Marvel and Beyond

After slipping the phone back on table, Max stood up, walked over to the computer, and powered it on.

It felt oddly nostalgic to use a phone with a physical keypad and a computer that, by his standards, was agonizingly slow.

Sure, the Marvel world boasted incredibly advanced technology—an overwhelming blend of marvelous inventions, alien artifacts, and so-called black tech that defied logic.

But that didn't mean such wonders were available to the masses.

A more grounded explanation was that most cutting-edge technology originated within military research facilities in developed nations, getting tested, repurposed, and only eventually released for civilian use.

This wasn't unique to this world either. Even in his previous reality, technological innovation followed that exact trajectory: military first, then commercial.

So while someone like Tony Stark casually played with tech that would blow a common engineer's mind, Max had to settle for what counted as a high-end civilian machine—with a few custom enhancements, at best.

As the screen slowly flickered to life, he cracked his knuckles and started typing.

He searched a few terms online, eyes scanning quickly through results.

After a few minutes of surfing, a grin broke across his face.

"They're not here yet," he muttered unconsciously.

Leaning back in the chair, he chuckled and covered his face with one hand, suppressing a laugh.

With just a bit of casual browsing, Max confirmed something that sparked both relief and excitement: the Marvel world was eerily similar to his old one.

In simple terms, whatever his previous world had, the Marvel universe had a better version of it. And whatever his old world lacked, this one compensated for—with brilliance.

Technologically, the world aligned with the 2005 timeline he remembered, but the existence of Marvel's fictional elements—Hydra, alien tech, super-soldiers—threw the balance off in strategic, unpredictable ways.

Take World War II, for example. Both worlds had it, but in the Marvel universe, Hydra had been secretly stoking the fire while scientists on both sides developed super-soldiers—one noble, one monstrous.

That divergence sparked a domino effect of covert events, such as the creation of S.H.I.E.L.D. and governments quietly scrambling to develop their own superhumans.

And then came aliens.

But those encounters were so deeply classified that even high-ranking officials likely had no clue about the clandestine chaos happening around them.

Max continued his online scouring, hoping to stumble upon a shortcut.

He had read novels where protagonists made fortunes by plagiarizing books, movies, or inventions from their original world.

But disappointment set in quickly—everything he remembered from his world already existed here, at least relative to this timeline.

Even the Resident Evil game series was present.

So the entertainment industry was out of question.

No quick bucks from publishing plagiarized bestsellers, no sudden Hollywood stardom. He had zero filmmaking experience and zero desire to gain any when shortcuts were absent.

He even checked to see if Marvel Comics existed. If they had, he would've bought the company just to get a laugh—but, unsurprisingly, they didn't.

That made sense. In a world where Marvel characters were real, there was no room for fictional depictions of them.

Tony Stark's constant pop culture references already hinted at stable entertainment industry. 

Max had pieced it together from the marvel movies—those references weren't just jokes; they were kind of clues for a transmigrator.

Still, this revelation didn't excite him much.

What did excite him, however, was something else entirely—something he stumbled upon while digging through news blogs and trends.

A faster, far more reliable way to make money.

"Life sure is a bitch," he said aloud, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Max stood up from the chair, closed the computer, slid the phone into his trouser pocket, and headed toward the hallway.

He was on his way to the garage when he spotted Martha moving nearby.

He paused mid-step. Something clicked in his mind. His expression shifted, as if weighed by a thought that had just surfaced.

"Grandma!" he called out.

Martha stopped, turned toward him, and offered a warm nod before approaching.

"What happened, Max?" she asked, her tone gentle yet laced with curiosity.

She studied him with mild concern. From the direction he was headed, she guessed he was about to go out—but the look in his eyes suggested something deeper.

Max hesitated, then asked quietly, "What should we do if something from the past has become a chain, holding us back from moving forward into the future?"

His words were vague, but Martha seemed to understand without needing clarification.

She held his gaze for a moment, then replied calmly, "We should either unchain ourselves from that past… or cut the chain for the better."

Patting his shoulder as she passed, she added with a knowing smile, "I know you'll do great with whatever you've planned. Go bold—just like your father."

Her words hit him harder than expected, kindling something fierce in his chest.

Cut the chain.

He didn't know yet what that would look like, but the meaning resonated.

Sometimes you didn't wait for a clean break—you made one.

His expression brightened. He watched her walk away for a moment, the warmth of her confidence settling into his bones.

That was all the push he needed.

With fresh resolve, he resumed his path and reached the garage.

The sight that greeted him made his jaw slacken slightly—parked neatly inside were two luxurious sedans and two sports cars: a Mercedes-Benz, an Audi, a Porsche, and a Chevrolet Corvette.

Excitement surged in him.

Just yesterday, he was an ordinary guy riding basic pay. Now, he was standing before machines that symbolized wealth and status.

They weren't just cars—they were statements.

The Mercedes and Audi radiated elegance, refined and composed, like silent monarchs of the road.

The Porsche and Corvette, in contrast, radiated raw power—sleek and aggressive, practically growling for the open highway.

Max rubbed his hands together, barely able to contain his excitement as he approached them.

Like a teenager stumbling upon his dream, he gently ran his fingers across the flawless surface of the Mercedes. His hands trembled, his breathing uneven.

He had driven a luxury car once before—his boss's. But owning one? That was different. That meant something. That proved something.

Without wasting another second, Max snatched the keys, unlocked the Mercedes, and swung the door open.

He hopped in like a kid getting his first bike, heart pounding.

His fingers danced over the controls, and as he turned the ignition, the engine roared to life with a deep, satisfying growl.

The sound echoed through the garage like a declaration.

"Haha… well, well, my baby," Max said with a wide grin, gripping the steering wheel. "Let's go for a ride."

As the garage door opened, he hit the accelerator.

The Mercedes surged forward, its engine thundering like a war drum, and Max burst out laughing.

He wasn't just driving. 

He was heading toward his first real step forward.

To his destination—Sky Tower.

….

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