The first thing Zak felt was cold.
Not the sterile kind you get in a hospital. No—this was the gritty, gritty cold of an apartment that hadn't seen heat in weeks. It seeped into his skin, gnawed at his bones, and smelled faintly of mold and damp carpet.
His eyes cracked open. The ceiling above him was gray and stained. Paint peeled like dead skin. A flickering bulb dangled overhead, swaying slightly, casting uneven shadows across the room. His back ached. His neck was stiff.
And he was breathing.
"What the…?"
Zak sat up too quickly. The mattress beneath him gave a sick squish, like it was soaked. His head spun. It felt like waking up from a long, drunken sleep—except his last memory wasn't of drinking. It was of dying.
"Did I…?"
He stopped, staring down at his hands.
They weren't the ones he remembered. These were leaner. More defined. He flexed his fingers—stronger, longer. His chest was broader, muscles tight under his skin. He pushed the grimy blanket aside and realized he was shirtless, in black sweatpants that clung to his waist like they'd been slept in for days.
A cracked mirror leaned against the wall nearby.
Zak stumbled to it, bare feet slapping against the dusty floor.
The reflection staring back was familiar and unfamiliar. It was his face—sort of. Like someone had taken his features and molded them onto a gym rat version of himself. Sharp jaw. Dark, sleep-deprived eyes. Thick black hair that hung messily around his face. A faint scar above his left eyebrow.
He was… handsome, but in a haunted way.
Not anime-protagonist perfect—but real. Dangerous. Worn.
"Okay. What the fuck."
Memories surged—no, invaded—his mind.
Flashes. Scenes. Pain. Grime. Screams. A car crash. A lonely funeral. The scent of pills. The stinging taste of smoke. This body's previous owner—also named Zak—had lived a tragic, downward-spiraling life in Gotham City. Orphaned in a car accident. Shuffled through the system. Broken by it. Alone.
He'd died in this apartment. Forgotten. Unloved. Another statistic in a city that never cared.
The memories left Zak gasping. He clutched the wall to steady himself, chest heaving.
"This isn't… Earth," he murmured. "At least—not mine."
There was no system message. No tutorial. No HUD.
Just a new body. A tragic history. And a haunting silence.
He stayed still for a while, listening to the world outside the thin walls. Police sirens. Distant shouting. A dog barking like it was fighting for its life. It was unmistakably Gotham. He recognized the name from comic lore—this city bred villains and corpses.
And somehow… he was here.
"Did I transmigrate?"
He thought about Top Tier Providence. The slow grind. The solitude. Han Jue's peace, earned through quiet cultivation and patience. Zak had always dreamed of being like that—powerful, untouched, above it all.
And now?
He was in Gotham. In the skin of a broken boy. No system. No powers.
"Not yet," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
Two Weeks Later
Zak had learned to survive.
The original Zak had done odd jobs, made some money, and bought a fake ID. It didn't matter now. He had no ties. No friends. He could disappear into the cracks without anyone noticing.
He cleaned the apartment slowly—each day scrubbing away the ghosts. Bleached the mold. Taped over the holes in the windows. Stole a mattress from a street corner and dragged it up six flights of stairs. He started exercising—pushups, squats, stretches. His body responded easily, almost like it craved the discipline.
And each night, he meditated.
Not because he knew how.
But because it felt right.
He would sit cross-legged, back straight, hands resting on his knees. Eyes closed. Breathing in the cold, silent air of Gotham. Trying to find the stillness that Han Jue had once pursued.
He hadn't eaten in over a day when the voice returned.
[System Initialization Complete.]
[Welcome, Host.]
[You have been selected as the inheritor of the Way of Cultivation.]
[Universe recognized: Earth-16.]
[World Context: DC Multiverse – Young Justice Branch.]
[Status: Hidden.]
Zak's eyes snapped open. His breath misted in the air.
"Wait… Earth-16? Young Justice?"
He blinked. The world felt suddenly too real.
"So this is the DC Universe… I just died reading cultivation… and now I'm here?"
[Confirmed.]
"What happens now?"
[System initializing core modules…]
A strange warmth spread through his chest. Like something ancient had just been stitched into his very soul.
[Spiritual Root Assigned: Chaos Origin Root.]
[Root Classification: Unique.]
[Passive Effects: Adaptive Cultivation, Qi Entropy Balance, Unknown Potential.]
[System Perks: Seclusion Rewards Active.]
[System Library Function: UNLOCKED.]
[You have received the following starting package:]
Cultivation Technique: Void Entropy Sutra
Main Weapon: Nameless Chaosblade (Bound, Evolves with Root)
Artifact 1: Heaven's Veil Talisman (Stealth/Concealment)
Artifact 2: Spirit Anchor Ring (Qi Storage and Transfer)
Base Cultivation Knowledge Uploaded.
[Warning: Host must cultivate manually. No levels or experience systems available.]
[Qi must be gathered through breathing, spiritual focus, and meditation.]
[Breakthrough requirements: Internal cultivation progression, not skill-based.]
Zak's heart thundered in his chest.
It was happening.
It was real.
"Show me the technique," he whispered.
A translucent panel opened before his eyes. Faint. Minimalistic.
Void Entropy Sutra – Tier 1
A technique rooted in chaos and stillness. Absorbs ambient qi through void harmonization. Designed for solitary cultivation. Aligns best with the Chaos Origin Root.
Warning: Incompatible with artificial or synthetic qi sources.
Growth Potential: Unknown.
He closed the panel and laughed. Quiet. Disbelieving.
He finally had a cultivation technique.
"Alright. No more games."
He stood, and the room felt different. Sharper. Clearer.
He walked to the mirror. His eyes gleamed faintly. Not glowing—but something within them shimmered like the edge of a black hole. He held out his hand—and the Nameless Chaosblade manifested in his grip.
The sword was pitch black. Not reflective—absorptive. Its edge was fluid, ever-shifting like smoke trapped in steel. It hummed faintly, like it was alive.
"You'll grow with me," Zak whispered.
Then came the next prompt.
[System Root Management Activated.]
[You may now grant or revoke spiritual roots.]
[Roots are unique, randomly generated, and cannot be duplicated.]
[Technique compatibility varies with root type.]
[System Library now tracks all created or shared techniques.]
"So I can make cultivators…"
"…and take it all back whenever I want."
He sat cross-legged again, the sword beside him, the two artifacts hovering near his chest like loyal spirits.
He inhaled.
Qi.
Raw, primal. Almost invisible—but he could feel it now. In the air. In the bones of the city. Even in the rot beneath the floorboards. Energy, waiting to be claimed.
He would gather it. Shape it. Refine it.
Not for justice. Not for saving the world.
But because he refused to be powerless ever again.
"Let the heroes play their little games," he murmured. "I'll stay in the shadows."
"And rise."