The neon signs of San Francisco's Chinatown hummed with a low-frequency buzz that matched the headache Sam felt behind his eyes.
Another Tuesday, another twelve hours of staring at spreadsheets for a mid-level logistics firm.
He'd ducked into the shop—The Whispering Crane—mostly to escape a sudden downpour.
It smelled of ancient dust and dried orange peel.
That's where he saw it: a book bound in faded, silk-wrapped boards, tucked behind a stack of cracked ceramic bowls.
Sam didn't know a lick of Chinese, but he knew "expensive" when he saw it.
The weight of the paper felt like history.
"Ten bucks,"
The shopkeeper had grunted without looking up.
"Deal,"
Sam whispered, already imagining the eBay listing: RARE ANTIQUE ORIENTAL MANUSCRIPT - MINT CONDITION.
Back in his cramped studio apartment, Sam cleared a space on his coffee table next to a half-eaten pizza.
He cracked the book open to snap a photo for the listing.
The pages didn't just turn; they breathed.
A faint, cherry-blossom pink glow began to seep from the calligraphy.
Before Sam could blink, the ink lifted off the page like a swarm of bioluminescent insects.
They swirled in a frantic, rosy cyclone before diving straight into his chest.
Sam didn't scream. He couldn't. His brain was suddenly flooded with images of celestial palaces, the flow of Qi, and the ancient, hidden art of Dual Cultivation—the path to immortality through the union of Yin and Yang.
"I'm losing it,"
Sam gasped, clutching his chest.
"I'm overworked. I'm hallucinating."
He stumbled to the TV, flicking it on just to hear the comforting, mundane drone of the evening news.
But the face on the screen wasn't the local anchor.
It was a man standing in front of a podium in Malibu, radiating an almost offensive amount of charisma.
He had a groomed goatee and eyes that looked like they were already calculating the flight path of a missile.
"I am Iron Man,"
The man declared, a smirk playing on his lips.
The news ticker at the bottom read: TONY STARK ADMITS TO BEING ARMORED VIGILANTE.
Sam stared. He knew that face, but not from a movie poster.
This wasn't an actor; the physics of the world felt thicker now.
He could feel the latent energy in the air—the "World Essence"—and it was being stirred by the sheer ego and technology of a man who shouldn't exist.
Sam looked down at his hands. A faint pink mist curled around his fingertips.
"Okay,"
Sam whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"No more spreadsheets."
Sam sat on his thin mattress. He ignored the cold pizza and the blinking light on his work laptop.
He didn't care about spreadsheets anymore. In this new world, a "salaryman" was just someone who died when a giant monster stepped on a building.
"I need to get strong,"
Sam whispered.
"Fast."
He closed his eyes and searched his mind. The pink light had left a library of memories in his brain.
He looked for the Dual Cultivation section, but it felt like a locked door.
A message echoed in his head: Foundation too weak. Body not ready.
He also realized another problem.
Dual cultivation required two people. It was about sharing energy. But in a world of superheroes and science, he was the only one who knew about Qi.
There were no female cultivators to practice with. At least for now.
"Fine,"
Sam said, taking a deep breath.
"I'll do it the hard way."
He crossed his legs and followed the most basic lesson in the book: The Blossom Breathing.
He breathed in slowly through his nose. He imagined the air wasn't just oxygen, but a stream of pink flower petals.
He held the air in his lungs. He felt the "World Essence" tickling his chest.
He let the air out. The "dirty" energy from his body left as a grey mist.
At first, it was hard. His legs hurt, and his mind kept thinking about useless things.
But after an hour, things changed.
The air in the room felt heavy and warm.
Every time he breathed, the pink mist around his fingers grew brighter.
He felt a small spark of heat right below his belly button.
This was his Dantian—the battery for his power.
As the sun started to rise over the city, Sam opened his eyes. He didn't feel tired. In fact, he felt like he had slept for ten hours.
He looked at his arms. They weren't muscular yet, but his skin looked cleaner.
The small scar on his thumb from a papercut was gone.
His vision was sharp; he could see a tiny spider making a web in the corner of the ceiling.
"It's working,"
He said, standing up.
Sam stood in the middle of his small room.
He felt different.
His body felt light, like he had dropped a heavy backpack he'd been carrying for years.
"Qi Gathering Stage,"
Sam whispered.
He knew from the memories in his head that he was at the very beginning.
He wasn't a god yet. If someone shot him with a gun, it would still hurt—or worse.
But he wasn't a regular "salaryman" anymore either.
He could feel a warm energy moving under his skin.
If he pushed that energy to his arms or legs, he could strike harder and move faster than any athlete.
But he needed more than just raw power. He needed to know how to fight.
Sam closed his eyes. Deep in his mind, he saw a mountain hidden in white clouds.
He saw warriors in long robes moving with grace. They weren't just swinging swords; they were dancing.
This was the Cherry Blossom Sword Art from the Mount Hua Sect.
Sam didn't have a real sword. He looked around his messy apartment and grabbed a sturdy wooden yardstick he used for measuring boxes. It was light, but it would have to do.
He took a stance. He held the wooden stick with both hands.
"First form,"
Sam said.
"Budding Hope."
He moved. At first, he was clumsy.
He bumped into his coffee table and tripped over a rug.
But then, he started the Blossom Breathing.
As the pink Qi flowed from his Dantian into his arms, the wooden stick started to whistle through the air.
His movements became smooth. He thrust the stick forward, and for a second, a faint trail of pink light followed the tip.
In his mind, he wasn't in a cramped apartment.
He was on a mountain peak. Every time he swung the "sword," he imagined pink petals falling around him.
The art was beautiful, but it was also deadly. It was about speed and hitting the enemy's weak spots before they even saw the blade.
Swish! Swish!
The air in the room grew hot.
Sam was sweating, but it wasn't the "tired" sweat from his old life. It was a cleansing heat.
He felt the Qi strengthening his bones and muscles with every strike.
Suddenly, a loud bang came from the wall.
"Hey! Shut up in there!"
His neighbor yelled.
"Some of us are trying to sleep!"
Sam stopped mid-swing. He was breathing hard, his heart drumming against his ribs.
He looked at the wooden yardstick. It was glowing with a soft pink light, and small cracks were forming in the wood.
His Qi was too strong for a simple piece of stationary.
He sat down, his mind racing. He thought about the news he saw earlier.
Tony Stark was out there building suits of armor. Somewhere in New York, there might be a green monster or a man with a shield.
"The Sword Art is good,"
Sam thought.
"But I need a real weapon. And I need to test this against something real."
He looked at his phone. It was almost time for work.