During his previous introspection and mild dismay, Max noticed something unusual, an icon hanging at the edge of his vision, spinning slowly like a game's loading screen.
Three thick lines hovered midair, intersecting at sharp angles to form a glowing triangle, reminiscent of the Animus interface from Assassin's Creed, humming with latent energy.
The kind you'd typically see in a VR environment.
He had played such games extensively, even earning a spot in global rankings. As a software engineer, he'd contributed to various tech projects, some within top-tier corporations.
Still, never had he heard of, let alone seen anything like this, appearing in real life.
Earlier, he had brushed it aside due to his buzzing, erratic mind. His mind had been a mess, like dozens of tabs open and none playing properly. No wonder he overlooked it.
However, now that he could concentrate, such an extraordinary element was impossible to ignore. His first thought? Someone in this Marvel universe must've cracked neural chip technology, launching humanity into a silent tech revolution.
He even mused in amusement that the Marvel version of Musk was doing a better job than the one from his past life. Yet that idea didn't last longer than a few minutes.
From the memories he'd received, Max learned that this world's basic technological progress mirrored his past reality, with a few added complexities thanks to Marvel elements.
Most importantly, this was the mid-2000s. The tech curve was heading toward the roof, yet increasing at a stable pace with common sense; no futuristic products had been launched in the public domain for citizens to use yet.
"Secret organisations like SHIELD and Stark Industries must've hoarded everything for themselves," he muttered, a twisted grin tugging at his lips.
When the icon appeared again in his vision, Max finally deduced with certainty, "No doubt about it—this is a legendary system. The kind that shows up in webnovels and manhwa, complete with glowing UI and broken logic."
"Of course, gradually system's became too much, going from non-intelligent interfaces to loli AIs, everything was designed to stuff readers' brains with mud," he chuckled, recalling those days when he would scroll through webnovels all night on every platform he could find.
Like many others, he had invested a lot of his time in those activities, purely for his glee and personal joy.
'Those were the days,' he breathed out.
His attention shifted back to the icon. He asked aloud, "System?"
No response.
Awkwardly, he tried again, "Status? Siri? Okay, Google?"
Still nothing. The icon kept rotating in its endless loading form, completely unresponsive to sound, gestures, or pokes in the air.
"I hope this isn't one of those systems that only becomes useful after the plot ends," Max murmured doubtfully. "Or worse, one that appears in the final scene before the credits roll."
He had read a few of those books, comedy-driven stories where nothing in the plot was ever taken seriously.
His nose scrunched up in disbelief.
"Don't ghost me now! I'll sue your dev," he said with a huff.
But beneath the sarcasm and snark, a small part of him itched with unease.
Was he really alone then?
"Avoid testing a man raised on internet rage and fanfiction logic," he warned, though the words carried no weight, his voice cracking slightly as he gulped and hoped for the best.
At the same time, this trifling, worthless wait made him increasingly impatient.
Apparently, the system had deemed him unworthy of a reply. Grumbling, Max stood up in a burst, clenching his teeth in frustration.
He lightly stomped his foot, glided toward the bed, and threw himself face down, stretching out and sinking into the embrace of the warm mattress, soft as the flesh of a young woman.
He needed a way to unwind.
His tightened nerves eased somewhat. He closed his eyes, feeling himself drifting, almost dreamy.
"If everything's a dream, then please, wake me up now. Where's my golden finger? Or a magical treasure? Or a soul ancestor?" he whispered, throwing a tantrum, beseeching softly.
In the serenity of the still room, his relaxed breathing reverberated gently. The echoes circled the walls in soft waves.
Suddenly, he remembered his promise to Martha. "Crap! Grandma's patience is thinner than a hair's width."
Whoosh—
He leapt up, standing quickly on his feet, and briskly rushed into the bathroom connected to his room.
He stripped off his clothes, hung them on the hooks, and pushed the shower knob. Relentless streams of water poured down on him, soaking him wet and clean.
Whew.
He exhaled, relaxing as the water crawled all over his body, tracing every curve and angle, washing away grime and any lingering sluggishness.
His naked self stood shrouded in cascading water, his modesty protected only by slick, skin-hugging trunks.
Despite keeping his eyes closed, Max found the toiletries with ease, the muscle memory of his body guiding his hands.
He gradually applied them over his hair and body, and water followed behind, washing the foam away in smooth rivulets.
He groaned in delight. All the weakness and languish, all the knotted muscles and stress, heaved themselves out of his body with the flow of water.
After a few moments, he pushed the shower knob to turn off the water, grabbed a towel, and gently rubbed it against his dripping skin, drying himself off.
Max felt surprisingly light and wrapped the towel around his waist, stretching slightly before leaving the bathroom.
He absently rubbed his wet bangs, droplets trickling down his face.
His steps led him to the wardrobe, neatly arranged with various outfits. He squinted, pried open the doors, and glanced through the choices, lingering on some, then jumping to the next.
Instead of choosing something vibrant or loud, he preferred modest attire that leaned toward comfort.
Tastes mellow with time and age.
A slightly baggy T-shirt in sky blue, easy on the eyes and a relaxed-fit pair of trousers. For the mild wind outside, he picked out a soft, comfortable hoodie.
Hanging them over his shoulder, he turned to face the full-length mirror again. His half-naked, slightly chilled body stood before him in all its sculpted glory, abs like carved marble, and a face that screamed trouble for anyone with eyes.
"Whether I manage to achieve anything or not... I won't lose these abs at any cost," he muttered, his eyes glinting with resolve.
Almost immediately, his garments found their place, draped over his six-pack abs, framing his refined physique and pairing with his unusually handsome face.
After combing his hair and applying cologne, he took in a deep breath. "This face does belong on magazine covers."
A sly grin curled on his lips. "I hope I get to date some Marvel heroines. I'll be satisfied even with one street-level one," he joked to himself, amused at his improved mindset from before.
Instead of wasting time panicking over a moody system, Max decided to ride the wave. He knew the plot; he might as well use it.
His gaze landed on the hanging clock. The hands pointed directly at 8:00 a.m., and a chill ran down his spine.
Grandma would kill him.
Without a second thought, he bolted out of the room toward the breakfast table, leaving all other problems aside... for now.
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