(I have a Patreon if you want to read the next 10 chapters of this fanfiction then go to patreon.com/7_Night )
(my other projects are coming Soon)
New York City – Hell's Kitchen – Two Hours Ago
The regime of one of the city's greatest protectors had finally ended.
Daredevil, once revered as the guardian devil of Hell's Kitchen, had become something else entirely—a tyrant cloaked in righteousness. During his fall, he ruled over the streets with an iron fist, terrorizing civilians and locking criminals away in secret prisons that operated outside any known justice system. But now, his reign was over.
And somewhere in a dim, run-down apartment overlooking the edge of that broken neighborhood, a scream tore through the early morning air.
"NOOOO!"
The cry came from a young man bolting upright in bed, drenched in sweat. But his scream wasn't about Daredevil, or the trauma the city had just survived. His terror ran deeper—much deeper.
This young man, known in this world as Scott Spectre, was no ordinary person. He was reincarnated.
But unlike all those lucky bastards in anime and webnovels who woke up in fantasy worlds with cheat powers and harem flags, Scott's version of reincarnation was just plain unfair.
"How the hell did this happen…" he groaned, collapsing back onto the thin mattress with a heavy exhale.
He stared at the cracked ceiling, trying to process the absurdity of it all.
One minute, he'd been living his average, completely unremarkable life. Then, with no warning, no divine omen, no last words, a thunderbolt struck him dead out of nowhere. Literally.
Boom. Gone.
No truck-kun, no villain, no noble sacrifice—just a freak accident from the sky.
And instead of finding himself in heaven, hell, or even some bureaucratic soul-processing office, he woke up in a blank white void, like the loading screen of existence. That's when it got weird.
Before him appeared seven golden decks of cards, floating in midair like something out of a casino-themed isekai. Then came the speech. The long, typical reincarnation spiel about fate, rebirth, and his "special connection to the multiverse." Blah blah blah. Scott didn't remember most of it. He'd tuned out halfway.
What did matter were the categories.
There were seven decks—each labeled:
• Category One: World
• Category Two & Three: Power One, Power Two
• Category Four: Weapon
• Category Five: Looks
• Category Six: Risk (Optional)
• Category Seven: Bonus (Draw two cards)
At the time, he'd been pumped—ridiculously hyped, especially for Power One and Power Two. He didn't care where he ended up as long as he had cool abilities.
But before any of that, he'd made a strategic choice.
Scott immediately drew from the Appearance deck—Category Five—because, as shallow as it sounded, he knew how much looks mattered. People could pretend it wasn't true, but appearance shaped perception. He wasn't going to roll the dice on looking like an orc or a blobfish.
To his surprise and overwhelming joy, the card he pulled read:
"Human – Comic Book High-Level Beauty"
At first, he hadn't understood what that meant. But the moment he remembered it, he shot out of bed and stumbled toward the mirror.
What he saw made his breath catch.
He was beautiful.
Not just "good looking." Not "Instagram model" or "Hollywood handsome."
No—he had the kind of face that only existed in comic books. Strong jawline, perfect symmetry, skin that practically glowed under the cheap apartment light. It was unnerving, honestly. The reflection staring back looked like someone who had stepped off the page of a Marvel splash panel.
In his old life, he'd been painfully average. Decent height, plain features, the kind of guy you'd forget after ten minutes. But now?
Now he looked like a genetic masterpiece—yet also strangely unique.
His skin tone was difficult to place—he looked like a perfect blend of multiple heritages. Part Caucasian, part Asian, part African-American, and part Latino. Whoever his parents were in this world, they were clearly a multiracial mix. His features were bold and soft at the same time. His hair was a smooth, grayish-black that curled slightly at the tips. His eyes, when he leaned closer to the mirror, were a striking shade of amber, gleaming with intensity even when he wasn't trying.
A slow, proud smirk crept onto his face.
"Damn…"
(image)
For a moment, he let himself enjoy it. For a moment, he let go of the fear and the confusion and just appreciated what he'd become.
And then he pulled his pants and saw a dragon between his legs which made him even happier
(for those who has been reading my work for a long time no I do the dragon check a lot and it's a tradition that will never change)
But then the memory of the other cards came rushing back.
The smile faded.
There were still six more categories, and not all of them had gone the way he'd hoped.
Back when he first pulled the Appearance card, Scott thought he was on a roll.
He looked amazing. Human. Comic book-level gorgeous. The kind of guy who should be on superhero posters, not struggling to survive in the gutter. The win gave him confidence, cockiness even, and he went into the next deck with swagger.
The World Cards.
He reached for one without hesitation, fingers brushing against the golden shimmer of fate.
Let's keep this streak going, he thought.
He drew.
His eyes skimmed the card.
And then they widened in horror.
"Marvel 616"
"Shit."
He just stared at it, his heart skipping several beats. "Wait, wait, no, hold up—some people say 616 is the MCU! Maybe it's just numbered that way here too. Maybe it's the movie version! Please be the movie version!"
He clutched at the card like a desperate man holding onto hope. The idea that he might end up in the relatively safer (still chaotic, but safer) MCU brought some comfort.
But then the card changed.
A second line appeared beneath it:
"Comic Universe."
"…FUCK."
The word fell out of his mouth like a curse—and it was. A death sentence, almost. The MCU was dangerous, sure, but the comics? People died in those worlds and came back just to die again. Cities blew up for fun. Entire universes were erased on a Tuesday.
He fell to his knees in the white void, hands trembling.
"It's okay… it's okay," he whispered to himself. "There's still the Power Cards. I can fix this. I'll just pull some god-tier ability and I'll be fine. I'll be fine."
He stepped toward Power Card One like a man hoping to pull Exodia.
He drew.
He read.
"Full Strength and Durability of Spider-Man."
His eye twitched.
Uncontrollably.
"O…kay," he said through clenched teeth. "Okay. It's not bad. Good base. Spidey is strong. I'll just get my real power in the second card. The cool one. The OP one."
He yanked the second card with way less patience.
He read it.
"Flexibility and Reflexes of Spider-Man."
"FUCK OFF, SPIDER-MAN!!" he screamed into the void, his voice echoing endlessly.
He threw the card down like it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. "Why the hell are you popping up so much?! Is Peter Parker sponsoring this reincarnation?!"
He was now pacing, fists clenched.
"How the hell am I supposed to survive in the Marvel COMIC universe with street-level powers?!" he shouted. "There are literal gods, universe-eaters, and reality-warpers out there! And I got Spider-Man's stats with no Spider-Sense?!"
He collapsed into a dramatic heap on the glowing void floor.
"I'm gonna die."
But then… his eyes flicked to the Weapon Card deck.
There was still a chance.
"Alright. Let's go. Gimme something broken. Give me Thor's hammer, give me the Ultimate Nullifier, give me—"
He blinked.
He'd already pulled it.
He didn't remember moving. The card was in his hand.
"Magic Gun: Infinite Bullets. Two Modes."
He stared blankly.
He read further:
• Normal Mode: Lethal. Shoots like any other gun—kills normally.
• Non-Lethal Mode: Can shoot vital points (head, heart, etc.), "kills" target temporarily. After 24 hours, target regenerates and returns to life with no lasting damage. Alternatively, you can bring them back early at will.
(image)
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, in the flattest voice possible:
"…I'm gonna die."
It was a cool weapon—sure. Stylish. Unique. But it was also a magic gun that basically gave people temporary death naps. What kind of insane battlefield was this thing designed for?
He shook his head, trying to reset his thoughts.
"Fine," he muttered. "I still have the Bonus Deck. Two cards. Maybe—just maybe—they'll save me."
But before he got there… his hand moved toward the Risk deck.
He didn't mean to. He swore he didn't.
But his dumb reincarnated instincts wanted to be bold.
The Risk Card flipped.
"Forget: You will forget key knowledge about the world you are going to. You will retain knowledge of characters and powers, but forget key events, plotlines, and locations. Examples: You will remember Wakanda exists, but not how to get there. You will know Spider-Man's powers, but not his history."
Scott didn't even say anything.
He didn't even blink.
He just started crying.
Silent, ugly tears in the middle of a glowing void.
His lips trembled.
"…Why the hell am I this unlucky…?"
He didn't even remember drawing the two Bonus Cards. They just appeared in his hand as gravity dragged him toward the portal against his will.
He kicked, flailed, screamed.
"NOOOOO—!"
⸻
Back in his apartment, Scott was now curled up in his blanket, full-on sobbing into the pillow like a kid who dropped their ice cream after being mugged.
"Why… why me…"
He sniffed and screamed into the mattress.
"How the hell am I this unlucky?!"
(you guys still have to wait for my other project to come out for more chapters for this one, it will take a couple of days)