Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: George Orwell

💬 What if you were reborn in Marvel 100 years early?Would you become a corporate overlord? Tech god? Political puppet master?Or still try to play the hero... in a suit made of steel?

Please share your thoughts with us.

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After graduating at 25 with a postgraduate degree, he joined a rising after-school training institution. A child of the working class, he embraced the grind with unyielding resolve, throwing himself into relentless overtime, hoping to carve out a future.

Ten years passed.

Society wore down his youthful ambition like waves eroding stone. In a world where Master's degrees were standard and returnees from overseas were flooding the job market, staying employed meant sacrificing pride, clocking in extra hours, and bowing low.

By the time he hit 35, his hair had thinned and his belly rounded. But he finally earned a coveted opportunity: to travel abroad with the company boss for a market inspection and help establish their first overseas branch.

He should have been elated.

Instead, while shopping for souvenirs for his coworkers, fate struck.

A car barreled through the streets during what Americans casually called a "police and bandit chase," and hit him full force.

As Qiao Zhi flew through the air, time slowed. His mind clung to the fragments of a life lived quietly: a mortgage with 25 years left, a house barely a year old, a girlfriend he'd just begun to love. Who would inherit his story now?

His last thought, as he glimpsed the young Black man behind the wheel—braids flying, panic in his eyes—was strangely shallow: "Why do people have such different skin colors?"

Then, nothing.

It was December 1, 1919. Early morning.

His name now was George Orwell. He had just turned sixteen.

Not in the country of his birth, but in the United States. Not as a visitor, but as someone born again into this place.

His parents in this life had died the previous year, victims of the devastating 1918 flu pandemic. Alone again.

But George knew, without a doubt, this was no transmigration of the soul into another's body. It was a full rebirth. From infancy, he had grown up with his own consciousness—memories, feelings, instincts. Yet until he turned sixteen, his mind had only truly awakened for six hours each day. The rest was haze, a dazed lull filled with only basic reactions to the world.

The answer to that mystery lay deep within him.

In his spiritual sea of consciousness floated a small pearl. Two to three centimeters wide, misty and faint, yet deeply familiar.

It was the same pearl a Chinese shopkeeper had handed him as a gift in his past life—a trinket given without much thought. But now, it was something else entirely.

The Chaos Pearl.

The reason he had been foggy for so long was simple: the Chaos Pearl had been slowly fusing with him. Across two lifetimes, the energy it absorbed and nurtured had finally bound itself fully to him on his 16th birthday.

When he focused his mind inward, he could see it hovering at the center of his consciousness, shrouded in mist, slowly spinning.

The knowledge came in fragments, like whispers from the void. This pearl was once the Hongmeng Pearl—a legendary artifact born from the origin of all things. It had contained the rules and energies of three thousand worlds. Within it was a dimension called the Hongmeng World. To create a world within it was to become a Heavenly Dao Saint, a being who attained godhood through strength alone.

During ancient times, after Pangu opened the sky and formed the universe, the Hongmeng Pearl escaped the cataclysm of creation. It wandered beyond the three realms and six paths. After the Battle of the Gods shattered the Primordial World, the pearl reappeared in the Zixiao Palace. There, Pangu's Three Pure Ones attempted to repair the world using the three divine treasures.

But the pearl, unable to withstand such power, fractured. Its origin scattered and merged with the world's laws. What remained was the Chaos Pearl.

Now, it was his.

George's research confirmed what he suspected. The Chaos Pearl absorbed energy from the world around it, and as it evolved, it passed some of that energy back to him. His body was stronger, faster, more refined—and he'd never lifted a single weight.

He stood at 175 cm, not tall by modern standards, but in 1919 America, he was more than average. Under golden hair and a youthful face was a frame carved in the image of a Roman statue. His black eyes glimmered with subtle, unplaceable power.

And that was just the beginning.

Within the Chaos Pearl was an inner space, a hazy realm roughly 100 cubic meters wide. It would grow in time.

Above it, suspended like stars in a vast night sky, twinkled what George now knew to be the "three thousand worlds."

Each of these glowing points represented a world. Once a day, he could select one. By focusing on it, he could draw out a glowing orb. Crushing that orb would instantly grant him its contents—a treasure, a technique, even a bloodline. Anything was possible.

Each world, however, could only be drawn three times. He could let energy accumulate in the space over days, weeks, or more, then choose to draw or expand the space. George labeled one day's energy as one unit. Seven days, seven units. Simple.

He began experimenting.

Over the past month, he had drawn six times.

His first three draws came from the world of "The Deer and the Cauldron."

On November 2, 1919, he pulled a coiled dragon jade handpiece—royal in design, with five claws indicating it once belonged to the Son of Heaven. As someone from the Flower Country in his past life, George felt a natural connection to it. He often held it while thinking.

On November 3, he received a 500-gram gold ingot. That was 17.6 ounces. At $35 per ounce, it came out to $617.30—a fortune.

On November 4, he drew a dagger. One test later, it sliced through a steel rod like butter. It was beautiful, deadly, and perfect for protection.

The next three draws were from the anime world of "Chūka Ichiban!"

First came the cooking talent of Liu Mao Xing, the protagonist. George absorbed the orb, and suddenly he could cook with flair, precision, and a kind of magic that made dishes glow with life.

The second was a complete repository of recipes—not just the ones shown in the series, but even those implied or referenced. The knowledge flowed into him like a river, seamless and intuitive.

The third was the Garuda Knife—one of the Eight Treasures of that world. It excelled in handling meat, retaining its tenderness while exuding a regal phoenix aura when wielded by a true heir.

And best of all? The knowledge was fully mastered. Like riding a bike he'd known his whole life.

Even better, he could teach what he learned.

After showing Elly, their house cook, how to make steamed lamb dumplings, he confirmed it. These were not just blessings. They were tools for the future.

Two patterns became clear:

The higher the level of the world, the more valuable the reward.

The more energy spent, the greater the quality.

Looking out over the farmland his parents left behind—4,500 acres of wheat, soy, and pasture in Tennessee—George considered a quiet life.

He could live here. Draw from the Pearl. Build a quiet empire.

But the world wasn't so kind.

The flu pandemic that ravaged the world had taken tens of millions. Estimates varied from 50 to 100 million dead, more than AIDS ever claimed. With a world population only a third of today's, the scale was apocalyptic.

Yet, strangely, it sparked innovation. Medicine, science, education—everything advanced under pressure.

George, with the hindsight of his past life, knew this was only the beginning. America was on the cusp of sweeping changes.

And a farm, no matter how large, might not be the safest anchor in a storm.

He adjusted his collar, stepped out of his room, and headed down the stairs.

"Hi, George. Feeling better? You should rest a little more," said a voice warmly.

It was Ryan Karl, leaning on a cane.

A loyal friend and former wartime adjutant to George's late father, Ryan had been injured in battle and discharged. Since then, he had remained at the family estate, managing affairs when George's parents passed.

"Uncle Ryan, I've been fine for a month," George said with a rueful smile.

Ryan's eyes twinkled. "If Vincent and Keira could see you now, they'd be proud."

George's gaze flicked to the family photo on the wall.

"Ah, sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up," Ryan said quickly.

"It's okay," George murmured. "I think they're watching over us. Hoping we live well."

In this life, he had known unconditional love. Even during his years of illness, his parents had never turned away, never thought of having another child. They had given everything to him. He owed them everything.

"It's good to see you smiling again," Ryan said. "Come on, let's get breakfast. Elly's cooking has improved since you taught her."

At that moment, Elly, a plump, cheerful White woman in a simple apron, hurried in with open arms.

"Oh, Aunt Elly! I'm not a kid anymore!" George laughed as she hugged him.

"But your appetite still is!" she teased. "I made your favorites. You'll love it."

Elly had been hired by Ryan to cook and clean. After all, a limping old soldier couldn't do it all.

George winked. "Just don't let me get too used to it. I'm hooked already."

She laughed and waddled off to the kitchen.

Thirty minutes later, George wiped his lips and stared thoughtfully at his glass.

Maybe it was time to teach Elly how to make soy milk. Milk every day was a bit much.

In the parlor, Ryan and George settled into armchairs. Elly brought black tea, placing the cups gently on the table.

"Aunt Elly, you're the best. This is exactly what I needed," George said, smiling.

"As long as you like it, sweetie," she replied, chuckling as she returned to the kitchen.

George took a quiet sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. He stared into the swirling steam, thoughts of pearls, stars, and empires spinning with it.

—End of Chapter 1—

📌 Translator's Note:Thanks for reading! This Marvel fanfic is a slow burn focused on business and empire-building before diving deep into the superhero chaos. If you spot odd phrasing or unclear references, feel free to let me know — always improving!