Marvel: Shadow Thief "Solo Levelling System in Marvel"

Shameless Note from a Shameless Author 😎

First off, thank you so much for sticking around. I know I said regular updates were back, but life decided to hit me with a plot twist, and writing has been a little harder than expected. 😅 BUT don't worry—I'm not leaving you hanging. I've got some chapters in reserve that I'll be dropping to keep the story moving. Updates might not be as consistent for now, but hey, content is content, right?

Oh, and before you dive into the chapter, let me remind you: this world isn't exactly like the MCU. It's got its own twists and turns, so if something doesn't line up with the movies or shows, it's on purpose. 😉 Surprises are part of the fun, after all! 🎉

As always, your patience and support mean the world to me. ❤️ Feel free to drop a comment, theory, or just roast me for taking so long—I'll take it all! 😎 Enjoy the chapter, and I'll see you soon (hopefully)!

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The mess hall hummed with the familiar chatter of cadets wrapping up their meals. Maximus was still tackling his oversized portion when Clint Barton appeared in the doorway, his presence commanding instant attention. Conversations halted as he entered, his face a blend of severity and resolve.

"Training time," Clint declared, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Push day. Prepare to sweat."

The response was swift – chairs scraped the floor, trays were collected, and the room shifted from relaxation to eager anticipation. Maximus lingered, watching his fellow cadets leave with varying levels of enthusiasm. He noticed Jackson's encouraging nod as they headed to the training area.

The gym was impressive, lined with rows of weights, benches, and advanced equipment that Maximus couldn't name. The air was thick with the scent of metal and determination, mixed with a hint of cleaning solution.

"Max," Jackson called, signaling him to a bench press. "Start here. It's not just about lifting the weight. Form matters more than numbers."

Maximus positioned himself on the bench, trying to follow Jackson's instructions. His arms trembled slightly as he gripped the bar.

"Keep your back firm," Jackson instructed, ready to spot him. "Tighten your glutes. Focus on control, not speed."

Sweat dotted Maximus's forehead as he struggled with the weight. Each rep felt like a battle, his muscles protesting against the unfamiliar strain.

"Come on, Max!" Maverick's voice called out from the next station. "Don't let that bar beat you. Maybe we can borrow some of Jackson's muscles – if he has any to spare."

Jackson smirked, eyes still on Maximus's form. "My muscles are busy saving rookies like you, Maverick. Or did you forget last week's sparring session?"

"Oh, it's like that?" Maverick grinned, adding more weight to his bar. "Let's see what you've got then, muscles."

Their playful banter provided a welcome distraction from Maximus's struggles. But movement in the corner caught his eye. Grant Ward worked alone at the far end of the gym, methodically loading plate after plate onto his bar. Even from a distance, the weight he was handling seemed impossible – more than all the other cadets combined.

"Is that guy even human?" Maverick whispered, also watching Grant. "I swear he lifted more than Clint last week."

Jackson remained focused on spotting Maximus. "Less watching, more lifting. Come on, Max, five more."

The hour flew by in a blur of exertion and guidance. By the end, Maximus's arms felt like jelly, but there was satisfaction in having completed the session. He hadn't matched the others' weights, not even close, but he hadn't given up.

"Good job, kid," Jackson said, extending a hand to help him up from the bench. "Keep this up, and maybe one day you'll beat me... though I doubt it." His smile softened the words.

"Or at least you won't be last in line anymore," Maverick added with a laugh. "That's something, right?"

As the cadets began to disperse, Maximus noticed Clint watching from near the door, his expression unreadable but attentive. In the corner, Grant continued his workout, his movements precise and controlled, as if he were completely alone in the gym, lifting weights that would challenge even their instructors.

Maximus grabbed his towel, his muscles already protesting the morning's efforts. He wasn't the strongest or the most skilled, but he'd made it through. For now, that would have to be enough.

"Hit the showers," Clint bellowed across the gym. "Curfew's in two hours. Tomorrow we meet in the Martial Arts Training Zone at five AM sharp."

Maximus perked up at the announcement, relief washing over his face. No obstacle course tomorrow.

Jackson noticed his expression and chuckled. "Don't get too excited. Hand-to-hand combat training isn't any easier. Plus, there's always sparring at the end of each session."

"Still better than the obstacle course," Maximus said, gathering his towel. "By the way, do we get scored on these sessions too?"

"The obstacle course runs every two weeks for evaluation," Jackson explained as they headed to the locker room. "That's how they track our progress."

"When do we get to see the scores?" Maximus asked. "I want to know how far behind I am."

Maverick appeared from around the corner, trademark smirk in place. "Why bother checking? We all know you're dead last anyway."

"Scores come at the end of the month," Jackson cut in, shooting Maverick a warning look. "And they're usually closer than you'd think, Max. Don't let this clown get to you."

They pushed through the locker room doors, the familiar smell of soap and steam filling the air. Maximus grabbed his towel, but paused before heading to the showers. Through the gym's glass windows, he caught sight of Grant Ward, still methodically working through his sets. The weights on his bar seemed impossibly heavy, yet Grant's face showed no strain, no emotion at all. There was something mechanical about his movements, almost inhuman.

"Earth to Max," Maverick's voice broke through his thoughts. "Stop staring at the terminator and get cleaned up."

The hot water helped ease some of the day's tension from Maximus's muscles. After showering and changing into fresh clothes, they made their way back through the winding corridors of the facility. The walk to their room felt longer than usual, their bodies heavy with exhaustion.

Maximus paused at the doorway to their room, his muscles still aching from the intense workout. Something felt off. Through his exhaustion, a thought surfaced – he hadn't seen Eagle during their training session.

"Where's Eagle?" The question slipped out before he realized he'd spoken aloud.

His answer came in the form of Jackson brushing past him with determined strides. In one fluid motion, Jackson snatched a pillow from the lower bunk by the door and launched it at the top bunk across the room. There, sprawled out in peaceful oblivion, lay Eagle, dead to the world and completely unfazed by the day's activities.

The pillow made contact with a soft thump, but Eagle didn't even stir.

After Jackson threw the pillow at Eagle and hit him square in the face, Maximus looked surprised. He tilted his head and asked, "Wait, when did you even leave? I lost track of you—I didn't even notice when you stopped following us on the way to the weight room."

Eagle didn't move, the pillow still resting on his face. After a moment, his muffled voice emerged from beneath it. "Never went. Too much effort."

Maverick burst out laughing. "Classic Eagle. Man's got his priorities straight—sleep first, everything else... maybe never."

Jackson climbed up to his top bunk, letting himself fall onto the mattress with a satisfied groan. Maximus followed suit and flopped onto the lower bunk, where Eagle occupied the upper berth. The metal frame creaked slightly under their combined weight.

Feeling a bit more comfortable with his teammates, Maximus spoke, looking up toward where Eagle lay, though he couldn't see him through the bunk above. "Eagle, I have a question. Don't take it the wrong way, but... how are you so good if you seem so... lazy?"

A long silence followed, and for a moment, Maximus thought Eagle had fallen asleep again. Then came the drowsy reply: "Efficiency. Why waste energy when you don't have to?"

"That doesn't explain how you cleared that obstacle course like it was nothing," Maximus pressed.

"Simple," Eagle yawned. "I watch. I learn. I don't waste movement." He shifted slightly, the bunk creaking. "While everyone's trying to muscle through things, I'm finding the path of least resistance."

Maverick snorted from his bed across the room. "Path of least resistance? Is that what we're calling avoiding training altogether now?"

"Hey," Eagle defended himself, still not bothering to remove the pillow from his face. "I showed up for the evaluation, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and somehow managed to surprise us all," Jackson added with a hint of frustration. "Even Ward looked surprised when you finished the last test without even breaking a sweat."

Maximus sat up, wincing at his sore muscles. "Speaking of Ward... is he always so..."

"Intense? Robotic? Terrifying?" Maverick offered, counting off on his fingers. "Yes to all of the above."

"I was going to say focused," Maximus finished.

"That's one way to put it," Jackson chuckled. "Guy's like a machine. Never seen him miss a training session or fail an evaluation."

Eagle's voice drifted down again, slower and sleepier than before. "He tries too hard. Uses twice the energy for the same results."

"Says the guy who skipped weight training to take a nap," Maverick teased.

Their banter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Grant Ward himself appeared in the doorway, his presence immediately changing the atmosphere in the room. Without acknowledging anyone or saying a word, he walked past the group and fell onto his bed, his movements precise even in their finality.

The others exchanged glances, their previous comfortable conversation effectively silenced. After a few moments, they wordlessly prepared for bed, the day's exhaustion finally catching up with them. As Maximus settled into his bunk, he could hear Eagle's soft snoring above him, Maverick's rustling as he got comfortable, and Jackson's steady breathing from across the room.

The last thing Maximus noticed before drifting off was the complete stillness from Ward's corner of the room, as if he were already deep in sleep—or perhaps hadn't been awake at all.

The shrill alarm pierced through Maximus's dream, yanking him back to reality. His eyes snapped open to the familiar 4:30 AM wake-up call. This time, even Eagle stirred immediately, clearly remembering yesterday's ice-cold wake-up call from Jackson.

Maximus pulled on his training gear while watching his roommates move with surprising efficiency. Even Ward seemed less intimidating in the early morning gloom, leading their group down the corridors toward the combat training area.

The training room opened up before them - a vast space with padded floors and mirrored walls. Various training dummies and equipment lined the perimeter, while the center remained clear for sparring. The smell of leather and sweat hung in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of cleaning supplies.

Clint stood at the center, his arms crossed as the cadets filed in. After a few minutes of silence, he cleared his throat.

"Today we focus on what keeps you alive when everything else fails - your fists and your wits. Hand-to-hand combat isn't just about throwing punches. It's about reading your opponent, anticipating their moves, and using their strength against them."

His gaze swept across the group before landing on Eagle. "Speaking of strength - Eagle, I didn't see you at weight training yesterday." Clint's voice carried a dangerous edge. "Since you clearly think you don't need it, you'll be sparring with Ward at the end of today's session."

Maximus glanced at Eagle, but for once, his teammate's usually sleepy expression had sharpened into something more alert. Ward remained stoic, but there was a slight tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

"Now," Clint continued, "pair up. We're starting with basic defensive stances."

Maximus struggled through the basic defensive stances Clint demonstrated. His muscles screamed from yesterday's weight training, making each movement feel like wading through cement. He watched enviously as Jackson executed perfect forms beside him, while Maverick cracked jokes about Max's awkward positioning.

After two grueling hours of drills, Clint's voice cut through the heavy breathing and shuffling feet. "Alright, you know what's next. End of session sparring. Grant, Eagle - you're up front."

Maximus moved to the edge of the mat with the others, curious to see how the eternally sleepy Eagle would fare against Ward's imposing presence.

The two circled each other, Grant launching precise strikes that Eagle seemed to predict before they even began. Eagle's usual drowsy expression had vanished, replaced by intense focus as he weaved and ducked. His movements were fluid, almost lazy, yet Grant couldn't land a single hit. For the first time, Maximus saw Eagle's brow furrow in concentration.

Clint watched from the side, his expression a mix of surprise and careful analysis as the two cadets continued their dance - Grant attacking, Eagle evading with an ease that seemed to frustrate his opponent.

"Grant's used to dictating the pace," Clint thought, narrowing his eyes as he studied their movements. "But Eagle… he refuses to play by his rules. He's forcing him into mistakes."

Eagle countered with small, precise moves—a quick deflection here, a strike in the air that didn't connect but forced Grant to recalibrate. Clint almost smiled. Eagle didn't have Grant's strength or aggression, but his ability to read movements and adapt made him dangerous. His lazy style was a mask for a sharp tactical mind. But there was a problem.

"He has no intention of finishing the fight," Clint realized. Eagle was too comfortable staying in his zone of control, letting the fight drag on without looking for a chance to win. On the other hand, Grant, while frustrated, kept pressing forward, trying to break through his opponent's defense.

The fight had reached a stalemate. Neither seemed willing to yield, but neither was pushing the match toward a conclusion, either. Clint exhaled deeply and stepped forward.

"That's enough!" Clint's voice cut through the room, and both fighters stopped immediately. "Good work, both of you, but we're not here to win endurance awards. This is training, not a death match. Take what you've learned and move on."

Grant nodded, his jaw tight, clearly frustrated at not achieving a decisive victory. Eagle, on the other hand, returned to his usual sleepy expression, casually wiping sweat from his forehead as if nothing had happened. Clint gave him a look that was equal parts respect and exasperation.

"Eagle, learn how to close a fight. Grant, control your emotions. Both are equally important if you want to survive out there."

As the two left the mat, a pair of other cadets stepped forward for their turn. The matches that followed were less intense but still competitive, with Clint barking corrections and advice from the sidelines. Each bout highlighted the cadets' varying skill levels, some struggling to keep up while others demonstrated impressive finesse.

After the final pair finished, Clint clapped his hands to draw everyone's attention. "Alright, Maverick, Max—you're up next. Step into the ring."

Maverick stepped into the ring with an easy confidence, rolling his neck as he flashed Maximus a sly grin. Max, on the other hand, hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, his muscles aching and his stance far from steady. Clint's sharp eyes caught the tremor in Max's arms as he raised them to guard.

The match began, and Maverick wasted no time. He closed the distance in an instant, feinting left before sweeping Max's legs out from under him. Maximus hit the mat with a loud thud, his breath forced out in a gasp.

"Get up, Max!" Clint's voice cut through the murmurs of the other cadets.

Gritting his teeth, Maximus pushed himself upright, shaking off the pain. But Maverick was already on him again, his moves fluid and calculated. A quick shoulder throw sent Max crashing to the ground once more.

"Seriously, Max? You've got to at least try to fight back," Maverick said, his tone teasing but not malicious.

Maximus didn't respond. He forced himself back to his feet, determination etched across his face despite the sweat pouring down his brow and the wobble in his legs. Clint crossed his arms, his expression unreadable as he continued to evaluate the match.

Again and again, Maximus was thrown to the mat. Each time he got up slower, his breathing more labored, his movements more sluggish. Maverick wasn't even exerting himself anymore—it was clear to everyone watching that the fight was entirely one-sided.

But Maximus refused to quit. Every time he hit the ground, he clawed his way back to his feet, his fists trembling but still raised. Clint could see the toll the match was taking on him. His strikes were wild and unfocused, his stance barely holding, but his sheer willpower was undeniable.

Finally, as Maverick moved in for another takedown, Maximus stumbled backward on unsteady legs. His vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving as he gasped for air.

"Max?" Maverick asked, the smug grin fading from his face.

Clint stepped forward, his voice firm but calm. "Give him space. He's not hurt—just exhausted."

The other cadets murmured amongst themselves but stayed back as Clint crouched beside Maximus. He rested a hand on the young cadet's shoulder, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breaths.

"You pushed yourself too hard, kid," Clint muttered. He didn't bother trying to wake Max this time. Instead, he straightened and looked at the rest of the group.

"Lesson for today: know your limits. Pushing past them is good, but there's a line between determination and recklessness. If you don't learn to recognize it, you'll end up like this—or worse."

Maverick stood awkwardly off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to overdo it," he mumbled.

Clint shot him a look but didn't say anything. Turning back to the rest of the cadets, he clapped his hands together. "Alright, training's over. Clean up and hit the showers. Max will wake up when he's ready."

As the cadets began to disperse, Clint stayed behind, glancing down at Maximus. Despite the exhaustion that had finally taken him down, there was something about the kid's refusal to give up that Clint couldn't ignore. He shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Stubborn as hell," he muttered to himself. "But maybe that's not such a bad thing."