A silver-white figure appeared before Jon—tall and imposing, with sculpted muscles that looked more aesthetic than useful. Two pink hearts were emblazoned on its chest, completely clashing with the terrifying red glow radiating from its eyes.
[Img Here]
Jon stared blankly.
"…This trash game is ruining my youth."
Cold sweat trickled down his face—not from fear, but from frustrated excitement. He cursed under his breath.
As always, praying for a good Stand draw was meaningless. He should've known better than to trust RNG.
He scrolled through the description with growing dread.
[Atum] – Stand of the Nine Glory Gods.
Appears in Part 3 during the quest to defeat Dio. One of the last Stand Users to guard Dio's mansion.
Stats:
Power: D
Speed: D
Range: C
Durability: D
Precision: B
Potential: D
Jon froze. Then he shouted internally:
"ONE B, ONE C, FOUR FREAKIN' Ds?!?!"
Looking at the destructive power stat again—D—Jon nearly cried.
"Even without Ripple, my own punches are close to D! And you're giving me this? A D?! Trash Stand!"
He stared accusingly at Atum's muscular figure.
"All that fake muscle and not even decent durability? What's the point of looking like a JoJo part-timer if you can't throw hands!?"
Still, he had to admit... there was something here.
Atum wasn't a brawler—it was a strategic Stand. Its core ability? Yes/No Mind Reading.
A decent support skill. He could ask an enemy a yes/no question and know the answer immediately. No bluffing, no lies.
It also had one niche upside:
"Innate Gaming Talent."
Jon narrowed his eyes.
"With Atum… teammates will never flame me again. No more little stars. No more 'uninstall' messages. No more getting blamed for throwing."
Atum was a gift from heaven—for clumsy hands and tilted players alike.
"Completing Dark Souls with a dance pad might actually be doable now..."
Jon, still seething with grief and indignation, channeled his energy into something productive.
He turned on his computer, cracked his knuckles, and logged into ranked.
"Let's care for the physical and mental health of today's youth," he muttered like a final boss.
Moments later, the salt began to flow in global chat.
"How can kids these days be this bad?" Jon barked as he hard-carried game after game.
Completely ignoring the fact that he himself was hot trash just days ago, he found a twisted sort of joy in his newfound dominance.
Enemies who once matched him were now falling in droves. He swept through his lobbies like a storm.
And yet… a strange emptiness settled in his heart.
"Life… is truly lonely as snow."
He sighed melodramatically, closing his laptop after single-handedly discouraging a dozen newbies from ever queuing again.
Jon went to bed that night—smug, bruised, and spiritually fulfilled.
Tomorrow, he would begin testing how to use [Stone Free] and [Atum]. But for now?
He was the king of noobs. And that was enough.
Nightfall — Somewhere in the City
As night fell, the city didn't sleep. Neon signs flickered like restless thoughts, and the streets buzzed with life. For many young people, the night was a release—a time to shed their daytime masks and let out the frustrations of daily life.
Inside a quiet, dimly lit coffee shop, Robson sat across from a woman, a faint jazz tune humming in the background.
"Can it be confirmed?" she asked, sipping her espresso.
Robson slid a photo and a thin file across the table. "Yes. Jackman was definitely taken out… by a kid."
The woman picked up the photo, her lips curling into a soft, amused smile. "Jon Berosovich. Interesting."
"You know him?"
"No," she said, her voice gentle but unreadable. "But I might, soon."
"This kid's got talent," Robson said, leaning back in his chair. "He rejected my invitation, but give him a few years—he's Hunter material."
"You sound confident."
"I almost lost to him."
The woman looked out the window. The crowd outside was rowdy—bright lights, loud voices, and no one paying attention to the quiet conversation happening inside.
"If we keep investigating like this, he's going to lose his peace. His father's gang ties are bound to attract heat."
Robson shook his head. "Don't worry. Jon's not the kind of kid who dies easily."
Local Middle School — Class 2-B
My name is Capon. I have a house (a cramped apartment on the edge of town), and a car (with 25 years of payments left). All I need now is a girlfriend.
Those who know me call me Mr. Capon—a man of discipline, duty, and outstanding moral fiber. As a glorious school teacher, I uphold my responsibilities like a soldier upholds the flag. It's precisely this unshakable dedication that has shaped the achievements of this class.
But today?
Today I'm in a bad mood.
There's a troublemaker in my class. His name? Jon. He either sleeps, stares blankly, or doesn't show up at all. And the worst part? His grades are still good.
Infuriating.
My prized student—the diligent second-place finisher—is always overshadowed by that lazy punk. He puts in real effort. He deserves recognition. But Jon? That bastard gets by on talent alone.
Today, the top-performing student—my personal favorite—was invited to the podium to share his "learning experience." A sacred tradition in this institution. And Jon? Jon laughed.
He disrespected the system. He disrespected me.
So, I kicked him out of class.
Jon's POV — Five Minutes Earlier
I'm Jon, and today, like every day, I'm trying to survive a boring class. Since we just had exams, the teacher's trotting out the usual parade of "outstanding students" to share their study tips.
Yawn.
"I'm very honored to stand on this podium today to share my learning experience," the speaker began solemnly.
Classic starter. Jon nodded in his head. Cue fake gratitude and exaggerated humility.
"First, I'd like to thank Mr. Capon for his earnest teaching—"
"NO"
Atum's voice echoed clearly in Jon's mind. He sounded way too enthusiastic.
Jon stiffened.
The speaker continued, "It is his selfless dedication—"
"Gah! Gah, gah!"
Jon bit his lip, face turning red. His shoulders twitched. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his whole body trembled.
Someone beside him leaned over, concerned. "Jon, are you okay?"
Jon clutched his mouth. "I'm… fine." He started coughing violently, tears forming in his eyes from trying not to laugh.
Mr. Capon, oblivious, was glowing with pride.
"It's all your own efforts," he said, waving his hand humbly. "How dare I take the credit?"
But Atum wasn't done.
"NO"
Even Capon's thoughts betrayed him. He was enjoying this attention. Deep down, the forty-something man was basically a tsundere.
Jon couldn't take it anymore.
"Pfft—HAHAHAHA!"
The classroom fell silent. Everyone stared. Jon was doubled over, laughing helplessly.
Ten minutes later, he was standing in the hallway with a red slip in hand.
The world was changing these days. The system was breaking down. Honesty was a rare currency.
Jon leaned against the wall, sighing. "I really gotta stop using Atum in class."
But he couldn't help it. It was just too fun.