Chapter 8

After a ridiculous dream—albeit one filled with Emperor-pleasing heroics against those cursed heretics—everything had settled down. No mysterious incidents, no weird events, no alarming encounters. Life was rolling along smoothly, almost pleasantly. I guess I should give you some details. So, here's the rundown:

Mom Betty found me a martial arts class. It's like some divine entity finally answered my prayers because, wouldn't you know it, a studio opened nearby. When we went to check it out on "demo day," I was floored. The place? Ten out of ten on renovations. Brand-new equipment. Two instructors: one older, one younger.

The introductory session? Holy hell. These ladies put on a show. They told us flat-out it was more for spectacle than real combat, but it was impressive all the same. Breaking boards and bricks with their fists and feet, gliding through obstacle-laden rooms like goddamn ninjas. They even fought while showing off some wild "three-dimensional maneuvering in combat scenarios." I say I was impressed? Nah, I was blown away.

I half-expected Mom Betty to yank me out of there, muttering something like, "This place is prepping shinobi for ANBU Black Ops," but nope. She actually talked to the head instructor, who then gave me a once-over. Stripped me down to my underwear in a private room, raised an eyebrow at the "DO NOT FEED THE ELEPHANT" on my boxers, and made me jump, run, and generally display my unimpressive meat suit. Her verdict? "We'll train him properly but keep it within his limits. He wants to learn to defend himself and, if needed, get the hell out of Dodge. I'll make sure he gets the skills he needs."

The group? Decent. All girls except me. Ages ranged from about ten to twenty. I did notice something odd, though. Not a single Asian, Black, Indian, or Native American kid. Just a room full of white girls in the most diverse country on Earth. For a second, I thought I'd stumbled into a Klan meeting, but there weren't any hoods or crosses, so… maybe not?

Classes themselves? Good, I think? I don't have anything to compare them to. Lots of physical training, stances, beginner moves, learning to fall correctly, and, importantly, how to run away without looking like a total clown. I worked hard—didn't slack, didn't complain, didn't mess around—and by the fifth lesson, Master Celeste, the lead instructor, stopped giving me the side-eye and micromanaging me. Her assistant, Alex—short for Alexandra—was cool from the start. She's about twenty-two and full of good vibes.

The girls in the group? They seemed curious about me but weren't weird. Okay, maybe a couple gave me some 'hmph' energy, but whatever. We didn't interact much.

Swimming had to go, though. Not enough hours in the day. It wasn't a big loss since I only did it for fitness, and martial arts was giving me plenty of that.

As for Penny? Our relationship was leveling up fast. In just a few days, she went from shy and awkward to full-on confident girlfriend mode. Cornering me for kisses, dragging me out on dates, and giving me little gifts. Honestly? It was sweet but kinda hilarious. I now have two plush cat toys in my room and a framed photo of us from one of our dates.

She often picked me up after practice, and we'd either hang out around town or go to someone's place—usually mine, since I've got a quieter setup and my own room. We'd cuddle on my bed, watch shows on my PC (no laptop, so we had to drag the desk closer), and… yeah, things started heating up.

Like, real heat. One night, Penny went all in, and—uh—I still don't know how I kept it together when her hand slipped into my pants. I mean, what kind of saint was I channeling? Because the old me? No way would I have stopped. But Penny just gave me this smoldering look and whispered, "I'll wait for you to trust me enough to be ready." And I almost combusted on the spot.

Now? Our "activities" have evolved. My fortress? It's crumbling. Fast. Penny's started leaving her tiny shorts and tank tops at my place and changing in front of me. Picture this: your gorgeous girlfriend, down to just her underwear, acting like it's no big deal. It's like getting hit in the soul with a baseball bat. A sexy baseball bat.

I tried "calming myself" the old-fashioned way—y'know, handling business solo—but my inner Imperium soldiers weren't having it. The Guardsman said, "Cadia is ashamed of you, recruit. The Emperor glares down at you with disgust." And the Krieger? Just shook his head muttering, "Pitiful… absolutely pitiful..." I need a Commissar, I think. Someone who'd actually approve of my chaste sacrifice. Maybe.

Honestly, though? Screw principles. I love Penny. I want Penny. What's stopping me is fear. In this world, the age of consent for boys varies by state. Here, it's sixteen, but we're still teenagers. I don't want to risk breaking the law or getting blackmailed over it. Especially not with the weird shit that's been happening around me lately.

But… there's a loophole. Marriage. Specifically, an engagement with a contract stating mutual intent to wed once of age. It's a bureaucratic headache, but it's legal. I sighed, worked up the nerve, and proposed the idea to Penny.

And she? She squealed. Like, full-on screamed with joy at the thought of a week of paperwork just to seal the deal.

So now we're in prep mode for an engagement ceremony. Both our families have gone into overdrive, like they're planning the royal wedding or something. Me? I dodged most of the madness by playing it smart. During one of our make-out sessions, I murmured, "I trust you completely to make this perfect because I love you." Penny's eyes lit up with fiery determination, and boom—off the hook. My only job now? Smile, nod, and occasionally gasp at how amazing everything is.

The ceremony's in two weeks. Invitations are already out. At school, Harry's been strutting around cackling, "I told you I was a prophet! Witness the power of Osborn foresight!"

I can't tell if I should be proud, embarrassed, or just roll with it.

At school, things were going smoothly—except for the sudden appearance of Sally Kingsley: Chaos Edition. She's… complicated. A year older than me, but because of an accident in her childhood, she's in the grade below. She suffered a traumatic brain injury that messed with her emotions—or erased them entirely. Her face is so stoic you'd think she was auditioning to be the school's resident marble statue. To top it off, she lost her whole family in that same crash, except for her grandma.

We weren't friends—not even close. Actually… let me backtrack. Sally was impossible to miss because she was the school weirdo. Completely detached, barely spoke, and naturally became a magnet for bullying.

Now, I'm no hero, but watching kids lose their collective minds tormenting her every day was testing my last nerve. One not-so-beautiful day, I reached my breaking point. Picture this: two mean girls shoving Sally to the ground, scattering her stuff everywhere, and stomping all over it. Sally, as usual, just lay there, completely unbothered, like she was watching clouds go by.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I dove into the scene like a Jedi without a lightsaber. My intro? A flying kick to the gut of one of those little bitches. Then I unleashed three languages' worth of profanity while explaining, in graphic detail, what I thought of them, their parenting, and their life choices. They started fighting back, and before I knew it, I was in a full-on brawl.

Enter: cavalry in the form of Flash Thompson and her girl gang. Flash and I had become casual buddies thanks to Harry Osborn, so she jumped in on my side. Then the bullies' friends joined the fray, and things devolved into a WWE-style royal rumble. I was taking punches from all directions, including some friendly fire, but I gave as good as I got.

Eventually, the teachers pulled us apart. By the time the dust settled, I was a mess: bloody face, ripped clothes, and matching shiners under both eyes. It looked like I'd been on the losing end of a bar fight—or a bad wedding in my previous life. Cue screaming, parents being called in, and my impassioned speech about how this wasn't the America our forefathers envisioned. "If you grownups won't stand up for a defenseless girl, then I, a mere boy, will!" It was Oscar-worthy. One of the grandmas clapped.

Mom Betty, bless her, sicced a couple of inspectors on the school, while mom Judy, after examining my state, started eyeing everyone like she was deciding how best to season their meat.

After that, Sally was left alone. The teachers started keeping a closer eye on her, and the students? They gave her a wide berth. As for me, I earned the nickname "Lady in Pants." Hilarious, right?

But here's the twist: Sally started hovering around me. Not in a creepy way—she wasn't asking for lunch money or whispering ominously behind me. She just… existed nearby, her trademark blank expression in place. Over time, I got used to it. It was like having a background NPC that never went away. Fine by me. She wasn't stabbing me with a knife while giggling maniacally, so whatever.

Recently, though, something shifted. Her face started showing hints of… emotion? I'd catch her glancing at me and my friends with what looked like genuine interest. And sometimes, when we were joking around, I could swear I saw the faintest shadow of a smile. It was unsettling. Combine that with my recent paranoia, and I couldn't ignore it.

Speaking of paranoia, I've noticed something weird: there's always someone near my house. Always. A dog-walking grandma, a smoking couple, a couple making out, or some grumpy lady tinkering under a car hood. It's never empty. Maybe I've been bitten by the radioactive version of Mad-Eye Moody.

On a brighter note, I had to take care of my monthly "man tax." Yep, this world has a law where every guy of age has to "spank for the spunk bank". It's simple. From the moment of puberty, when your little tadpoles start actively dancing tectonic movements while waiting for their egg girlfriends, a man in the USA is supposed to pay a tax once a month. And no, you can't: "I'll donate sperm for a lot of money and buy a Maybach." But you can donate up to four times a month. For that, you'll get a certificate of honorary mastur… uh… donor, yeah. And some benefits. That's it. Heh-heh-heh. So, in this way, you're not only fulfilling your marital duty, but also your duty to the state. Heh-heh-heh. In a way, you have democracy. Heh-heh-heh.

The whole process is dead simple. They take you to the material bank, lead you into a room, give you some porn — and you do your thing. Any teenage boy is a world champion when it comes to paying these taxes.

Moving on. On the language front, I've leveled up. My Russian tutor is thrilled with my progress, even if my accent screams "foreigner." We've stopped lessons in German, though, because Grandma Lily—Judy's mom—agreed to only speak German with me. She's terrifyingly strict, but I love it. Her piercing blue eyes, blonde hair, and perfectly stern wrinkles make her look like she moonlights as a drill sergeant. She works at some research institute and is frequently away on trips, probably intimidating her lab assistants into submission.

Overall, life's been a bit calmer. Between the self-defense classes and the upcoming engagement ceremony with Penny, I even have some free time. Though with this strange world, who knows how long that'll last?

Today at school, they announced that we're going on a field trip to Oscorp in two days. Dun-dun-duuun! If I'm right, and everything goes according to plan, this might just be the day I get my Spider powers. Exciting, right? Too bad I never really followed Marvel all that closely. I was more of an anime and Warhammer guy, so my knowledge here is painfully limited… but hey, it might be for the best.

From what I've gathered, this universe doesn't stick to any established canon. It's probably safer not to expect anything specific. Who knows, I might end up six feet under just because I assumed someone would act like their comic book version. For example, I recently found out Captain Marvel is back on Earth. Saw her on TV zipping across the sky from point A to point B like a discount Saitama rushing to a sale.

Speaking of Mr. Black, I've calmed down about him, too. I visited Penny recently, and we had a nice chat with him. He was calling in from the Arctic—seriously, the man was casually chatting with us while surrounded by snow and ice. He congratulated us on our decision about the engagement, lamented that he couldn't attend, but assured me he fully supports us and is genuinely happy for me and his daughter. So, yeah, no stress there anymore.

Now I'm just waiting. Two days, and I'll have checked off the first step on my self-assigned superhero to-do list. After that? We'll see. Plans, like spiderwebs, need time to spin.

Meanwhile, in an unassuming apartment in an unassuming part of town, two men were settling into plush chairs for a quiet conversation. If our protagonist were here, he'd recognize one of them as Mr. Joseph Black.

The second man was strikingly handsome, with curly chestnut hair, a fit, athletic body, and a sharp, delicate face accentuated with light makeup. His perfectly manicured hands and piercing gray-green eyes completed the image of someone who was both lethal and alluring.

"What's the news?" Mr. Black asked.

"One of our operatives went missing. Not during her shift, though. They found her two days later in the Hudson. Signs of a struggle, no ID, no cash, no personal belongings. No traces of foreign substances in her system. Police are chalking it up to robbery and murder."

"And your theory?"

"I'm leaning toward the official version. It's New York—anything can happen here. Besides, she wasn't exactly… high-caliber. Just another hireling. People like her often get mixed up in the wrong stuff. But as a precaution, we've brought in more operatives. Same rule as always: mercenaries with no ties to us."

"Good. Dig into her background. Check the cameras, payment records, places she frequented, people she associated with. I don't need to tell you how to do your job. Just don't make yourself visible. And the boy?"

"Got it. I'll handle it. As for the boy, everything's fine. He's preparing for the engagement, nothing out of the ordinary. School, friends, sports, dates. Honestly, I'm jealous. Kid's living the good life." The man smirked.

"Good. Keep an eye on him for another month, wrap up the operative's case, and then pull back. No need to draw unnecessary attention. If someone does notice the mercenaries, there are plenty of plausible explanations, but let's avoid it altogether."

"Understood," the man nodded, standing up and heading for the door.

Left alone, Mr. Black let out a weary sigh, closed his eyes, and leaned back into his chair.

"Goddess," he murmured, "at least let my children have good lives." After a moment of quiet reflection, he added to the empty room, "Seems Penny got lucky. This Toby kid really is a good boy."

Then, with a wistful smile, he muttered, "Where can I find more boys like him for the others? Shame he's a bit too young for the older ones…"