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While others spend hours writing a single chapter, I spend those same hours imagining and creating entire webnovels.
I'm more of an imagination-first kind of writer — every story I imagine, I create,I have a problem creating details or describing things and people.
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CHAPTER 1: THE GENESIS AUCTION BEGINS
"Oh, for the love of all that is holy and unholy, what fresh, cosmic prank is this?" Adam's internal monologue was a frantic, mental scream, a stark contrast to the perfectly composed, darkly regal figure he now seemed to inhabit. His eyes, which moments ago had been blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of his rather average apartment, now took in a sprawling, opulent hall that would make Versailles look like a fixer-upper. "One minute I'm binge-watching Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. for the fifth time, debating whether FitzSimmons is truly endgame, and the next, I'm apparently cosplay-ready for some supervillain convention, complete with an actual, honest-to-Thor 'power presence' that's making my teeth ache."
This wasn't how Tuesdays were supposed to go. Tuesdays were for stale pizza and complaining about his Wi-Fi. Not for waking up in a body that felt like it belonged to a high-fashion vampire and being told he was hosting a cosmic garage sale.
Speaking of waking up, how exactly did I get here? Last I checked, I was on my couch, mid-Netflix binge, trying to figure out if that weird noise was my neighbor's cat or the pipes bursting again. Then… nothing. Just a sudden, jarring jolt, like hitting a celestial pothole at warp speed, and then BAM! Here I am. My highly scientific hypothesis? Died. Transmigrated. Standard Tuesday, really. Though, if I died, I hope it was epic. Like, saving a puppy from a meteor or something. Not choking on a rogue Dorito.
He'd been an MCU fan since day one. Knew the timelines, the character arcs, the easter eggs, the post-credit scenes that always left you wanting more. He could tell you the exact moment Tony snapped his fingers, the emotional weight of Steve picking up Mjolnir, the tragically beautiful chaos of Wanda's powers. He lived for this stuff. And now, he was in it. Seventy-two hours before the Chitauri invasion. The ultimate, terrifying, fanboy dream.
The sheer scale of the space was dizzying. Towering gothic arches met a vaulted ceiling so high it seemed to kiss the stars, despite being indoors. Walls of polished obsidian shimmered with subtle, arcane glyphs that pulsed with a soft, internal light. Rows upon rows of plush, dark velvet seats, each one looking like it belonged in a king's private box at the opera, stretched out before a raised dais. And on that dais, a single, imposing podium crafted from what looked like solidified shadow, waiting for him.
This was the Auction House. Or, more accurately, The House. He felt it, almost like an extension of his own new, strange body. A sentient, impossible structure. The System had helpfully downloaded a basic rundown, shoved it into his brain with the subtlety of a cosmic brick.
The Auction House. Functions: Interdimensional travel, spatial manipulation, temporal shielding (sweet, no more alien invasions while I'm trying to peddle enchanted butter knives), item generation (that's where the goods come from, I guess), and a "Presence" aura. Oh, joy. I'm now a walking, talking, oppressive aura of "don't mess with me." Like a really intimidating air freshener.
The House wasn't just a building; it was a nexus, a constant in a chaotic multiverse. It drew power from… well, he wasn't entirely sure what it drew power from, but it felt infinite. And its primary function, beyond protecting him and looking incredibly fancy, was to host these auctions. To gather beings from across dimensions, offer them items beyond their wildest dreams, and through the exchange, somehow, grow stronger. Or something. The fine print was a little fuzzy on the existential mechanics.
His new body, disturbingly perfect and unnervingly still, felt like a borrowed suit of armor. He tried to wiggle his toes, just to confirm they were still there. They were. He tried to scratch an itch on his nose. His hand moved with a slow, deliberate grace that was utterly alien to his usual twitchy self. It was like trying to operate a really expensive, highly calibrated robot while your actual brain was still panicking about whether you left the gas on.
Then came the voice, not from his mouth, but in his mind, deep and resonant, yet utterly devoid of emotion.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: HOST PROTOCOL ENGAGED. LOCATION: MANHATTAN, 72 HOURS PRIOR TO CHITAURI INCURSION. INITIATING INVITATION PROTOCOL.]
"Manhattan? Chitauri? Oh, you've got to be kidding me! This isn't just a prank; this is a full-blown, multi-dimensional, 'holy-crap-I-m-in-the-MCU-and-things-are-about-to-get-explodey' scenario!" His internal scream intensified. He knew this date. He knew what was coming. The Battle of New York. The Avengers. Loki's grand entrance, not to mention those glorified space cockroaches. "And I'm... the host? Of an auction? What am I supposed to auction off, my sanity? Because that's looking like a pretty low bid right now."
He felt a subtle hum, a vibration that resonated through the very foundations of the House. It was the System, doing its thing. He didn't see anything, no shimmering portals or flashy effects, but he knew invitations were zipping across the globe. Targeting the mighty, the confused, and apparently, the incredibly desperate.
Please, oh please, let them be polite guests. I really don't want to explain why I'm wearing what looks like a Victorian-era villain's finest while trying to sell a magic bean.
The first guests started to arrive, not in a flood, but in a trickle, each one materializing with a soft pop into the opulent antechamber just beyond the main hall. They were directed by unseen forces, or perhaps the sheer, overwhelming presence of the House itself, into the waiting seats. Adam watched them from the dais, his external expression a mask of serene, almost bored, authority. Internally, he was a squirrel on too much espresso.
Tony Stark arrived first, naturally. He popped into existence, stumbled a step, then his eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the hall, the tech in his suit probably doing a thousand scans a second. He looked annoyed, intrigued, and utterly out of his depth – a rare trifecta for the billionaire playboy philanthropist.
"Well, this is… gothic," Tony muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. He tried to pull out his phone, probably to call Pepper or demand answers, but it just… wasn't there. His hand patted his pockets, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he noticed the absolute silence and the eerie, calming pressure that seemed to gently guide him to a seat. He paused, then, with a shrug that barely masked his discomfort, sat down.
Then came Steve Rogers, looking utterly bewildered, like he'd just woken up from another seventy-year nap in a very fancy cave. He took in the grandeur, his brow furrowed, a sense of quiet awe mixing with his innate caution. He moved with a soldier's discipline, but his eyes were wide, taking everything in. He saw Tony, gave a nod, and settled into a seat a few rows behind him.
Next, Thor, who arrived with a flash of lightning that thankfully dissipated harmlessly within the House's impossible architecture. He swung Mjolnir, his cape flowing dramatically. His booming voice resonated. "By the Bifrost! What manner of grand hall is this? Is this a gathering of the All-Father's chosen?" He looked around, genuinely impressed, perhaps thinking he'd stumbled upon some Asgardian banquet. He too felt the subtle pressure, perceived it as a gentle, almost reverent guidance, and took a seat, Mjolnir resting casually beside him.
Bruce Banner appeared, looking uncomfortable and perpetually on the verge of a panic attack. He clutched his worn jacket, his eyes darting around as if expecting the Hulk to burst through a wall. He just wanted to be left alone, and this… this was decidedly not alone. He slumped into a seat, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Clint Barton, ever the pragmatist, entered with a low whistle. "Alright, who's the new guy trying to impress? This place screams 'overcompensation'." He scanned the hall, his eyes narrowed, looking for vantage points, escape routes, and potential threats. He saw Tony, Steve, and Thor, and a silent, professional nod passed between them.
Natasha Romanoff arrived last among the Avengers, appearing with the silent grace of a ghost. Her eyes, cool and analytical, swept over everything, missing nothing. She immediately assessed the threat level (high), the escape routes (non-existent), and the general absurdity of the situation (off the charts). She spotted the others, a faint flicker of surprise in her eyes, then settled into a seat, her posture relaxed but her mind clearly racing.
And then, there they were. The two figures, shrouded in simple, ragged cloaks, almost hidden in a segregated section of the hall, away from the glittering, confused heroes. Even from this distance, Adam could sense their raw, unrefined fear, the scent of desperation clinging to them. Wanda and Pietro. My future staff. And boy, did they look like they'd seen better days. Which, knowing Sokovia, wasn't saying much.
They huddled together, small and trembling, observing the spectacle with wide, frightened eyes. The sheer opulence, the strange, powerful beings filling the seats – it must have been utterly overwhelming for two kids who'd just lost everything.
"Alright, showtime, Stiles," Adam thought, taking a slow, controlled breath that probably wasn't necessary for his new, perfect lungs. The 'Ainz Ooal Gown' act was on. Project calm. Project power. Project utter, complete, 'you-wouldn't-dare-question-me' authority.
He raised a single, gloved hand, the motion slow and deliberate. The vast hall fell into an even deeper silence, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Even Tony Stark, who looked like he was about to make a sarcastic comment, found himself strangely compelled to simply watch. This wasn't about intimidation; it was a subtle, pervasive presence that gently, firmly, guided attention.
Adam's voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, resonant rumble, perfectly modulated by the System to convey ancient power and weary wisdom. It filled the hall without being loud, a voice that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of those who heard it.
"Welcome," he intoned, the single word hanging in the air. "Welcome, esteemed guests, to the Genesis Auction. Here, the rarest and most potent items from across the multiverse shall be presented. Observe. Bid. Acquire. The rules are simple. Your presence here signifies acceptance of them. Those who violate these tenets will find themselves… elsewhere."
Elsewhere, as in, probably obliterated or teleported to a dimension where everything smells like wet dog. Gotta keep it vague, keep 'em guessing. And frankly, I don't actually know what 'elsewhere' means. The System didn't provide a manual.
A shimmering, ethereal display, the "Oculus Display" as the System had helpfully provided, materialized above the dais. It was like a 3D hologram, but infinitely more real, detailed, and utterly captivating.
"Our first item," Adam announced, his voice steady, "is the Hana Hana no Mi."
The Oculus Display shifted, showing a fruit that looked like a deep purple cauliflower, adorned with intricate, swirling patterns.
Tony Stark scoffed, but it was a quiet scoff, almost an internal one. "A fruit? Seriously? I flew all the way here for a cosmic fruit stand?"
Then, the display showed a quick, mesmerizing demonstration. A hand sprouted from a wall, then another from the floor, then dozens, forming a web, catching a falling object with impossible precision. It was brief, but impactful.
Tony's eyes widened. "Okay, that's… that's not a normal fruit." His mind was already racing, analyzing, trying to reverse-engineer something that shouldn't exist.
"Next," Adam continued, ignoring the murmurs, "we present Chitauri Armor Composition & Tactical Analysis."
The Oculus shifted again, showing intricate diagrams of Chitauri armor, highlighting weak points, then simulated tactical overlays, showing optimal attack patterns against their Leviathans and ground troops. The detail was incredible, utterly groundbreaking.
Fury, watching from his invisible perch somewhere in the world, probably choked on his coffee. Natasha leaned forward, her spy instincts screaming. This wasn't just information; this was a war cheat sheet.
Right, Tony, this one's for you, buddy. Just don't let it go to your head. And please, for the love of all that is shiny, don't try to buy the entire display just to dissect it.
"Following that, a Senzu Bean." The display showed a small green bean. Simple, unassuming. Then a clip played: a battered, bruised, almost dead warrior popped one in his mouth and, in an instant, was perfectly, miraculously healed.
A collective gasp swept through the hall. Bruce Banner's eyes, wide with scientific curiosity and a hint of fear, fixated on the bean. This wasn't just healing; this was instantaneous, complete regeneration.
"And for our technological enthusiasts," Adam's voice continued, "a Miniaturized Energy Shield (Halo)."
The Oculus projected a small, wrist-mounted device. A holographic figure in a combat suit activated it, and a shimmering, almost invisible energy shield flared, deflecting a barrage of energy blasts, then absorbing a direct hit from a tank cannon with barely a ripple.
Tony's jaw, previously agape, practically hit the floor. "You're telling me… you're telling me that little thing can do that? My Arc Reactor barely powers my coffee maker!"
Oh, Tony, you sweet, technologically stunted summer child. You ain't seen nothing yet.
"Finally, for those who seek to broaden their perception," Adam declared, his voice carrying the weight of ages, "we have Basic Observation Haki."
The display showed a warrior, eyes closed, dodging invisible attacks, predicting enemy movements with impossible foresight. A subtle energy rippled around them, a sixth sense.
Clint and Natasha exchanged a glance. Their training was about observation, but this… this was next level. Steve, ever the tactician, saw the immense value in such a skill.
Just as the last item was displayed, a tremor shook the House. Not a destructive one, but a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of reality. Outside, beyond the impossibly solid walls, a dull roar began. Adam felt it, the distinct sensation of something large and menacing trying to impact the House.
Then, a flash. Not from inside, but a subtle flicker of light that seeped through the obsidian walls, a fraction of a second of impossible, silent vaporization. Another flash. And another. The deep, guttural roar outside, which had been growing, abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie, sudden silence.
The Avengers exchanged confused, wary glances. Tony's suit HUD, if he could access it, would be going haywire. They knew that sound. They knew that roar. It was the Chitauri. But what just happened?
Adam, maintaining his utterly unfazed "Auction Master" persona, simply continued, his voice calm, level, and utterly devoid of panic. "As you can see, the House ensures an undisturbed environment for its proceedings. External distractions are… handled."
Handled, as in, the House just instantly and silently turned Leviathans into really expensive space dust. And I'm trying not to hyperventilate. Because holy smokes, this place is basically an invulnerable, omnipotent, cosmic bunker. Which, for the record, is significantly better than my current apartment's security.
Tony looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Handled? What was that? A localized EMP? A really aggressive laser grid?" He tried to sound casual, but his eyes were darting to the walls, the ceiling, trying to find the source of the impossible defense.
The Maximoff twins, huddled in their corner, flinched at the initial tremor, but their fear turned to wide-eyed awe as the House simply… vaporized the threat. The impossible power of this place, combined with Adam's unshakeable demeanor, was slowly, subtly, chipping away at their terror, replacing it with a bewildered sense of safety.
"Now," Adam's voice returned, "let the bidding commence."
The Oculus Display changed, showing the current item, the Hana Hana no Mi, along with a numerical display. "Starting bid: 500 Auction Credits."
Auction Credits? Where do you even get those? Do I have to explain the exchange rate for rare Earth minerals? Is it Bitcoin in space? This is so much more complicated than a normal eBay auction.
A soft, almost imperceptible hum filled the air, and then, slowly, numbers began to flicker on the display. Figures in the audience, without speaking, seemed to be placing bids through sheer will, or perhaps an interface only they could perceive. Tony Stark was, predictably, a rapid-fire bidder, his internal processing unit probably already calculating the theoretical value of sprouting hands from nowhere.
The auction continued, the display cycling through each item. The Chitauri Armor Analysis was fiercely contested, with Tony, Fury (via a proxy he was probably screaming at from a hidden bunker), and even Steve Rogers putting in bids. Tony, with his access to resources, eventually won it, though it cost him a significant sum of the mysterious "Auction Credits."
The Senzu Bean went to Bruce Banner, who seemed to win it almost by accident, looking startled when the display flashed "SOLD!" above his head. He stared at the small green bean that materialized instantly in his hand, a look of profound, bewildered hope on his face.
The Miniaturized Energy Shield went to Tony as well, who, despite his previous win, seemed absolutely obsessed with acquiring it. He probably envisioned a suit entirely made of those things, or perhaps an energy shield for his coffee machine.
Finally, the Basic Observation Haki came up. It was quieter. Natasha and Clint were interested, but hesitated. Steve considered it, but his focus was still on the tactical data.
This one. This one is important. Not just for me, but for someone else. Someone who will need it more than they know.
Adam allowed the bidding to progress for a moment longer, watching the silent numerical dance. Then, with a subtle internal command, he activated a function he'd only just discovered.
"The Host's Choice," he intoned, his voice cutting through the soft hum of bidding, "for this item, is hereby exercised."
The display for Basic Observation Haki froze, then flickered. A single word appeared: "RESERVED."
Tony, mid-bid, looked up, utterly confused. "Host's Choice? What's that, a 'no soup for you' clause?"
Adam ignored him, his external gaze sweeping across the seated figures, then, lingering for a fraction of a second, on the two shrouded figures in the segregated section.
This is it. This is where it starts. Time to play God, or at least, a highly anxious, sarcasm-fueled demigod with a really fancy new wardrobe.
The Chitauri invasion, muffled and unseen from within the House, raged outside. But inside, the Genesis Auction had concluded, leaving behind a bewildered group of Earth's mightiest heroes, and two very, very confused Sokovian twins, their eyes still wide, fixed on the silent, imposing figure on the dais. Adam, the Auction Master, stood perfectly still, his inner Stiles Stilinski screaming a silent, desperate, triumphant "Nailed it!"