After the adrenaline high of his insane lottery pulls, Lucian finally calmed down, fingers laced behind his head as he sat in his dimly lit apartment. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional honk from outside—mundane sounds of New York life—faded into the background as he began to strategize.
He had puppets now. Powerful ones. Assets from across the multiverse.
But even powerful cards needed to be played right.
First up—Genos.
A B-rank war machine with enough firepower to level city blocks. More importantly, his sleek design, cybernetic limbs, and tragic backstory made him visually perfect for public heroism. A walking drama bomb.
"His entire being is built to attract attention," Leo murmured, tapping a finger against the side of his temple. "He's got that righteous heat, the cool factor, and no backstory that ties him to any known organization here. That's good… very good."
He smirked.
The key wasn't just power—it was influence. The more people knew about Genos, the more wishes Lucian could reap. Public displays, media coverage, online fandom—all of it funneled emotional power into his system.
"Let's have him play himself," Lucian decided.
Genos, like all puppets, came with his original personality, memories, fighting style—even his quirks. It was risky to make a puppet act out-of-character. Unless they were Oscar-level actors baked into the system, inconsistencies in behavior could tip off sharp observers.
So Lucian simply modified the lore a little.
"A boy whose hometown was destroyed by a berserk robot. To avenge his family, he turned himself into a cyborg.
But in his pursuit of justice, a dimensional rift dragged him into this world—lost, alone, and without direction.
He now fights evil here, hoping no one else endures the pain he once did."
A little cliché? Sure.
But sometimes, clichés worked for a reason.
With a flick of his fingers, Lucian selected Broadway, Manhattan as the deployment point. Not only was it the heart of cultural traffic in New York, but it also happened to be near the site of an upcoming incident—a little foreshadowed chaos he intended to hijack for maximum exposure.
One puppet down.
Next: Kyojuro Rengoku, the Flame Hashira, and Tamayo, the demon healer.
Both would act true to form—no need to mess with perfection.
Rengoku was dispatched to the farthest edge of the 300km radius around Lucian—near the border of New Jersey. He'd enter as a passionate, justice-driven swordsman from another world, hunting demons in silence until it was time to blaze into the spotlight.
Tamayo, on the other hand, was deployed to Hell's Kitchen.
Her role?
Operating a shadowy black-market clinic for people too poor, too undocumented, or too hunted to seek help from hospitals. A place where no one asked questions—except the ones that mattered.
She'd lay low until Lucian triggered the Infinite Castle event. Then she'd reappear, reprising her canonical role: poisoning the demon king himself. He could already picture the scene—Tamayo's soft voice, the poison dripping from her fingertips, the tension as powerhouses clashed overhead.
He grinned.
"Oh, the drama... New York's gonna eat this up."
Finally came the Vongola Family.
Over 300 individuals had been pulled from across the timeline: the Tenth Boss Tsuna Sawada, his six Guardians, elite assassination squads like Varia, mentors like Reborn and Colonnello, and other familiar faces.
Their power levels varied—from basic F-rankers to mid-tier C-rank fighters.
But Lucian noticed something curious: these weren't the teenage versions from the anime timeline. These were adult Tsuna and Guardians—pulled from an alternate post-time-skip reality.
Unfortunately, they hadn't gone through the crucible of the "Future Arc" that defined their growth. No hellish dystopia, no loss of their rings, no bitter war to harden them.
That explained why they weren't as powerful as he expected.
Even the Cloud Guardian, typically a one-man army, had lost an early encounter with an illusion-based opponent in this iteration. And the Mist Guardian, the ultimate chessmaster, had nearly been checkmated himself.
Still, they had gear.
Their flame-based rings, their weaponized animal boxes—these were technological artifacts bordering on magic, decades beyond anything the American underworld had seen.
"In this world," Lucian said, eyes flickering, "that tech alone puts them at the top."
He assigned them their mission:
"You are the Vongola—an ancient Mafia family from another dimension. Your goal in this world is to reestablish Vongola dominance. Begin… in Harlem."
He chose Harlem for a reason.
The district was a hive of crime, chaos, and desperation. Gangs warred openly in the streets. Military efforts to control it had failed time and again. It was the perfect place for a Mafia rebirth.
If the Vongola could seize Harlem, they'd gain a foothold in the country's criminal network—and a reputation.
Lucian deployed the family into the district, silently grinning.
Phase One was complete.
Back in his apartment, Lucian turned to the last item on his to-do list.
"System," he said, "use 5,000 Wish Points on body enhancement."
[Ding! Your physical level has increased to D-Rank, Seven Stars.]
[Ding! Your physical level has increased to D-Rank, Eight Stars.]
His entire body tensed as the enhancement coursed through him—bones subtly reinforced, muscles knit tighter, reaction time spiked. It wasn't flashy, but it was real.
Strength he didn't have to summon. Strength that was his.
He could've used the points on more puppets or items—but Lucian understood the truth: no army, no puppet, no script could save him if he was weak. His immortality, his ambition, his safety… all depended on personal power.
"Everything is theater," he murmured, stretching his now slightly more muscular arms. "But the director must never be weaker than the cast."
He snapped his fingers.
"Otto. Suit up—we're grabbing breakfast."
Harlem – 7:04 AM
The neighborhood was still shrouded in early morning haze. Crumbling buildings cast long shadows across littered streets. Foul air choked alleyways, the stench of smoke, piss, and gasoline clinging to every corner.
In a trash-strewn lot, a group of local boys loitered around an overturned milk crate, playing cards. One of them freestyled weak rhymes under his breath while another shook a spray can to tag a nearby wall.
A beat-up Cadillac cruised by, thumping bass echoing between the buildings.
Then… silence.
From a side alley, they emerged.
Men and women—old and young. Black, white, Asian, Latino. But what unified them was the way they walked.
Sharp suits. Gold cufflinks. Ties tight, collars crisp. Every step was clean, measured—spine straight, shoulders square. They weren't trying to blend in.
They didn't need to.
The air seemed to ripple around them as they entered the heart of Harlem.
The Vongola Family had arrived.