⚔️ "Marvel + Cultivation" Crossover
💬 If you were reborn in the Marvel universe 100 years early—but with Xianxia powers—what would you build first? A sect? A hidden empire? Or quietly bide your time?
🧠 "Changing History" Scenario
💬 Imagine having future knowledge, magical treasures, and martial cultivation in 1919 Marvel America…What's your plan: change history? Start a megacorp? Hunt Infinity Stones early? Or stay in the shadows?
🏙️ "Corporate vs Heroic" Paths
💬 Would you rather build a corporation more powerful than SHIELD or become an immortal cultivator watching heroes like Iron Man rise from afar?
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Chapter 3: A City of Smoke and Sparks
New York hit the senses like a hammer.
The moment George stepped off the train, he was swallowed by movement, noise, and smell. Steam hissed from metal vents along the platforms. Men in fedoras shouted over each other. Women in crisp hats clutched leather handbags as they wove through the crowd. The air was thick with coal smoke, perfume, sweat, and ambition.
He took a moment to orient himself.
Even with memories of his past life, nothing had prepared him for the raw energy of 1919 Manhattan. It wasn't just the buildings scraping the sky or the mechanical rhythm of trams on rails. It was the people—all pushing, striving, colliding in a city that demanded everything.
George adjusted his satchel and stepped out of the station. The cold bit at his face, but it was invigorating. Alive.
He flagged down a cab—an open-top Ford with a rattling engine.
"Where to, kid?"
"Lower Manhattan. Broadway and Worth," George said. He'd researched a place to stay—cheap, anonymous, but decent.
The cabbie nodded, and they rumbled into traffic.
His first few days in New York were a blur of noise and adjustment.
He took a small room above a bakery owned by a friendly Italian widow. The smell of fresh bread each morning reminded him of home.
George spent his time walking. Observing. Memorizing.
He studied street vendors and newspaper boys. He watched dock workers unload crates at the harbor. He lingered at street corners where jazz musicians played to strangers who didn't stop. Every detail mattered.
He was building a new self, layer by layer.
At night, he practiced cultivation.
In the quiet of his room, he sat cross-legged on the floor, Chaos Pearl pulsing softly in his consciousness.
His breathing slowed. The Heavenly Sword Body naturally drew in surrounding spiritual energy, what little there was in this world.
Qi gathered in his dantian, swirling like warm mist.
He progressed faster than expected. By the end of the week, he had opened his first meridian, solidifying the foundation of his practice. The Jade Flowing Sword Art whispered through his thoughts, elegant and sharp.
By day, he prepared for his next move.
His goal wasn't survival. It was influence.
George planned to build connections in finance, politics, and the underworld—anywhere power flowed. But for that, he needed a foothold. A legend. Something that made people talk.
He had an idea.
He made his way to a struggling restaurant in Chinatown. A place on the brink of closing.
"I want to work for free," George told the owner, a tired middle-aged man named Zhang.
Zhang blinked. "What's the catch?"
George smiled. "Let me cook. One dish. If it brings in more customers, let me stay for a month."
Zhang raised a skeptical brow but agreed.
That night, George stepped into the kitchen. He donned a simple apron, unrolled his knife roll, and set down the Garuda Knife.
Elly's lessons had paid off. But now it was time to go beyond.
He drew upon the talent of Liu Angxing. The recipes in his mind flowed like poetry.
He cooked lamb dumplings so fragrant the neighbors came sniffing. He made fiery red-braised pork that melted on the tongue. He brewed a soup that soothed the soul.
By the end of the night, the dining area was full.
Zhang stared at the growing line outside.
"You're hired," he muttered. "You're not just hired—you're magic."
George wiped his hands. "No. Just well-fed."
The whispers began quickly.
A new chef. Chinese-American. Young, strange accent. But the food? Unforgettable.
Within two weeks, the restaurant was packed daily. A reporter came to investigate. George made her a bowl of fish congee.
The next day, a glowing article appeared in the food column:
"A culinary ghost has descended upon Chinatown. No name, no background, just taste. He cooks like a man from another world."
Zhang framed it on the wall.
"You need a name," he said.
George paused.
"Call me... Chef Long."
Dragon.
It felt right.
By the end of the month, George had drawn from the Chaos Pearl again.
This time: [Drawing from World - Marvel (Variant Timeline)]
The orb glowed with unstable, crackling energy.
He crushed it.
Knowledge surged into him:
Basic genetic enhancement from the Super Soldier Serum prototype.
Peak human reflex calibration.
A fragment of vibranium alloy forged into a knife that could never dull.
His body hummed. His reflexes sharpened.
George grinned.
"Now we're getting somewhere."
—End of Chapter 3—
Translator's Note:
This chapter marks a shift—George is no longer just surviving, he's preparing. With the Chaos Pearl and a sword cultivator's body, he's stepping into a world that doesn't even know it's about to change.
Let me know what you would do with 100 years of prep time in the Marvel Universe!