A thick haze loomed over every corner of the city, and sharp anti-aircraft sirens occasionally pierced the dark sky.
The world was at war—Axis powers, led by Nazi Germany, were clashing with the Allied forces. Every day, the radio and newspapers were flooded with reports of war casualties and shifting global dynamics. From Europe to Asia, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, the flames of war were everywhere, and gunpowder smoke filled the air.
No one knew whether hope or destruction would come first.
In Luke's words, "It all sucks!"
"If only I could travel a few decades into the future... Go to Hollywood, write a couple of scripts, shoot a few movies, win a few golden statuettes. Worst-case scenario, I could plagiarize some best-selling novels and live the good capitalist life."
On the corner of the street, inside an empty tavern, Luke leaned back with his feet on the table and his hands cradling his head, sighing heavily.
"All I want is a normal world. After World War II, the American economy boomed like never before. If I could seize the right opportunity, making that first pot of gold wouldn't be so hard. But... Marvel Studios? Seriously?"
He spread open today's newspaper. The main headline was about President Roosevelt meeting Churchill and Stalin in Tehran. The Allies had decided to open a second front in Europe to speed up the defeat of the Nazis.
But Luke's attention wasn't on the war developments. Instead, his eyes drifted to a small gossip column tucked in the corner:
Howard Stark spotted at the Waldorf Astoria with Hollywood's "Goddess of Love," Rita Hayworth.
Below the headline was a crisp black-and-white photo.
"Stark Industries…"
A wry smile crept onto Luke's twenty-year-old face.
To others, Howard Stark was just a rich and clever arms tycoon. But to Luke, he was more than that—he was the father of Tony Stark, the future Iron Man.
Howard Stark's presence confirmed one thing for Luke: he was in the Marvel universe.
And it was just the beginning.
The early timeline, before any major events had unfolded.
It was both good and bad news.
The good news? He'd probably be dead long before Thanos ever snapped his fingers.
The bad news? No Coulson, no Spider-Man, and definitely no Avengers yet. Not even Nick Fury was active—any plan based on fanfiction strategies from his past life was impossible to execute.
In this era, he couldn't even hope to live in Hell's Kitchen and get scouted by S.H.I.E.L.D., meet a balding middle-aged agent, or randomly run into a teenage Spider-Man. And there certainly wasn't going to be a Black Widow knocking on his door to seduce him into becoming a hero.
"I thought I was supposed to be lucky."
Luke never expected his journey through time would land him in 1940s wartime America. Worse still, he ended up as a broke, street-smart kid in Brooklyn.
"It hurts to even think about it."
He covered his face with the newspaper to relieve his growing frustration.
He'd been in this world for five or six years now, gradually adapting to his new identity—Luke Cavill. An Irish-American orphan whose father had died in a gang conflict and whose mother succumbed to tuberculosis. No siblings, no family. Just an uncle.
That uncle was no ordinary man.
He was what they called a "house painter"—a code word for a hitman.
"Painting houses" was gangster slang. After all, when you make a mess, blood splatters everywhere. It paints the house.
His uncle was a veteran who took up work with the local gang to support his family. Clean, efficient, and ruthless, he earned the gang's respect and managed to avoid trouble with the law.
Luke survived the years after his parents' deaths thanks to that uncle.
Still, what he longed for most—what every transmigrator deserved—was his golden finger. His cheat code. His system.
So why hadn't he received his?
The reason for his crossing over was, in hindsight, absurd.
Krypton Gold.
Yes, Luke had been obsessed with a superhero-themed fighting game. And he spent big. He went full pay-to-win mode, trying to turn his financial losses into virtual glory.
One fateful afternoon, unable to resist the temptation, he bought a luxurious in-game gift pack—it included an SSS-tier Superman card and customizable templates for the Son of Krypton.
It was a steal!
But the moment he opened the gift, his screen blinked—and when he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in his world.
He was in this one.
Worst part? The gift pack didn't even arrive with him.
Probably due to poor connection or some cosmic error, the package took five years to start syncing.
Now, five years later, the progress bar in his mind was stuck at:
[99%]
Luke stared at it in his consciousness, filled with anticipation. For five years, he did 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats daily, and basked in the sun, hoping to awaken the powers of the Kryptonian.
But the bar refused to budge past that dreaded 99%.
It gave him migraines.
"What do I have to do, collect an Infinity Stone just to finish loading? That's a joke."
If he could just activate that cheat and gain Superman's powers, he'd be able to carve a path for himself in this dangerous world.
He wouldn't have to live in fear or scrape by.
"I just want a plug-in…"
As Luke let out his inner cry, the tavern door creaked open.
Ding dong!
The crisp chime echoed.
"Luke! I've been looking all over for you!"
A young man in a brown army uniform stepped in, holding a newspaper.
"I went to your house, and when you weren't there, I figured you'd be at old Joseph's tavern! Nailed it!"
Luke peeked out from behind his newspaper. "I'm helping out old Joseph. He's sick. Bucky, did you get your orders?"
The young man across from him was none other than James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes—future Winter Soldier and best friend to Steve Rogers.
"Of course! 107th Infantry! You're looking at Sergeant James Barnes now. I ship out to England tomorrow morning."
Bucky puffed up his chest with pride.
It was wartime. Uncle Sam's recruiting posters covered every wall. Patriotic radio broadcasts fueled the fire. Young men everywhere wanted to enlist, earn glory, and serve their country.
"Shame I can't go with you," Luke said with mock disappointment.
Truthfully, he had zero plans to enlist.
After time-traveling into this mess, he had no interest in fighting Nazis. This wasn't his war.
But saying so would ruin his cover.
In this era, not joining the army made you stand out.
"Someone's gotta stay behind and keep an eye on Steve. He's always jumping into trouble. Honestly, I'm worried."
Bucky clapped Luke on the shoulder.
They had already agreed that one of them needed to stay home. It was just that Luke conveniently lost the beer chugging contest that decided who would enlist—on purpose.
"Actually, now that I think about it... it's not so bad. Every able-bodied man in New York's joined the military. That leaves about 3.5 million women in this city…"
Luke grinned. "Maybe I'll help soothe their lonely, fragile hearts."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "Steve doesn't think like that. He's got a one-track mind."
Bucky frowned at the thought of their friend.
Steve Rogers—frail, idealistic, and determined—wanted nothing more than to enlist. But the military didn't exactly accept scrawny asthmatics, no matter how patriotic they were.
"When are we heading out to find Steve? He's probably at that movie theater again."
Shaking off his worries, Bucky pulled out a few tickets from his pocket and grinned. "Tonight, we're going to the Stark Industries Tomorrow World Expo! I've already invited some gorgeous ladies!"