The air in Austin was thick with the smell of barbecue, sweat, and cheap perfume, all stewing together in the oppressive Texas heat. Han leaned against the railing of his apartment balcony, watching the scene below like a mountain lion surveying its domain.
Down in the courtyard, the University of Texas at Austin's freshman orientation was in full swing.
"So... restless," he muttered under his breath.
Who would have thought a damn pollen allergy—one monumental sneeze—could hurl him from his familiar world into this one? A world of Marys, Victorias, and Rachels, but no more Xiaolan, Qianqian, or Susu.
His eyes, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, scanned the crowd before landing on a blonde girl. Fitted white tee, denim shorts, a perfect waist-to-hip ratio, and long legs bronzed by the Texan sun... a classic American sweetheart.
"Damn, America," he thought, forcing his gaze away.
He couldn't afford to look any longer. A familiar heat was stirring deep within his core—his dantian. He was at a critical stage of refining essence into energy. Maintaining his chastity was an ironclad rule. Any distraction could undo months of rigorous cultivation.
He stepped back into his apartment, greeted by the pungent smell of raw hide. A large, untreated cowhide was stretched tight on a frame in the corner. Nearby, a paper tube held several rolls of finished leather, translucent and thin as a cicada's wing—the result of his family's secret technique. Modern methods could split hide into eight layers; he could manage twelve.
It was this skill that had earned him contracts with several high-end leather shops in Austin, funding his expensive "diet"—over two hundred dollars a day in meat and ginseng to sustain his cultivation.
His fingers twitched, and a silver scalpel seemed to materialize in his hand. The blade danced across the hide, moving with a fluid, practiced grace. Minutes later, another perfect, ultra-thin sheet was peeled away. He passed his palm over it, and the surface instantly gleamed with an oily sheen.
His phone buzzed.
"Han... I'm sorry, but we have to cancel our contract." It was Old John, his voice hesitant.
Han's eyes turned to ice. "We have a contract, John."
"I know, but... just can't. That's all I can say. Sorry." The line went dead.
Then came the second call. And the third. Within half an hour, every shop he worked with had called, using nearly identical excuses to cut him off.
The scalpel spun rapidly in his palm, hissing as it cut the air.
Someone was targeting him.
Cutting off a man's livelihood was like killing his parents. In his world, blocking another's path to cultivation was a grievance worthy of death.
He had planned to quit this job anyway once he broke through to the next stage. But choosing to leave was different from being forced out.
They probably saw him as just another skilled, vulnerable Asian kid, easy to push around.
They were mistaken.
He walked to his bed and pulled out a small black case. Inside, neatly arranged, were: a box of fifty surgical blades, a custom-made belt, three pale yellow slips of paper inscribed with strange crimson patterns, and a translucent stone the size of his pinky finger.
He swapped his regular belt for the custom one, slotting the blades one by one into their sheaths. He rolled the three paper slips into tight cylinders and tucked them into the most accessible slots. The small stone went carefully into a separate pouch.
They expected a knife fight? A shootout? He was prepared to deliver something far beyond their comprehension.
Half an hour later, he stood on a shabby street, his eyes locked on a storefront sign: "Lone Star Leathercraft." Old John's place.
It was time to teach someone a lesson. Some people, no matter how ordinary they seemed, were not to be trifled with.