Chapter 122: The New Transmigration Mode
Upon his return to the Marvel world, Jon's first order of business was checking the Demon Slayer world store in system's Universal Emporium, a place where realms intersected and the wares of other universes could be procured. His purpose was singular and clear—to arm the Yoriichi Zero-Type doll with weapons befitting its formidable design.
The Yoriichi Zero-Type wielded six swords with a precision that belied its inanimate nature. However, five of these swords were mere ordinary blades, unworthy of the doll's potential. There was one exception—the heirloom sword of the Yoriichi lineage, a blade steeped in history and power, which Jon had meticulously restored to its rightful splendor.
In the store, Jon's eyes appraised the selection with the discernment of an expert. He chose five new swords, each one a masterpiece of the swordsmith's art. These were not the mass-produced blades of the common foot soldier; they were the work of a master from Swordsmith village, imbued with a quality that promised unyielding sharpness and unbreakable will.
With great care, Jon replaced the Zero-Type's ordinary swords with these new acquisitions. The swords varied in length, curve, and design, each one reflecting the light with a promise of lethality. The Yoriichi Zero-Type doll, now fully equipped, was not just a replica—it was a warrior reborn, its six arms ready to wield the high-quality swords with deadly grace.
However, as night fell and the world outside his window grew quiet, Jon prepared for rest. His mind, however, was far from peaceful. The day's acquisitions lay neatly arrayed before him, silent sentinels in the dim light of his room. It was then that the system's prompt sliced through the silence, a beacon in the dark.
[The Multiverse Transmigration Portal has been fully upgraded. A new transmigration mode is now available. Please click to view.]
Jon's heart skipped a beat. "A Transmigration Mode?" His voice was a whisper, a mix of curiosity and caution. He reached out, almost hesitantly, and clicked to open it.
"A Free Transmigration Mode..." The words tumbled from his lips, a quiet echo in the stillness of the room. His eyes scanned the instructions, a frown of concentration etching his features. Minutes ticked by, each second a brushstroke painting his understanding of the new function.
This Free Transmigration Mode was a stark contrast to the system's original method. Gone were the rigid tasks, the unforgiving deadlines, the relentless push to complete objectives within a set time. This new mode offered freedom, a tantalizing taste of autonomy. It allowed him to enter a chosen world at the cost of penalty points, and when the transmigration limit approached, he could pay his way to remain, to extend his stay amidst worlds unknown.
As for the legendary task, it was an eternal task to judge the souls burdened with deep sins, remained ever-present, a constant undercurrent to the adventure.
Jon's gaze fell upon the panel, its text a simple declaration of the possibilities that lay before him.
[Multiverse Transmigration Modes.]
Two options beckoned: [Default Mode] and [Free Transmigration Mode]. The former was a path well-trodden, now grayed out and unresponsive, a chapter of his life concluded. The latter, however, was vibrant, inviting, a door ajar to worlds untold.
The temptation to dive into this Free Transmigration Mode was a siren's call, but Jon's body was a leaden weight, his mind a whirlpool of fatigue. The instance he had just completed had taken its toll, draining him of his vigor. With a resolve that was part determination, part resignation, he decided to yield to his mortal needs.
***
In the early morning, when the city was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes, a figure emerged from the shadows, as if he was a part of them. Wrapped tightly in a black trench coat, he stood on the street corner, an island of dread in the sea of the waking world. His wide hood was a shroud, hiding a face marred by scars that spoke of violence and burns that whispered of past agony. Beneath the long sleeves of his coat, a secret was tightly bound—a bio-mechanical arm, a fusion of flesh and steel, not meant for the eyes of the unsuspecting public.
The street was silent, save for the distant hum of the city awakening. Then, a van rolled up to the curb, its arrival as silent as a shadow. The door slid open with a hushed whisper, and without a word, the man stepped inside, swallowed by the darkness within.
The van moved through the streets with purpose, stopping before the stoic facade of a bank. The man, along with his masked companions, disembarked with a predatory grace. They were phantoms in a world that was just beginning to stir.
Without hesitation, the man entered the bank and cast back his hood, revealing a visage that was the stuff of nightmares. His face, a tapestry of scars, was a terrifying testament to a life marred by violence and survival.
He was known as the Executioner. Since the fall of Kingpin, who was exterminated by Jon, the Executioner had been cast adrift in a world that no longer had a place for him. Once a loyal subordinate, he now found himself hunted by the very underworld forces he had served, as well as the relentless pursuit of the government. With no master to serve, no cause to champion, he had turned to the only skill set he had—his prowess in combat and strategy—to rob banks.
Bang!
The Executioner lifted his sleeve, revealing the cold, metallic sheen of his bio-mechanical arm. With a mechanical whir and a surge of power, he fired a heavy cannon shot, the force of which tore through the air and blasted a gaping hole in the bank's wall. Plaster and dust filled the air, a tangible cloud of fear that settled over everyone inside.
This was his warning, a declaration without words: stay put, stay silent, or face the consequences.
His accomplices, faces hidden behind masks, moved with a practiced efficiency. They approached the bank counter, brandishing guns with a casual menace. Bags were thrust forward, and the threat was clear in their cold, hard eyes: "Put the money in the bag!"
The counter staff, their faces pale with fear, raised their hands in surrender and began to fill the bags with trembling hands.
Bang!
A gunshot shattered the tense silence, and a bank employee's head burst open in a macabre display. Blood and terror painted the walls, a gruesome tapestry of the consequences of disobedience.
"Who the hell told you to hit the alarm?" one of the robbers bellowed, his voice a harsh growl that echoed through the bank. "This is what happens to anyone who doesn't cooperate!"
***
The cacophony of gunshots and the shrill cries of terror were a stark contrast to the mundane rhythm of the morning commute. Jon, on his way to work, found his attention snatched away by the chaos unfolding at the bank to his left. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the figure through the glass window—the Executioner, a ghost from Kingpin's past, a specter he knew all too well from the memories of a fallen subordinate.
A smirk played on Jon's lips. "Just in time," he murmured, his voice a low growl of anticipation. "I wanted to test the combat power of the Yoriichi Zero-Type. You'll be the perfect test subject!"
Bang! Bang!
Inside the bank, the Executioner stood with cold indifference, his gaze sweeping over the scene as his subordinates stuffed their bags with ill-gotten gains. But his confidence was shattered as the bank's doors and windows slammed shut with a resounding bang, plunging the room into darkness.
"What devilry is this?!" the Executioner muttered, his scarred face twisting in confusion.
A portal, glowing with an otherworldly light, tore through the darkness. From its depths emerged a figure clad in the garb of the Sengoku period, a swordsman with six swords strapped to his waist and back. The Yoriichi Zero-Type, with its six arms, moved with the jerky precision of a doll brought to life.
"Who are you?!" the Executioner demanded, his bio-mechanical arm raised in a threatening gesture.
The Yoriichi Zero-Type offered no response, only the silent draw of six blades from their sheaths—a dance of steel and intent.
Slash!
The Executioner, sensing the imminent threat, braced to unleash the fury of his bio-cannon. But he was too slow. The Yoriichi Zero-Type, swift as a shadow fleeing the light, struck with a precision that was both beautiful and terrible.
As the swordsman sheathed his blades, the Executioner crumpled, his body a canvas of blood and defeat. His subordinates, gripped by panic, unleashed a hail of bullets, but their efforts were futile against the relentless advance of the Yoriichi Zero-Type.
[Ding! Soul Sacrifice Function used successfully, soul exchange completed, you got 100 penalty Points]
From a safe distance, Jon watched the swift conclusion of the battle, a satisfied nod the only sign of his approval. The Executioner, a formidable force in the Marvel world, had been dispatched with a single, decisive blow. The Yoriichi Zero-Type had proven its worth.
With a casual gesture, Jon summoned a portal and recalled the swordsman doll back to his side.
***
The day passed in the comforting routine of his repair shop, a welcome respite from the relentless battles of the instance world. The Marvel world, with its relative peace, was a sanctuary for Jon—a place to breathe, to live.
In the evening, after a meal shared with Annie and Ayla, and a brief interlude with the television, Jon prepared for his nightly ritual. At ten o'clock, he opened the system panel, his mind set on exploring the new transmigration mode.
[Ding! Random search for worlds is done!]
[The available world is American Horror Stories.]
[Teleporting to this world requires 10,000 penalty points. Do you want to enter this world? Yes/No...]
Jon hesitated, the cost steep even for him. "So expensive..." he muttered, a frown creasing his brow. American Horror Stories was an unknown variable, a world shrouded in mystery and potential terror.
But the thrill of the unknown beckoned, a siren call to his adventurous spirit. "Whatever," he decided with a reckless grin, "it sounds like a horror movie. Maybe it could serve as a good meal for the Ghost Rider! And I can afford the 10,000 penalty points anyway."
With a decisive click, Jon chose "Yes."
"Here we go again!" he declared, his voice a mix of excitement and challenge as he stepped into the portal, ready to face whatever horrors awaited him in this new, unexplored world.
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