Mystic Cultivator Rise of the Superworld

Under the endless stretch of blue sky and sea, a lean, athletic figure darted through the water like a fish. Not long after, he emerged from the deep ocean and hauled himself onto a speedboat anchored not far off. With the oxygen tank clattering onto the barely five-meter-long boat, his tall, muscular frame finally revealed itself under the sun. Celestian cast a glance at the towering cliff nearby—a perfect hiding spot. He’d been quietly setting up here for six months, and nobody had sniffed a thing. This little cove beneath the cliff was one of the most beautiful beaches in Los Angeles. Rough, secluded, and dotted with massive rocks shaped by wind, rain, and sea erosion, it was miles away from the city, with terrible roads and limited parking. Only a few people came here. No amusement rides, no crowds. Just the occasional tide pool, a rocky cave, a swim, or a dive. Celestian swung himself onto the boat, grabbed three small vials from his body, and stashed them in the boat’s mini-fridge. He then pulled out a can of ice-cold water, poured it down his throat, and for a moment, pure refreshment flooded him. Leaving Bullfighter Beach in El Salvador behind, he raced along the West Pacific coastline at a breakneck speed, the boat hitting over a hundred kilometers per hour. Bullfighter Beach was roughly twenty kilometers from the famous Santa Monica Beach—but traveling by sea was way faster than by road. Santa Monica was known as the most romantic, melancholic stretch along the Pacific. Nestled against rolling green hills and facing the vast ocean, it was calmer than San Francisco’s waves—no crashing surf, no jagged cliffs, just endless blue and serenity. Tourists flocked here every day. In June, the sunsets painted half the sky crimson, fiery clouds drifting lazily with the breeze, a scene straight out of a painting. Waves lapped rhythmically against the rocks, then retreated into frothy white foam. Celestian anchored the boat at a northern dock in Santa Monica, having paid a full six months’ rent upfront—not cheap, but worth it. Walking along Palm Avenue, he passed bikini-clad women showing off soft skin at every turn. It was almost overwhelming, and he could feel a familiar heat rise in his chest. A deep breath, a quiet circulation of his inner energy, and the fire simmered down. Driving his pickup, Celestian left Santa Monica, passed through the famous Beverly Hills, and after twenty-plus kilometers, finally reached his destination: a traditional Chinese medicine shop on the northeast corner of Los Angeles’ Chinatown. This shop was wholly his. Originally, it had belonged to a local Triad elder. After Celestian saved the man’s life, the three-story building was gifted to him. The elder himself died a few months later in a violent gang conflict. Celestian wasn’t really from this world. He didn’t know how he ended up as an orphan raised in the U.S., and somehow he had a cultivation system in his mind, turning him into a true practitioner. At first, he thought his “golden finger” would let him dominate this world—but a glimpse of playboy Tony Stark on TV brought him crashing back to reality. He finally understood where he was: the Marvel world. A place crawling with mutants, superheroes, and gods. Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America, Thor and the realms behind him—they were already terrifyingly powerful. But Thanos, with the Infinity Gauntlet, could probably wipe out entire pantheons, and with the Frost Giants, Dark Elves, Mephisto, Dormammu… even with a golden finger, Celestian wasn’t about to show off. Inside his shop, he addressed the young, beautiful woman behind the counter: “Hey, Gan Jing, how’s business this morning?” “Same as always,” she replied with a glare. “A few old regulars with colds came by, that’s it.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, except your regular over in Monterey Park—he’s still waiting downstairs.” Gan Jing had come from China to study in the U.S., just like Celestian at California State University. She was a good student back home, got into CSU after years of hard work, but shortly after arriving, her boyfriend conned her out of her entire savings. Almost ended up on the street. Desperate, she stumbled into this little Chinatown shop. Celestian hadn’t planned to hire anyone, but seeing her, he asked if she knew anything about Chinese medicine. Her eyes lit up. She nodded furiously, explaining her family had a lineage of Chinese medicine practitioners. She hadn’t been interested before, studying architecture instead, but she had a solid grasp of basics like formulas and herbs. Celestian had just taken over the shop. He only knew a little about Chinese medicine himself. Seeing her skill, he offered her a place—room, board, $900 a month. On the brink of despair, she jumped at the chance and even signed a four-year contract. At first, Celestian thought he’d scored. But once business started, he realized Gan Jing knew nothing. Her family’s medicine lineage was true, but she had zero interest. Beyond memorizing some childhood rhymes, she couldn’t identify herbs to save her life. Celestian quickly realized he’d been played. Forced to take charge, he personally ran the shop while hiring an experienced elder Chinese doctor from the local community. Six months later, the elder left, and Celestian and Gan Jing finally got the shop running smoothly. Thanks to her family genes, Gan Jing picked things up fast. Three years in, she could see patients, prescribe medicine, and keep the shop alive. The “Monterey Park regulars” were members of the Four Seas gang. On the surface, Celestian was a CSU student with a Chinese medicine shop. In reality, he was a black-market doctor, a surgical ace who’d patched up countless knife and gun wounds. One of the gang’s small-time bosses was a brother he grew up with in the orphanage. After opening the shop, that brother came by often. “Gan Jing, I’ll handle things here. If anyone asks, just say I’m not back yet. I’ve got some business downstairs to take care of.” With that, Celestian grabbed his bag, locked a few items in the freezer upstairs, and slowly made his way down to the basement.