Chapter 4.

20 advanced chapters on P@treon.com/Rentakun.

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Two years have passed, and now I'm in my final year of high school.

I wish I could say those years flew by in the blink of an eye, but they didn't. I went through the motions—attending classes, completing assignments, and acing every test that came my way. My teachers labeled me a prodigy, especially in computing, but that wasn't entirely true. I just had the advantage of already knowing much of the material from my previous life. Having worked in tech sales, I even knew more than some of my teachers in certain areas.

A few significant events unfolded during this time. The most notable was the birth of Iron Man.

Just as it happened in the movie I remembered, Tony Stark was targeted and kidnapped by a terrorist group in Afghanistan known as the Ten Rings. The incident dominated the news, with every major channel and newspaper covering it extensively as the US military awaited ransom demands. But none ever came. As weeks turned into months, the world began to believe Tony Stark was gone for good.

But I knew better. Three months later, Tony reappeared on US soil, his survival and daring escape the talk of the nation. He was as charismatic as ever in front of the media, smiling and laughing, but I knew the truth. I'd seen the horrors they put him through, and the man I saw on the screen was desperately clinging to a semblance of normalcy after staring death in the face.

It was a strange realization—one I hadn't fully grasped until those events transpired—that in this world, these people were real. It wasn't like watching a movie at home, where scenes of torture were just character-building arcs for a fictional superhero. No, here, those experiences were real, endured by a flesh-and-blood human being. The thought made my skin crawl.

I slipped into a mood for a while after that realization, especially knowing what was coming next.

There I was, living the life of an ordinary teenager, fully aware that Tony's fight with Iron Monger was just around the corner, and yet I was utterly powerless. Years ago, I had vowed to stand alongside the world's mightiest heroes against Thanos. How laughable that seemed now. I had nothing—no powers, no special abilities—nothing that could make me a hero. Not yet.

As expected, Iron Man emerged victorious, wiping Obadiah Stane off the face of the Earth.

Those events only solidified my resolve to become the hero this world would eventually need. Sure, Iron Man saved the day this time, but I knew there would come a day when that wouldn't be enough. More was needed, and I believed that one day, I'd be the one to fill that role. If only I could figure out how.

The other major event was the arrival of Peter Parker and his friends at high school. They were two years below me and exactly as portrayed in the *Homecoming* movie I'd seen back when I was Scott—nerdy, geeky, and oddly charming in their own way. I kept an eye on them, but for now, they were just regular kids.

Friendships developed pleasantly. I'd lost contact with Jordan's old Norbrich friends, but by 15, I had made close friends with Trevor and his group. My popularity soared, getting me invited to parties with the older students. Fortunately, my parents didn't mind me going out. Mum was happy I was socializing, and Dad was cool with it as long as I stayed away from booze, smoking, and anything illegal.

Hanging out with older guys also meant I drew the attention of older girls. But I couldn't bring myself to pursue any of them. Mentally, I was still a 30-year-old man, and the thought of dating girls who were essentially half my age disturbed me.

Trevor and his friends were always quick to point out girls who were interested in me, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being a creepy old man. It was unsettling.

Trevor and his friends graduated high school, but our friendship endured. They still invited me to the occasional college party, and being part of their group gave me an "in" with the upcoming seniors. I quickly exploited this, making friends in their circles, attending their parties, and maintaining my status as the envy of many in my own year.

My success on the track circuit also helped. At 17, I could run the 100 meters in 10.98 seconds, making me one of the school's young athletic talents. It boosted my popularity, and I stuck with it because I knew it would help with my eventual goal of becoming a superhero.

It also didn't hurt that I was naturally good at it in this body, even though I'd had no previous interest in athletics as Scott. It's amazing how much fun something can be when you're one of the best at it. My parents, meanwhile, were relieved, thinking I'd eventually earn a scholarship.

As it was the final year of school, everyone was applying to colleges, and my parents were no exception. They started pressuring me about my plans. But I hadn't had the heart to tell them the truth yet.

I mean, what was I supposed to say? "Oh yeah, I'm going to be a superhero, so university isn't in my future." Convincing them of that while I remained a mere mortal was out of the question.

So, I did what my peers did—I applied for track and field scholarships at Empire State University and other nearby schools. But I knew that wasn't my true path.

Krav Maga was going... well, "going" might be too strong a word. As I walked into the studio after a long day of school, I reflected on how I now attended classes four times a week, much to the instructor's dismay. The former special forces soldier immediately noticed my entrance.

"100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, 10km run. I want to see you exercise until you go bald. You're getting fat, Davis," he barked, gesturing toward the gym equipment before turning away.

Oh? Did I forget to mention that I was absolutely terrible at fighting? By this point, it was clear to everyone that the instructor had given up on me as a lost cause. No, more than that—he wanted me out of his class. He thought I was a waste of time.

Sure, I'd learned the basics—attack, block, deflect, counter—but that was it. The movements felt unnatural. Whenever I saw an attack, I needed time to think of the best response rather than instinctively countering. It didn't help that my parents wouldn't sign off on letting me fight in an MMA match, which was obviously the best way to consolidate what I'd learned. The fact that the instructor would rather I left his class than get paid for me to sit at the side spoke volumes.

Everyone else in the class was better than me, even the kids who'd only recently joined. I was the laughingstock of the group. But fuck that—I knew I was improving, and that one day, a single block and counter might save my life.

"Why don't you stick to running, Jordan?" a familiar voice teased.

I turned to see Lana, a short girl with long brown hair that reached the small of her back. She was petite and athletic, with a cheeky grin on her face.

"Hey, Lana. How've you been?" I smiled back.

She was one of my good friends from the studio, someone I could count on to have my back.

"Not bad, same old stuff. How was your last race?" she asked, returning my smile.

"Alright, I suppose. I'm at the point where the only way to keep up with the front runners is to increase my sprint training to six times a week and aerobics to four times. Otherwise, I'll fall behind."

"So, why don't you?" she asked, feigning innocence, though we'd had this conversation plenty of times before.

"Because I don't want to be just an athlete. I want to do more with my life than just run for fun."

"Uh-huh, because your combat training is going so well," she teased, watching me as I started my squats.

I suspected she might fancy me. Not in an egotistical, self-absorbed way, but in an objective way—we'd been friends for a while, and our conversations had started to feel a bit flirty.

"Hey, I get by. One of these days, I'll be stronger than everyone in the class combined!" I said with mock fanaticism, making her giggle and cover her mouth with her hand. I said it as a joke, but a part of me believed it. My dream was still alive, after all.

"Easy there, cowboy. One step at a time. How are your parents doing? Still trying to persuade you to give up?"

As one of my close friends, Lana had been over to my house a few times. Over the past couple of years, I'd mostly gotten over the maturity gap between myself and my classmates. Teenagers grow up fast, and my now 17-year-old friends weren't as insufferable as they had been when I first joined the school.

Lana and I had hit it off quickly when we met at Krav Maga about a year ago. It was just… nice. I could be myself around her. I didn't have to dumb myself down emotionally or pretend to laugh at stupid jokes.

And that made all the difference.