New Project: Marvel: I Keep Regressing!

I'm writing this, so please give me feedback.

Synopsis:

Surviving in Marvel isn't possible for most. It is natural to die. Thankfully, Dread found out that he goes back in time every time he dies.

...

Dread.

That’s the name I gave myself because, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember my name from my past life.

Dread might sound strange, but it’s the emotion I’ve known most intimately since the day I transmigrated.

I was in a training room. Wooden sticks lay scattered across the floor, tools meant to train my body. No instructions, no guidance—just the expectation that I’d strengthen myself.

They needed my body in perfect condition for whatever experiments they were planning. That much, at least, was clear.

"Number 111, get out," came the dreaded voice of the security guard. It was time again for the mad scientists of this facility to play their twisted games.

Were they Hydra? I wasn’t sure. But they were the only group that came to mind.

Without a word, I stood up, lowered my head, and walked the narrow, familiar path. After passing through several barricaded compartments, I reached the experimentation room.

"Right here, Number 111," a man in a black gown said, gesturing toward a green-covered bed without even glancing at me.

I was used to the process by now, so I climbed onto the bed without complaint.

But a black gown? That was new. I’d never seen a scientist here in a black gown before. Were they trying something different today?

From my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of the man’s chest—and froze.

A red Hydra insignia.

Fuck.

"Get me the anesthesia," the Hydra man said, finally turning to me.

"How are you feeling, Number 111?" he asked.

"Okay, sir," I replied obediently. I’d tried cracking a joke once, and it earned me two brutal hours of torture. That mad scientist wasn’t here today, but I’d learned my lesson.

No jokes. Not in this situation. Not ever.

"You’d better survive this, Number 111," the Hydra man said, his tone almost mocking. How touching.

He grabbed an injection from another scientist and jabbed it into my arm. "If you don’t, this is the end for you. You’re going to fight now. This anesthesia will numb the pain somewhat."

A fight to the death?

"You’ll be fighting another mutant. The victor lives; the loser dies," he continued.

I clenched my fists. There wouldn’t be a real winner. The loser would die, and the winner would live just long enough for more experiments.

But then— Wait. I’m a mutant?

"What do you mean, I’m a mutant?" I blurted out, disbelief creeping into my voice. Where the fuck is my power?

"The mutant sensor identified you as one," he said, smirking. "But you haven’t manifested any abilities yet. You’d better hope they show up during this fight."

Man, this Hydra guy sure was talkative. Still, I wasn’t complaining. I was getting crucial information.

Despite living in constant dread in this hellhole, I didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not until I’d killed every last one of these bastards.

"Transport him," the Hydra man ordered. Two guards flanked me, dragging me to the fight room.

The stench hit me first. I pinched my nose, but it didn’t help much. The walls were painted with dried blood, and the sight made my stomach churn.

I gulped nervously, my eyes drifting to a door on the other side of the room. My opponent would come from there, I think.

Ding.

The sound of an elevator echoed, and the door opened. A man stepped through, tall and thin like me. He held a rapier, its blade catching the dim light.

This was my first fight to the death in either of my lives. I didn’t remember how I died before, but it didn’t matter now.

I wouldn’t die here. Not in this world.

"Kill..." the man muttered. His clothes—a white shirt and trousers—were filthy, stained with mud, sweat, and blood. His eyes were bloodshot, and his grin was unhinged. A deranged murderer. How fair.

He stepped toward me slowly, his body tense and ready to strike. His rapier danced in his hand, and his maniacal grin widened as he crouched, preparing to lunge.

BOOM.

Huh? What was th—

Gugkh!

I gasped as the rapier pierced my neck. Confusion and terror filled me. Why... how?

Blood pooled in my mouth as I gurgled helplessly. My body refused to obey me. Darkness closed in.

"Hehehe, pathetic," the psycho sneered, yanking the blade out.

I died.

...

..

.

HAH!

I jolted awake, clutching my neck. I didn’t die?

No. It must’ve been a dream. A shitty, vivid dream.

I glanced at the corner of my cell, where food was usually kept. The same can of whatever-the-hell-it-was sat there. It tasted awful, but I’d survived on it for over a year, so it must’ve been nutritious.

After forcing it down, I went to the training ground. As far as I knew, I was the only one here. The training ground connected directly to my cell.

I started training. It was pointless—just prepping me like a lamb for slaughter—but I clung to the faint hope that one day I’d kill them all.

"Number 111, get out," came the guard’s voice again.

Deja vu.

What the fuck?

Keeping quiet, I followed the routine path to the lab. There he was—the scientist in the black gown.

"Right here, Number 111," he said again.

My heart sank as I lay down on the green-covered bed.

This was no dream.

I glanced at his chest. The red Hydra insignia confirmed it.

Fuck...

I regressed, didn’t I?

...

NOTE: This story will resemble playing a Dark Souls game. The protagonist won't be overpowered; he will struggle most of the time. Even when he wins, it will often be because he has learned his opponents' patterns—essentially, he knows their moves from having experienced the future.