Chapter 1
Shanghai.
Yang Jian leaned against the hood of his Mustang sports car, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.
In the night, smoke curled around him, blurring his sharp, angular features.
Behind him, the lights of the luxury apartment were still on. He knew the woman was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window watching him, but he couldn't be bothered to look back.
Ding!
His phone buzzed.
The screen showed "Lujiazui Sis Wang."
"Hey, little Yang, Sis has everything you could want here. Have you thought it over? When are you coming over? As long as you show up, sports car, villa—it's all yours."
The middle-aged woman's voice came through, syrupy and overly sweet.
Yang Jian curled his lips into a playful smirk. "Sis Wang, you're too impatient. Things like this need to take their time."
He deliberately lowered his voice, adding a lazy drawl.
"Aiya, you naughty boy, Sis just misses you." Her tone grew even stickier.
Yang Jian gave a few perfunctory replies and hung up.
He'd barely taken another puff when the phone rang again.
This time: "Rich College Girl Han Han."
"Yang Jian~ When are you coming to see me? How's the Mustang I just bought you? If you're not happy with it, we can swap it tomorrow."
The voice on the other end was sweetly cloying, almost melting.
"Not bad," Yang Jian said, glancing down at his open collar. "Just the AC sucks—it's so hot I'm tempted to undo another button."
"Jerk!" A pout playfully protest came through; he could practically picture her blushing.
After some more casual chit-chat, he ended the call and flicked the cigarette butt into a nearby trash can.
He opened the car door, pulled two movie tickets from his bag.
Thunderbolts*
A gift from another "friend." He glanced at them and tossed them onto the passenger seat.
The Mustang's engine growled low as he revved it, tires screeching as he peeled out.
One hand on the wheel, the other arm resting on the open window, night wind whipping his hair.
Next stop: a private villa in the suburbs. He was already twenty minutes late, mentally crafting an excuse.
"Say I hit traffic from a crash? Or a last-minute work thing?" Yang Jian mused, his smile growing more confident.
"Nah. I'll do whatever I want. Who can stop me? Just tell her I was daydreaming about her and almost crashed."
Right then, a blinding white light flared from the side.
Yang Jian instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes, but it was too late.
BOOM!
A deafening crash. The Mustang was slammed sideways by an out-of-control dump truck. Metal twisted with a horrific screech.
The airbag deployed, but the massive impact still blacked him out.
"Fuck..."
That was his last thought before darkness.
Pain.
The first thing Yang Jian felt upon regaining consciousness.
His head throbbed like it'd been hammered. His temples pulsed.
He was lying on cold concrete, surroundings dim.
"This guy's awake," a rough male voice said in English.
Yang Jian forced his eyes open. Blurry shapes resolved into several tall figures surrounding him.
As his vision cleared, he saw burly white and Black men in black suits, guns bulging at their waists—clearly armed.
"Where the hell am I?"
He asked in English instinctively. As a 211 university grad, his English was solid.
"Ha, he speaks English," a bald white guy with a vicious scar sneered.
"Kid, you and your buddy trespassed on Kingpin's turf—and saw shit you shouldn't have."
Only then did Yang Jian notice a mangled corpse in the corner—a white male, bloodied beyond recognition.
Fresh blood pooled on the floor; the air reeked of iron and gunpowder.
His clothes were his own—no body-snatch. So what the hell was this?
"Look, I don't know where I am or what you're talking about."
Yang Jian struggled to sit up, back against the cold wall. "I just got in a car crash. Woke up here."
"Fuck!!"
A Black thug stepped forward and kicked him hard in the gut. "You're with that spy! Kingpin doesn't like loose ends on his turf."
Kingpin?
Yang Jian curled up, pain exploding, nearly blacking out again.
But the name hit harder—he realized he'd crossed over.
And into America, tangled in gang shit.
[System Activating!] A mechanical voice suddenly echoed in his mind. His body jolted.
[Host in mortal danger detected. Emergency protocol initiated!]
[Superman System bound successfully.]
[Newbie gift pack issued: Silver Superman template fused. Kryptonian armor set (Fiora-style, but way cooler).]
In an instant, unprecedented power flooded his body like a tidal wave.
Every cell sang. DNA rewired, muscles densified, bones turned unbreakable.
His vision sharpened impossibly—he could see every dust mote in the air.
Hearing exploded: clinking glasses blocks away, even the faint hum of Earth's rotation beneath him.
Then, pitch-black Kryptonian armor materialized, wrapping him like living metal. Sharp lines, oppressive sheen under the dim lights, cape billowing without wind.
"What the hell is this?"
The scarred bald guy stumbled back. The others drew guns.
Yang Jian rose slowly, floating off the ground, power surging.
He clenched a fist—air compressed with a sonic boom.
He felt like a god: capable of lifting mountains, shifting planets.
"Shoot him! Kill the freak!" the Black thug roared.
Gunfire erupted. Bullets flew.
But in his superhuman perception, they crawled like snails.
He raised a hand. A bio-field shimmered—bullets halted inches from him, then clattered to the floor.
"Impossible!" Scarface gasped, retreating.
Yang Jian's eyes narrowed, heat building.
Twin red beams lanced out, melting the gun in Scarface's hand to slag.
The man screamed, dropping it—but the heat vision swept lower, vaporizing his legs below the knees.
"Ahhh! My legs! My legs!" He collapsed, writhing.
The rest turned to flee, but Yang Jian blurred forward, blocking the door in a blink.
His speed made them statues.
"Please... we were just following orders!" A Latino thug dropped to his knees.
Yang Jian tilted his head, testing super breath.
A gentle exhale—and the man flew like he'd been hit by a hurricane, slamming into the wall with bone-crunching force.
In under ten seconds, the room held only Yang Jian standing.
Some vaporized by heat vision, others pulped by raw strength, a few ricocheted by their own bullets.
"This is Superman's power?"
Yang Jian stared at his hands, voice trembling with awe.
He closed his eyes, dialing super hearing.
A flood of sounds: sirens, arguments, babies crying, lovers whispering.
He pinpointed any source instantly—or muted the noise at will.
Super vision next: walls turned transparent. He saw outside streets.
Further: Stark Tower gleaming blocks away.
Zoomed: lunar craters in crisp detail.
Microscopic: air molecules dancing.
"Incredible!"
He looked down at the moaning thugs. Heat vision flared—no mercy this time.
Red flashes. They vanished—bodies, guns, all atomized.
Yang Jian stepped out into an abandoned warehouse.
Super hearing confirmed: no more goons for miles.
He leaped lightly, smashing through the roof, soaring into the night sky.
New York's lights sprawled below, dazzling.
Hovering high, black armor gleaming, he felt endless power.
"Kingpin."
He recalled the name—Wilson Fisk, New York's underworld emperor.
As a Marvel fan, he knew exactly where he was.
He'd crossed into the Marvel Universe.
From now on, this world had a new dark god.
Yang Jian—with this power—could do anything, be anyone.
No one could threaten him anymore.
In the distance, Stark Tower shone like a beacon.
Farther still, super hearing caught sirens, explosions, even a massive creature's growl.
A dangerous, thrilling world.
And now, he held dominion over it all.
"System, show me my panel."