SLURP!
Raja Rudra Wyllt, Supre Wizard King, Chaos Incarnate, and Multiverse’s Slickest Hustler, lounged in his penthouse, chugging a levitating protein shake. Fresh off his Demon Slayer rampage—24 years as Shiva Ubuyashiki, turning Muzan into cosmic dust—he clutched Blue Spider Lilies and a craving for chaos. Tech, dicine, and a fat dose of fun were calling.
Raja after having his own fun in main world for so days felt like sobody put adventure thoughts in his mind, he sighed decided to explore Movie worlds.
"MAYA!" Raja bellowed, shake dribbling down his chin. "I’m over fairy tales. Find a movie world with brains, brawn, and no dragons. Go!"
MAYA: Master, your last ’fun’ blew up a vault. Try ’Limitless’—New York, NZT-48 brain pills, and enough drama to tire even you. Which is saying sothing.
Raja’s grin split wide, "Nailed it. Dobby Prep the stasis pod. I’m diving in."
WHOOSH!
He strutted to his lab, where Dobby—decked in a tux, shades, and a vibe like a mini mob boss—buffed a glowing pod. "Dobby, You know the Drill guard this like it’s your favorite sock. Anyone snoops, yeet ’em to Narnia."
Dobby snapped to attention, adjusting his Bowtie. "DOBBY WILL CRUSH ALL FOES FOR MY LORD’S SLEEPY CASTLE!"
Raja chuckled, sliding into the pod. "MAYA, sling to Limitless. Age 18, max drip, and make my entrance legendary."
BOOM!
Reality flipped like a bad Tinder date, and Raja landed in a New York alley, swapping robes for a black bomber jacket and sneakers—Drip Supre screaming "trouble." His Golden eyes zeroed on Eddie Morra, a scruffy writer stumbling from Vernon’s crib, gripping a baggie of NZT-48 like it was his last brain cell.
"Showti," Raja muttered, slinking through shadows. As Eddie tripped over a trashcan, Raja’s fingers danced—pure pickpocket finesse, no magic—and swipe! The NZT vanished into his jeans.
MAYA: Stealing candy from a baby? You’re slumming it, Master.
"Chess, MAYA," Raja hissed, tailing Eddie to his dumpster-fire apartnt. Inside, Eddie tore through couch cushions, wailing, "MY PILLS! I’M TOAST! WHERE’S MY STASH?!"
Raja choked down a laugh and hamred the door. BAM BAM BAM! Eddie flung it open, eyes bugging like a caffeinated owl. "Who’re you?!"
"Yo, my bad!" Raja yelped, rocking a "Hood" accent thicker than Brooklyn fog, hands up like he’d seen a ghost. "Snagged this baggie off you, thought it was cash, but—drugs? Nah, I’m good! Take it!"
Eddie grabbed the NZT, hugging it like a lost puppy. "Kid, you’re my hero. I owe you big."He slapped Raja’s shoulder, and—yawn—Raja’s sheer charisma had Eddie slumping into a chair, snoring like a drunk walrus due to exhaustion he felt all the day.
MAYA:You vibed him into a coma? New personal best.
"Charm, MAYA," Raja smirked, raiding Eddie’s fridge. When Eddie blinked awake, Raja slid him a plate of bacon and eggs—greasy perfection—and a coffee that slled like Wall Street dreams. "Dude, you blacked out! I stuck around, didn’t wanna ditch you mid-crisis."
Eddie shoveled food, squinting. "You didn’t bolt? Gutsy and kind. What’s your deal?"
Raja leaned back, spinning a yarn smoother than silk. "Na’s Raja. Dunki’d from nowhere to chase the Arican dream, lost it all. Dodging cops, goons, you na it. You’re my first mark, and—my bad—it’s a trainwreck."
Eddie snorted, sipping coffee. "That’s rough. Saw you peeking at my manuscript. Thoughts?"
Raja’s eyes sparkled, nerd mode cranked. "Bro, it’s nuts! Like if Vonnegut chugged espresso and went rogue. You’re a star waiting to shine."
Eddie’s ego ballooned. "You’re cool, Raja. Want a gig? Stick by , prove you’re loyal, and I’ll hook you up—cash, clean ID, the works."
Raja’s grin was pure Wizard King. "I’m your guy, boss."Hook, line, sinker.
CRUNCH!
Weeks later, Eddie—NZT-jacked—stord Wall Street, flipping stocks into gold. Raja played trusty shadow, but when Eddie snagged a $100,000 loan from Gennady—a Russian thug with a face like a smashed borscht bowl—Raja raised a hand. "Yo, Eddie, how ’bout I train as a bodyguard? Keep the sharks off your tail."
Eddie, brain buzzing, nodded. "Smart. Make it quick."
With Eddie’s dough and so shady paperwork (MAYA: I’m not your fake ID guy, Master!), Raja landed at a training camp straight outta Rambo—mud, steel, and screams. Mack, a Secret Service vet with a buzzcut sharper than his glare, and Duke, a Delta Force beast who spat tobacco like bullets, ran the show.
"Listen up, maggots!"Mack roared. "Three months to turn you into at shields! Move!"
WHAM!
Raja’s training montage kicked off like a Michael Bay fever dream. Day one, he sprinted a barbed-wire obstacle course, diving under logs as paintballs whizzed. POP POP! He rolled, mud caking his grin, and vaulted a wall, landing with a taunt. "That all, Mack? My grandma’s faster!"
Mack’s jaw dropped. "Cocky punk! Double laps!"
Week two, Raja hit the firing range, snagging a Glock. BANG BANG BANG! Every shot kissed the target’s heart, paper shredding like Eddie’s old drafts. Duke squinted. "Kid, you born with a scope in your eye?"
Raja twirled the gun, Demi-God Physique humming. "Nah, just watch a lotta John Wick." duke didn’t understand a bit
Next up, hand-to-hand. Duke paired Raja with Bruno, a 250-pound trainee built like a fridge. CRACK! Raja dodged a haymaker, tripped Bruno with a smirk, and pinned him in three seconds flat. "Nap ti, big guy."
Bruno wheezed. "What are you?"
Raja winked. "Your new personal trainer."
By month two, Raja was dodging knives blindfolded, tossing trainees like pizza dough. One drill, Mack lobbed a flashbang. BOOM! Raja cartwheeled through the blast, snatching a dummy "VIP" and sprinting to safety, grinning. "Too easy! Gim two grenades!"
Duke spat his cigar. "He’s a damn circus act!"
Cue the live-fire test. Raja stord a mock warehouse, paint guns blazing. RAT-TAT-TAT! He slid under beams, dropkicked a "hostile" dummy, and—WHACK!—smacked another with a looted baton, all while humming Mission: Impossible. A stray paintball grazed him; he licked it off. "Blueberry? Weak sauce, Mack!"
Mack gawked. "Who trained this kid?!"
Other Trainee goons decide to teach a lesson, thinking Raja was easy prey. POW! Raja’s fist cracked a jaw, his boot sent another flying. He snagged a thug’s pistol, unloading it with a twirl. "Nice try, comrades. Stick to vodka."
Month three, Raja aced the final gauntlet—a urban sim with "assassins" popping from alleys. He hauled a sandbag "client," dodging rubber bullets, and—BAM!—tackled a sniper, tying him with his own shoelaces. At the finish line, he struck a pose, shades gleaming. "Call Bond, Raja Bond."
Mack and Duke cornered him, slack-jawed. "Kid, you’re a freak. Army’d build a statue for you. Join up, we’ll pull so strings."
Raja’s lip quivered, sob story dialed to eleven. "Can’t, sirs. I’m an illegal, grinding for Eddie—he pulled from nothing. Gotta repay that debt."
Duke clapped his shoulder. "Loyalty’s rare, son. You’re AAA-certified, best we’ve seen."
MAYA: You scamd two war dogs with a soap opera. I need popcorn.
Raja strutted out, suit sharp, smirk sharper—a walking weapon ready to shadow Eddie’s rise, with plans to break the multiverse wide open.
To Be Continued...
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