Rampaging Through the Heavens: Starting by sending Chan Ho-nam to Stanley

Chapter 209 Mutation

Peter didn't know how he got home.

He only remembers boarding the bus in a daze, finding a window seat, and resting his head against the glass. The cool temperature seeped through his skin, making him a little more awake.

But before long, that feeling of drowsiness surged up again, like the rising tide, engulfing his consciousness wave after wave.

When he arrived at the station, he mechanically got off the bus, mechanically walked down the street he had walked countless times, and mechanically pushed open the creaking wooden door.

Aunt May called out from the kitchen, "Peter, are you back?" He replied, "Yes," then went upstairs and collapsed onto the bed.

My last memory is the smell of laundry detergent on the pillow.

And then I knew nothing more.

When Peter woke up again, he found himself lying on the floor, shirtless.

The cool floor pressed against his burning skin, making him shiver.

He blinked and stared at the ceiling above him.

There was a crack on it, stretching from the lamp base all the way to the corner of the wall. He had seen it since he was a child, and he knew it all too well.

But at this moment, every detail of that crack was too clear.

The texture of the plasterboard, the edges of the peeling paint, the dust accumulated in the cracks, and even the shape of the dust particles can be clearly seen.

Peter paused for a moment.

He pushed himself up from the floor and sat up; as soon as he exerted force with his arms, he sprang into the air.

It wasn't the feeling of slowly getting up; rather, it was like being launched by a spring, and I was standing up straight in a flash.

He stumbled a step before regaining his balance, looking down at his hands with a blank expression.

The hands are still the same hands, but not entirely.

The fingers were longer and more slender, with distinct knuckles, and something seemed to be surging beneath the skin, like countless tiny rivers flowing through the veins.

He turned to look at the clock on the wall.

The hour hand points to seven, and the minute hand points to twelve.

Seven o'clock in the morning.

He actually slept for a whole day and night?

Peter rubbed his temples, his memories slowly returning.

Yesterday, at the science center, I was bitten by something, developed a fever, went to the school clinic, the counselor's office, then went home, went upstairs, and collapsed.

The memories in between are blank, as if they had been erased with an eraser.

He instinctively reached for the glasses on the cabinet.

He wore those black-rimmed glasses for three years. The lenses were covered with tiny scratches, and the nose pads were crooked, but he never got them repaired.

The moment the glasses were put on the bridge of my nose, the world didn't become clearer.

Instead, it became blurry.

The lenses seemed to be fogged up, and things that should have been clear became distorted and deformed, as if looking at the world through a layer of frosted glass.

Peter: ? ?

No!

My glasses prescription actually increased after I got sick?

He took off his glasses, intending to put them on the cabinet so he could go to the optician's later to get a new pair.

Then he glanced at the mirror on the wall.

The person in the mirror wasn't wearing glasses.

But everything in the mirror was terrifyingly clear.

He could see the tiny water droplets on the mirror, every pore on his face, and even the water in his eyes...

Eye?

Peter's eyes were still blue, but the blue was deeper and more intense than before, as if someone had injected new paint into his irises.

The lines around the pupils are clearly visible, spreading out in concentric rings like tree rings.

He could see even more clearly than when he wore glasses.

Peter: !!

He suddenly leaned close to the mirror, his nose almost touching the surface.

The person in the mirror still had a thin face, but the lines had become more defined, and the originally pale skin now had a healthy glow.

Those eyes were as bright as two sapphires.

He took back what he had just said.

He got sick, and his nearsightedness disappeared?!

Peter threw his glasses onto the bed, as if he were throwing away some burden.

He walked back and forth in the room, from the window to the door, and from the door to the window.

The street outside the window, the buildings across the street, and the tree canopy in the park in the distance—everything was as clear as a high-definition photograph.

He had lived for seventeen years, and for the first time, he didn't need to see the world through glasses.

Then Peter noticed something else.

He looked down at his body.

His originally frail body now looked as if it had been reshaped.

The chest is no longer the flat, skin-and-bones type, but covered with a thin layer of muscle, with smooth lines that are not exaggerated.

Several outlines were faintly visible on his abdomen, his shoulders had broadened slightly, and the muscles in his arms were taut, like a fully drawn bowstring.

He clenched his fist, and could feel the power contained in each finger.

That force didn't make a big fuss or cause a ruckus; it just stayed there quietly, waiting for the time he needed it.

What... exactly is going on?

Peter stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself who was both familiar and unfamiliar.

He vaguely felt that all of this was related to the high fever he had yesterday.

Central Park Tower.

One of the most luxurious apartments in New York City.

The entire building resembles a silver spear planted on Manhattan Island, its glass curtain wall gleaming dazzlingly in the sunlight.

Downstairs there are neatly manicured lawns and fountains, and uniformed concierges stand at the entrance. Everyone who comes in and out looks like they stepped out of a magazine.

Top floor.

Chen Yuan woke up in the large bed.

The bed was so big that he rolled around on it three times and still couldn't reach the edge.

The sheets were made of Egyptian long-staple cotton, the comforter was goose down, and the pillows were latex—each piece of clothing was better than anything he had ever slept in in any other world.

The bed should be comfortable.

But he had no interest in enjoying these things.

He raised his hand and looked at his fingers.

The bite from the giant spider yesterday has completely disappeared without a trace, not even a red dot remains. My skin is as smooth as if nothing ever happened.

Chen Yuan: ? ?

He opened the system panel and took a look.

All three-dimensional attributes increased by more than ten points.

[Host: Chen Yuan]

Strength: 45 (27+18)

[Intelligence: 46 (25+21)]

[Body: 45 (25+20)]

This is good news.

There are two pieces of bad news.

The first is that no new world missions or major events have been added.

Intervening in Peter's transformation into Spider-Man doesn't count as participating in a major event.

The second piece of bad news is that, apart from that, the system panel remains unchanged.

No new skills were unlocked, no special abilities were activated, there were no web shooters, no spider senses, no wall-climbing abilities, nothing at all.

Chen Yuan refused to give up.

He tucked his middle and ring fingers in, making the web-shooting gesture that Spider-Man often uses.

Wrist down, palm inward, fingers bent.

one second.

two seconds.

three seconds.

The scene was somewhat awkward.

No spider silk was sprayed from the wrist.

There were no white threads, no viscous liquid, nothing at all.

Only the morning sunlight streamed through the French windows, illuminating his hand, which was making a strange gesture.

Chen Yuan then tried climbing the wall.

He walked to the wall and placed his palm on it.