The light from the recruitment interface finally dimmed, leaving Shiranui Hayate in the quiet of his room. Before he could even let out a long-held breath of exhaustion, a crisp chime echoed in his mind.
[Ding! Congratulations, Shiranui Hayate.]
[Achievement Reached: 100 Ninja Recruitments.]
[Reward: One additional Deployment Slot unlocked.]
Hayate froze for a heartbeat, the suddenness of the notification catching him off guard. Then, a wide grin broke across his face.
"Perfect!"
He hurriedly navigated to the deployment menu. Sure enough, a sixth slot had materialized, shimmering with potential. With this, he wouldn't have to worry about benching his current allies when the next powerful ninja arrived.
He hovered his cursor over the next locked slot, a flicker of caution crossing his mind. Would the system demand more now that he had received a freebie?
[Ding! Consume 5,000 Gold Coins to unlock the next Deployment Slot?]
Hayate let out a sigh of relief. The cost remained unchanged. The achievement reward was a true bonus, a gift from the heavens that didn't inflate the price of his future growth.
His mind began to race. If there was a reward for one hundred recruits, would there be one for two hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? And what about the ninjas themselves? In the original 'game,' owning a certain number of characters always yielded prizes.
Summoning beasts, secret scrolls, artifact activations... The possibilities were endless. Today had truly been his lucky day—not only had he hit the jackpot with Tsunade's fragments, but he had also bolstered his tactical flexibility without spending a single copper coin.
He only needed one or two more "Ten-Rolls" to bring the Slug Princess into this world.
Hayate walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling, ink-black skyline of New York. The city breathed below him, a concrete jungle hiding secrets far beyond the reach of ordinary men.
For the past ten days, he had remained in the shadows, but he hadn't been idle. He was contemplating the true nature of this reality. If this world wasn't strictly the Marvel Cinematic Universe he remembered, then what else lurked in the dark?
Were there werewolves prowling the alleyways? Vampires presiding over high-society galas? Wizards hidden in plain sight?
He had already set the High Table—the eyes and ears of the underworld—to search for anything "unnatural." Supernatural forces always left a trail of friction, and the High Table excelled at finding the sparks.
In Malibu, Tony Stark stood before a digital display, his eyes narrowed at the silver-white Mark 2 armor.
It was a masterpiece of engineering, but it lacked... soul. It didn't scream "Tony Stark."
He picked up a glass of thick, green chlorophyll and downed it in one go, grimacing at the bitter taste. It was a necessary evil—a temporary shield against the palladium poisoning creeping through his veins.
The Arc Reactor in his chest was a double-edged sword. It kept the shrapnel from his heart, but every time he pushed the suit to its limits, the core leached toxins into his blood. For now, the chlorophyll held the tide, but the shadow of his own mortality was growing longer.
The television in the corner crackled to life with a news report.
"The red carpet is out at the Disney Concert Hall tonight..." the reporter announced. "Tony Stark's third annual charity ball for the Firefighters' Family Foundation is in full swing."
Tony tilted his head, a look of genuine confusion on his face.
"Jarvis, did we get an invitation to our own party?"
"There is no record of an invitation being received, sir."
The reporter continued, her voice dripping with speculation.
"The host of the event has been missing since his erratic press conference. Some say he is suffering from post-concussion syndrome, bedridden for weeks. Seeing him tonight is, quite frankly, impossible."
Tony's jaw tightened. He set his faceplate down on the table, a sharp, annoyed smirk tugging at his lips. He hated being told what he couldn't do.
"Jarvis, the rendering is done?"
A holographic model of the suit appeared, shimmering in pure, ostentatious gold.
"A bit much, isn't it, sir?" Jarvis remarked dryly. "And here I thought you were a man of quiet, humble tastes."
Tony glanced at his customized Audi R8—a sleek beast of silver and hot-rod red.
"Let's fix that. Add some of that 'R8 Red' to the gold."
"Excellent, sir. It perfectly matches your 'low-profile' persona."
On the floor nearby, Pakkun let out a loud, wet sneeze. The ninja dog looked up, his bored eyes scanning the room as if questioning the sanity of everyone in it.
"I love it," Tony declared, ignoring the dog's judgment. "Assemble it. Paint it."
"The automated process has begun, sir. Estimated completion: five hours."
Tony checked his watch. "Don't wait up for me, Jarvis. I have a party to crash."
The Disney Concert Hall was a sea of flashing lights and expensive silk.
Tony's Audi R8 purred to a halt at the curb. He stepped out, adjusting his tuxedo, and Pakkun hopped down after him, his paws clicking against the pavement.
The valet blinked, staring at the small, grumpy-looking pug following the billionaire.
"Good evening, Mr. Stark," the valet stammered. He opened his mouth to mention the "no pets" policy, but one look at Tony's face—and the sheer weight of his bank account—silenced the man instantly.
Tony tossed the keys and strode toward the entrance, Pakkun trotting at his heel with the disciplined gait of a soldier.
The crowd gasped as the "bedridden" billionaire appeared.
"My God, it's Tony Stark!"
"He looks incredible!"
"Is that his dog? Look at that little vest... it's so cool!"
In the center of the room, Obadiah Stane froze mid-sentence, his smile faltering as he watched the man he thought he had sidelined walk back into the light.
The game was far from over.