Cultivation Master in the City

"Quick, stop him! Let’s beat him to death this time!" A plainly dressed boy of about twelve or thirteen, his face resolute, sprinted desperately forward with his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. Behind him, shouts echoed, but the boy ignored them entirely, his expression calm as he fled. Chasing him were four teenage delinquents in their late teens, all wearing tattered jeans riddled with holes and short-sleeved T-shirts. The boy was younger and couldn’t outrun them, so he veered into a patch of dense woods where the terrain was rougher. But in his haste, he tripped over a dead branch and tumbled forward, crashing to the ground. "Run? Why aren’t you running now?" The g**g leader—a scrawny, sharp-faced teen with long yellow hair that barely covered his pierced ears—sneered as he kicked the boy the moment he tried to stand. The boy couldn’t dodge in time. The blow struck his stomach, forcing him to double over in pain. Yet despite the agony, his face showed no panic. As he hunched forward, his left hand slipped free from the backpack strap behind his shoulder. The g**g leader smirked, cracking his knuckles as he approached. But just as he reached the boy, the kid suddenly jerked his head up—his expression mocking—and swung his backpack with full force, smashing it straight into the thug’s face. At such close range, the g**g leader had no chance to evade. The impact of the book-filled bag sent blood gushing from his nose. With a pained groan, he crumpled to his knees, clutching his face. Seizing the moment, the boy bolted away in one fluid motion. "Boss!" "Boss!" The other three delinquents cried out in shock. They hadn’t expected the boy to strike so viciously, without warning. Seeing their leader in agony, they hesitated, giving the boy a brief lead. "Don’t mind me—go after him! I’ll break his hands!" The g**g leader, humiliated, shoved his underlings aside and pointed furiously at the fleeing figure. But the boy, weakened by youth and exhaustion, was soon caught again. This time, despite his struggles, the four stronger teens overwhelmed him with a flurry of punches, knocking him to the ground. "Ah!" The g**g leader, his nose still bleeding, stomped hard on the boy’s right hand. A sharp cry escaped the boy’s lips. "Think you’re tough, huh? Run now, go on, run!" Grinning maliciously, the g**g leader ground his foot into the boy’s hand while pulling books from the backpack and hurling them at his head. The boy endured the pain in silence. "Eh? What’s this?" The g**g leader suddenly pulled out a small, finger-sized vial from the bag—a strange object with silver metal caps on both ends and a glass-like middle. "Give it back! It’s mine!" The boy, who had been motionless, thrashed violently at the sight of the vial. "Oh, not playing dead anymore, huh?" The g**g leader chuckled darkly, twirling the vial between his fingers. Then, with a twisted grin, he called to his lackeys, "Hold him down." "You want it? Then swallow it!" With the other three pinning the boy down, the g**g leader uncorked the vial and poured the black liquid inside straight into the boy’s mouth. "No! Stop—!" The boy writhed desperately. "No—!" A teenager in pajamas jolted awake, bolting upright in bed. It was the dead of night, just before a storm. A flash of lightning illuminated his sweat-drenched face, contorted with lingering fear and anger. "Another nightmare..." He exhaled shakily, then suddenly gasped, "Oh no—" In a panic, he scrambled out of bed, flung open his dorm room door, and sprinted downstairs in his pajamas, vanishing into the night. With a typhoon approaching, no guards patrolled the campus. Unhindered, the boy dashed to a grassy area near the academic buildings, where he collapsed onto his knees, fists clenched, teeth gritted against the mounting pain. Minutes passed. His body trembled violently as exhaustion and agony overwhelmed him. Then, as thunder roared and rain poured down, he arched his back and let out a primal scream before collapsing unconscious onto the wet grass. When he came to, he rose numbly, trudging back to the dorms through the storm. After washing up, still damp-haired, he dragged a chair to the balcony, hugging his knees as he stared blankly into the rain. His name was He Xu. Today marked his third day at this unfamiliar university in Shang City, far from his hometown of Lan City. New environment, new roommates. Having never left Lan City before, the recent attack left him aching for home. "What the hell was in that bottle?" he murmured, his gaze distant and helpless. The mysterious vial was something he’d found by the seaside back home, near a smoldering, monstrous creature later taken away by police. He’d hidden the vial, only to be forced to drink its contents during that brutal beating. Since then, excruciating pain struck him monthly, knocking him unconscious each time. Only in high school did the intervals lengthen—first to two months, then three, now six. He Xu discovered that resisting unconsciousness prolonged the gaps between attacks. By sophomore year, he could endure the full ordeal. Fearing discovery, he convinced his parents to let him rent an apartment off-campus. Medical tests revealed nothing, leaving him alone with his secret. Now, after nearly half a year without incident, the pain had returned without warning. Thankfully, he’d sensed it coming and fled the dorm in time. Recalling the agony, he shuddered. He’d lost count of how many times this had happened—or whether it was even an illness at all. After a long silence, He Xu raised his right hand, flexing his fingers. "My strength... feels like it’s grown again." Far above Shang City, a passenger jet cruised toward the capital, Jing City. The calm sky suddenly fractured with lightning, turbulence rocking the plane. "Damn it, why here? Huh? What kind of bird is—?" A deep, eerie voice cut through the empty air as the storm erupted. "Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We are experiencing severe turbulence. Remain seated and avoid moving about." Alarms blared inside the cabin. "Mayday! Mayday! Damn it—we’ve lost contact with ground control!" The captain’s panicked voice crackled in the cockpit. "Ah! I just saw someone outside the window!" A passenger screamed, pointing in terror. "Ma’am, please stay calm. It must have been a trick of the light," a young flight attendant reassured. "This is Flight CZ3149. External conditions are extreme. We’ve lost communication—wait, something just flew past us! It’s heading toward the left wing! No—the left engine’s failing!" A violent shudder rocked the plane, alarms shrieking in the cockpit. "Pathetic." The fading whisper reached every passenger, sparking chaos. That same night, Shang City’s temporarily closed airport reopened urgently to accommodate an emergency landing. After 36 hours, passengers and crew—now safely grounded—were finally allowed to leave and speak to the press. Though media questioned the prolonged quarantine, the airline offered no explanation. Strangely, reporters soon dropped the matter, instead attributing the incident to stormy weather. With no casualties and generous compensations, the incident faded from public attention. But in its wake, an invisible net began tightening over Shang City.