His name was Lee Yong-Su, a 21-year-old master of barely surviving.
By day, he was a diligent student at the University of Seoul, majoring in Something-That-Makes-Your-Parents-Proud. It didn't really matter what it was. Accounting? Law? Structural Engineering of Emotional Trauma? He forgot. He was mostly awake during lectures but only in the same way a goldfish is technically swimming.
By night—and also afternoons and sometimes weekends—he worked at a cramped, soul-sucking retail shop that sold everything from expired ramen to possibly cursed Hello Kitty knock-offs. He was the cashier, which basically meant he was a glorified beep-sound button and human complaint sponge.
"Yah, this milk expired yesterday, give discount."
"It's 50 won already."
"Still. Discount."
He smiled professionally. On the inside, he imagined setting the milk on fire and walking out dramatically.
But alas, his escape came through stolen seconds reading cultivation novels behind the counter, tucked between receipts and resentment. Sects, flying swords, qi, exploding alchemy furnaces—ah yes, the world where plot armor is thicker than rent problems.
He fantasized, as all readers do.
"What if I got isekai'd?"Cue mysterious truck, reincarnation, power fantasy, 10 wives, and a dragon or two.
But he was no fool. That stuff was fiction. His life was more sad PowerPoint presentation with unpaid electricity bill.
Then he died.
Yes, abruptly, pathetically, and not even heroically.
It wasn't a truck. Oh no, nothing so meme-worthy.
It was instant ramen and an electric fan.
See, our brave soul cooked a student special—extra spicy ramen while reading a 700-chapter manhua on his phone. He placed the boiling pot on the edge of the desk. Turned on the fan. It tipped over.
Scalding. Screaming. Slipping. Thwack. Head meets ceramic tile.
And just like that, his screen time reached zero.
Darkness.Nothingness.Then… screaming.
Wait—he was screaming.
Loud, moist, and very much newborn screaming.
Lee Yong-Su blinked, which was hard, considering his eyelids were the size of contact lenses and his vision was blurrier than his college major.
Everything was confusing. Giant faces loomed over him. People were talking in a language that sounded like someone gargling soup and yelling at a goat.
What the hell? Korean? Chinese? Sanskrit run through a blender?
Then it clicked. Not slowly, not gracefully—but like a door being kicked in by a kung-fu monk.
His brain adjusted, perhaps thanks to the Universal Soul Integration Department working overtime.
Words snapped into meaning.
"The Young Master is crying again, Madam!""He is healthy. His lungs are strong.""...He's smiling now?"
Yes, yes he was.
Lee Yong-Su—the once-dead ramen casualty—grinned.
Not a normal baby smile. No.
This was a wide, unsettling, "I-know-where-you-hide-the-bodies" kind of grin. A baby shouldn't have that many teeth (he didn't, but it felt like he did).
His tiny fists curled.
He had done it.He was reborn in a fantasy world.Medieval, candle-lit, robes, and weird family names. All boxes checked.
And while most protagonists would shout "I shall become the strongest cultivator!" or "I will slay gods and ascend!"
Not Yong-Su.
No.
He whispered in his head, like a baby Lex Luthor:
"I will make… gunpowder."
Yes, that was his grand plan. While others obsessed over dantian and qi, he'd skip the sword fights and invent the boom. Cultivators may fly on swords, but not one of them had ever been shot in the face with a musket.
He giggled.
The nearby maid froze. Something in her spine sent a shiver like a ferret crawling through her bones.
She looked at the swaddled infant, staring back with unfocused eyes and a sinister grin that screamed, "I'm plotting something explosive."
"…Madam?" the maid whispered later, in the candle-lit hall, after she had triple-checked the baby's cradle.
"Yes, Fen?"
"I—I think the Young Master smiled at me… like a demon."
The mother, a lovely woman in a layered hanfu dress and the patience of a saint, simply sipped her tea.
"It was dark. Probably your imagination."
"But he… he giggled after hearing the word saltpeter…"
"Fen. You've been skipping dinner again, haven't you?"
The maid left the room shaken, glancing back at the cradle. The baby had fallen asleep.
Or so she thought.
Inside that soft bundle of blankets, Lee Yong-Su grinned in his dreams.
Sulfur. Charcoal. Saltpeter.That's all he needed.
Oh, and maybe a map. And test subjects. And fingers that weren't made of pudding.
But he'd get there.
Gunpowder Lee had arrived.And this cultivation world wouldn't know what blew it.