trace of youth on his face revealed he was likely no more than sixteen or seventeen.
Clearly, this was a teenager in peak physical condition.
Grabbing a clean towel from a rack, he wiped the sweat from his face. His name was Rowan.
A quick glance at the wall-mounted clock confirmed that he'd hit his daily training quota. He rolled his arms and shoulders, then stretched out his legs to begin a cooldown routine.
Once he finished stretching, Rowan's gaze shifted toward the northern wall of the training room. Mounted there was a high-tech punching force monitor with a digital display. The screen was dim but active, its left side showing a column of previous test results:
174 kg
179 kg
181 kg
193 kg
Clearly, these were his earlier punching power scores.
For someone weighing around 82 kilograms, that level of force was impressive.
But Rowan frowned at the numbers and shook his head slightly.
"I've been in this world for seven years now. Seven years of non-stop training... and this is all I can manage? Forget becoming a superhero I might not even make it into S.H.I.E.L.D. officially."
He cracked his knuckles one by one, the crisp pops echoing in the empty room as he exhaled with frustration.
Yes, Rowan was a transmigrator.
Seven years ago, he had crossed over into the Marvel Universe, reincarnating as the younger brother of the stunning S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Maria Hill.
Realizing which world he had landed in, Rowan's sense of danger went through the roof.
After all, the Marvel Universe was infamous for its chaos.
And being in New York the epicenter of virtually every major disaster only made it worse.
Even if he dodged all the small-time threats, he still wouldn't survive Thanos' snap in the end.
He'd read the comics and watched the films. He knew Maria Hill would eventually disintegrate into ash along with half the population.
Rowan had inherited the original Rowan's memories and emotions. There was no way he would sit back and watch his sister vanish before his eyes.
That sense of urgency had driven him these past seven years, pushing him to strengthen himself without pause. Physical training had been the cornerstone of his self-improvement plan.
And yet, despite his relentless efforts, he was still far from reaching peak human performance.
Frustrated, he dropped into a crouch, coiled his body like a spring, and threw a powerful punch straight at the wall-mounted device.
Boom!
The screen lit up wildly, the numbers racing upwards before finally halting at:
199 kg
Rowan let out a long breath, saying nothing.
In the eyes of ordinary people, that level of power was already monstrous.
But it still fell short of the human limit.
He couldn't even match Mike Tyson, let alone take on supervillains or stand beside the Avengers.
"If I keep relying on brute training alone, there's no future. Time to put the plan into motion."
He murmured to himself, eyes narrowing in thought.
There were countless opportunities in the Marvel Universe. Two months ago, Tony Stark had publicly declared himself Iron Man. Just half a month earlier, Bruce Banner had gone full Hulk and rampaged through New York.
It was possible that Thor had already been exiled to New Mexico by Odin.
The events of the Marvel saga were already unfolding. With the right moves, he might still have a chance not just to catch up, but to surpass the so-called superheroes.
Over the years, Rowan had drafted seven separate contingency plans, each offering a path to supernatural power.
But among the options technology, mutations, external enhancements what he truly desired was to grow stronger on his own terms.
Given his young age, he had refrained from taking irreversible steps too soon.
"Let's test speed next."
He powered off the strength monitor and activated another device that resembled a high-tech projector. It was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s precision speed testing system, capable of accurately measuring sprint velocity.
Rowan walked to one end of the training room, took a deep breath, and then burst forward like a shot.
He moved like a panther lean, explosive, and impossibly fast. Within seconds, he reached the other side of the room.
Beep!
A red light blinked on the display, followed by a number:
8.7 meters per second
"Still 8.7…"
His disappointment grew.
That had been his speed yesterday as well. No improvement.
Though already quite fast, the closer he got to the limit, the harder it became to gain even marginal increases.
Currently, the fastest recorded human sprint was 10.438 meters per second.
He was close but not enough. Even with ten more years, he might never break that barrier.
Speed test complete, Rowan grabbed a towel and pulled out a card from his pocket. He swiped it on the control panel by the door.
With a soft click, the training room door opened.
As he stepped out, the panel light shifted from red to green, indicating the room was now available.
The hallway stretched long in both directions, lined with dozens of similar training rooms. Most of them showed a red "In Use" status.
This was no surprise. The New York division, second only to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Tri-Carrier HQ, had the most advanced facilities and the most competitive agents.
From the number of occupied rooms, it was clear how intensely the agents here pushed themselves.
Rowan bypassed the communal locker rooms, heading upstairs to the residential wing for high-ranking agents.
Access to these units required Level 7 clearance or higher. His sister, Maria Hill, as Nick Fury's most trusted deputy, held Level 9 clearance and had secured one of the apartments here.
He swiped his card again and entered.
The apartment was bright and minimalist in design. White oak floors, clean Scandinavian furnishings, and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows gave the place both elegance and openness.
Though it was only around 90 square meters, there was no wasted space. The unit had three bedrooms one for Hill, one for Rowan, and a third, technically a guest room, which had been completely taken over by Natasha Romanoff.
In theory, as a Level 10 agent, Natasha could easily request her own quarters.
But ever since she'd tasted Rowan's cooking a few years ago, she had refused to leave, shamelessly occupying the guest room as her own.
Hill, being close friends with Natasha, didn't mind at all. Rowan had protested, but his objections were futile.
He entered the bathroom, stripped down, and tossed his sweaty clothes into the washing machine. With the press of a button, the machine hummed to life.
Then he turned on the shower and let the warm water wash away the fatigue and sweat.
Thankfully, Natasha was away on a mission these days. Otherwise, she'd probably be barging in with some teasing flirtation again.
As someone who had lived two lives, Rowan was in the prime of his youth and truth be told, he couldn't handle Natasha's constant provocations.
After a quick rinse, he changed into loose shorts and a white T-shirt, drying his hair with a towel as he returned to his room.
But the moment he stepped inside, a familiar glow caught his attention.
A flicker of blue light shimmered from his nightstand.
"Huh? Is it fully charged?"
Excitement lit up Rowan's face.
On the nightstand sat a sleek black magnetic base, plugged into the wall with a high-power converter.
Suspended above it, floating gently up and down, was a silver ring, its surface etched with two intricate arcane symbols. Between the symbols were ten small gem-like crystals, each one glowing with a vibrant blue haze.
Every gem was lit.
It was ready.