1943, Brooklyn.
A heavy gloom shrouded every corner of the city, occasionally pierced by shrill air-raid sirens cutting across the dark sky.
At this time, the Axis Powers led by the Third Reich were locked in a fierce war with the Allied Nations.
Every day, radio broadcasts and newspapers were filled with reports of war casualties and the international situation.
From Europe to Asia, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean.
War raged everywhere, and smoke covered the land.
No one knew whether hope or destruction would arrive first.
In Luke's words, everything was completely screwed up!
"If only I'd transmigrated a few decades later! I could've gone to Hollywood, written a few scripts, made some movies, won a few Oscars. At worst, I could've copied some bestselling novels, achieved financial freedom, and enjoyed the corrupt life of capitalism."
Inside an empty tavern on a street corner.
Luke held his head in both hands, his legs propped up on the table, and let out a regretful sigh.
"Or at least give me a normal world. America's economy after World War II was unprecedentedly prosperous. If I seized the opportunity, earning my first pot of gold wouldn't have been that difficult. But... what the hell was with landing on a Marvel set?"
Luke sighed and unfolded today's newspaper. The most prominent headline reported that President Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin were holding a conference in Tehran.
The Allied Nations had decided to open a second front in Europe in order to defeat the German Nazis as quickly as possible.
However, what caught his attention was not the course of the world war, but a gossip item tucked away in the corner—
Howard Stark and Hollywood's "Goddess of Love," Rita Hayworth, had been photographed entering and leaving the Waldorf Hotel together.
A fairly clear black-and-white photograph accompanied the article.
"Stark Industries..."
Twenty-year-old Luke wore a bitter smile.
Perhaps in other people's eyes, Howard Stark was merely a wealthy, brilliant arms tycoon.
But to Luke, the man had another important identity.
The future Iron Man's father, Tony Stark.
It was Howard Stark's existence that confirmed Luke had truly landed on a Marvel set.
And it was the very beginning of everything!
The starting point in the timeline before any major events had occurred!
That was both good news and bad news.
The good news was that Luke might die without ever seeing Thanos, the director of the universe's family planning commission, snap his fingers.
The bad news was that he could not seek out newbie village chief Coulson, nor could he go to Queens to find Spider-Man.
Not to mention the Avengers later on. Even Nick Fury was nowhere to be found yet, so the "guides" fanfiction Luke had read in his previous life was completely useless.
Normally, shouldn't he have been living in Hell's Kitchen before S.H.I.E.L.D. came knocking to recruit him?
Then he could meet some middle-aged agent with a precarious hairline, or run into baby Spider-Man, and tag along with the group to farm experience all the way?
If he got lucky and came with some kind of cheat, perhaps Black Widow might even come to his door to seduce him.
"I was clearly a Lucky Emperor."
Luke had never imagined that his opening scenario would be America during World War II.
And that he would somehow become a street punk in Brooklyn.
"Just thinking about it gives me a headache."
Luke covered his face with the newspaper, trying to ease his gloomy mood.
He had transmigrated to this world nearly five or six years ago and had long since accepted his new identity as Luke Cahill.
He had also accepted the orphan backstory: his family were Irish immigrants, his father had died in a gang vendetta, his mother had died of tuberculosis, and he had no younger sister.
Now, the only person around Luke who could be considered family was his uncle, who had often "painted houses" for people in his younger days.
Painting houses.
That was gang slang.
Luke's uncle was not a craftsman who painted houses—this phrase was used to refer to murder.
When dealing with certain troublesome matters, it was difficult to avoid splattering blood on the walls, so gangsters used "painting houses" to describe dirty work.
Luke's uncle had been someone who did dirty work for gangs—in his younger days.
He had once been a discharged soldier. Later, in order to support his family, he began "painting houses" for gangs.
Because he acted decisively, kept his hands clean, and never left behind unnecessary clues, he had always been highly valued by those at the top.
And in the years since Luke's parents had died, it was his uncle's support that had kept him from starving to death.
"My cheat that still hasn't arrived after all this time..."
Thinking of the cheats every transmigrator before him supposedly possessed, Luke felt even more miserable.
First of all.
The reason he had transmigrated
was an utterly ridiculous one.
Microtransactions!
That was right. At the time, Luke had been addicted to a fighting game that used superheroes as its main selling point.
And he had spent money without restraint, hoping to change his cursed bad luck through that simple, brutal method.
One afternoon, unable to resist, he bought the game's deluxe gift pack—which included an SSS-rank card for Superman, as well as multiple selectable templates for a Kryptonian.
It was an incredible bargain!
But the moment he opened the gift pack, Luke blinked once and transmigrated.
The worst part was not even that.
Perhaps because of poor signal, the deluxe gift pack that had transmigrated with him
had taken five or six years just to connect and load.
99%
Luke glanced at the progress bar in his mind space, anticipation appearing on his face.
Over the years, he had done one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, and one hundred squats every day, while actively soaking up sunlight, all for the moment the deluxe gift pack finally opened.
Unfortunately, whether this place was too far from the neighboring set and had poor signal, or for some other reason.
The progress bar remained stuck at ninety-nine percent, refusing to move forward even a single notch.
That gave Luke a terrible headache.
"Don't tell me I need to collect an Infinity Stone before it'll open. It can't be that much of a scam..."
Luke curled his lip. If he could obtain Superman's power,
then he could develop steadily in this dangerous world.
When that time came, perhaps his life would be even better than in the neighboring set.
After all, the tone here was not nearly as dark.
"I crave a cheat..."
Just as Luke cried out in his heart, the tavern door was pushed open.
Ding-dong!
A crisp bell rang out.
"Luke! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
A young man wearing the brown uniform of an army soldier and holding a newspaper called out.
"I went to your place, but you weren't home, so I came to Old Joseph's Tavern! I knew you'd be here!"
The handsome, spirited young man casually pulled out a chair and sat opposite Luke.
"I'm watching Old Joseph's place for him. He's sick. Bucky, did you get your orders?"
Luke lowered the newspaper covering his face and spoke lazily.
The young man sitting across from him was none other than the future Winter Soldier, Captain America's best friend, James Barnes.
"Bucky" was his nickname and also an affectionate form of address, used only by close friends.
"Of course! The 107th Infantry Regiment! You should call me Sergeant James Barnes now! I'll set sail for England tomorrow morning."
Bucky puffed out his chest, pride written all over his face.
It was the height of World War II, and Uncle Sam recruitment posters could be found in every state and every town.
Passionate slogans and ubiquitous televised speeches had stirred the patriotism of countless young people.
They could hardly wait to head for the battlefield and win medals of honor.
"What a shame I can't go with you."
Luke said with feigned disappointment.
He actually had no intention of enlisting.
He had finally transmigrated once, only to help Uncle Sam fight German Nazis. That internationalist spirit was a little too touching.
He only said it to maintain his persona.
Given the current environment, enlisting was something most young men would do.
"Someone has to stay behind and look after Steve. That guy is always sticking his nose into other people's business. I really can't stop worrying about him!"
Bucky patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly.
He and Luke had discussed in private that one of them should remain in the country.
Unfortunately, Luke had lost the drinking contest that determined who got to enlist—well, deliberately.
"Come to think of it, it's not so bad. All the men in New York have gone off to war, leaving three and a half million women in the city... Maybe I'll get the chance to comfort some of their fragile, beautiful hearts."
Luke joked.
He and Bucky had known each other for several years.
Bucky and Steve Rogers had both been friends of the original owner of this body.
"Steve doesn't see it that way. That stubborn fool."
Bucky sighed.
Whenever he thought of that troublesome little guy, his brows furrowed tightly.
Steve wanted to go to the battlefield just like him.
But he did not meet the physical standards to become a soldier.
"When are we going to find Steve? He's definitely at that movie theater again."
Shaking off the worries in his head, Bucky pulled several tickets from his pocket and said excitedly, "Tonight, we can go to Stark Industries' Tomorrow World Expo! I asked a few pretty girls out!"
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