Mystic Cultivator Rise of the Superworld

The Deal

Celestian’s basement was a mess of supplies. Ever since he realized he was in the Marvel world, he’d picked up the habit of storing things—never knowing when disaster might strike from the sky.

Compared to disaster-prone Manhattan, L.A. was relatively chill. Sure, there were gangs and a few mutants, but calamities were rare. It was a safer place, all things considered.

Right now, a guy in a checkered shirt with slicked-back hair was pacing anxiously in the basement. When Celestian appeared, he rushed forward: “Brother Ling!”

“Xiao Qi? What are you doing here?” Celestian frowned. Back at the orphanage, half the kids were Chinese. They’d huddle together, snatching scraps from white and black kids alike. Out of the dozen or so siblings, only a few were lucky enough to be adopted—the rest joined the Four Seas gang, becoming full-fledged mobsters.

Celestian had been one of the lucky ones. Smart from a young age, he taught himself all sorts of stuff and eventually got into California State University for biopharmaceuticals, raking in scholarships year after year. If it hadn’t been for that one accident during an experiment, he probably wouldn’t have woken up with this... cultivation consciousness.

“Brother Ling,” Xiao Qi said cautiously, leaning in like he’d been doing gang business too long. “Third Brother sent me over. He needs a hundred units of hemostatic ointment and a hundred of the pain-dispelling powder—urgent.”

He shoved two thick rolls of cash into Celestian’s hands. Business was business, loyalty was loyalty. Everyone scraping by as Chinese in America knew that.

“Urgent, huh? You trying to empty my entire stock?” Celestian frowned. Half a month ago, these guys had just grabbed a batch from him that could last a whole month.

The ointments and powders were expensive—Xiao Qi and the boys, being family, got them for $100 a unit. Anyone else? Double that, at least.

The price wasn’t just hype. These things worked like magic. In gang fights, getting shot was almost guaranteed. Celestian’s ointment could close a bullet wound instantly, stop the bleeding. Pair it with the pain powder, and his gang brothers could basically turn into biochemical soldiers—no side effects.

Of course, plenty had tried to figure out his formulas. Coming to buy, reverse-engineering sold products—nothing ever worked.

Xiao Qi hesitated, then continued, “This order’s personally from Boss Zhang. He’s calling the brothers together tonight at a southeast dock. There’s a shipment coming in—a Japanese smuggling ship.”

Along the West Coast, the Japanese controlled a huge chunk of electronics and human trafficking smuggling. Electronics? Whatever. But trafficking—especially Chinese women? That was a line the local Chinese gangs weren’t about to let slide.

The Hung Mun Chi Kung Tong had influence across both legal and underground circles. Nowadays, they were legit—running companies, even participating in elections, a solid rep in America. Their members weren’t allowed to touch gambling, drugs, or s*x trade. Break the rules, lose a finger, you’re out.

Zhang Xiaotian, boss of the Four Seas, had been one of their disciples. He wasn’t picky about accepting Xiao Qi or Third Brother—they shared roots in Shandong, lost their parents in gang wars, and naturally fit in.

Celestian? He didn’t care about gangs. With his CSU scholarship, he moved out of Monterey Park and avoided the whole scene.

“Targeting the Japanese, huh? Alright… tell the guys to be careful,” Celestian said. He pushed aside a steel cabinet, revealing a massive safe embedded in the wall.

Xiao Qi’s eyes twitched at how casually Celestian slid aside a hundred-pound cabinet. Sure, the gang had tried getting their hands on Celestian’s formulas before, but anyone sent his way disappeared—no trace.

Even when the cops got involved, searching his home, they found nothing. Troublemakers tended to die quietly in Celestian’s house, no one ever knew how. Rumor had it he’d mastered his ancestral martial arts to a terrifying level—after a few casualties, nobody dared mess with him again.

Celestian packed the hundred units of ointment and powder into a black bag and handed it to Xiao Qi. He didn’t even count it. Xiao Qi nodded and slipped away through the basement’s hidden passage, moving like a shadow.

“The Japanese are getting restless again,” Celestian muttered, frowning. A month ago, one of their smuggling ships got taken down in San Diego by local Chinese gangs. Now they were shifting to L.A.

Recon and extra security were a must. He didn’t trust that the L.A. gangs could fool the Japanese. If the Japanese were willing to step into this trap, there had to be something deeper going on.

Celestian smiled, standing in the basement. Even someone uninvolved could see the pattern—imagine the seasoned gang bosses. Without backing, they wouldn’t move. Remember, this was the Marvel world.

He closed the basement door and scanned the front counter—just a few older clients buying supplements. Satisfied, he headed up to the third floor.

Two thick iron doors blocked the entire level. A massive lock held them tight. The lock was no problem—the doors themselves, half a ton each, were tricky to open quietly.

Celestian pressed both palms to the doors, channeling all his inner energy. The doors slid open silently.

The floor—almost a hundred square meters—was filled with exotic herbs: ginseng, lingzhi, ambergris, cordyceps, he shou wu, snow lotus… all thriving in wooden tubs in ways that seemed impossible.

He took a small glass vial from his body and carefully poured its contents into dozens of tubs. The tubs contained Pacific sea mud and his specially distilled essence, giving the herbs everything they needed to flourish.