"You! Get down here!"
New York City, United States of America. 39th Street, between 9th and 10th Avenue.
A white-and-blue Chevrolet police cruiser with "NYPD" emblazoned on the side pulled up to the curb. Two officers stepped out—one white, one Black—both dressed in black uniforms and clearly overweight.
The white officer yanked a young Asian man from the back seat. "This is where you belong, yellow monkey!"
The young man shot him a cold glance. "You stink worse than a pig, you white piece of trash."
The white officer's brows furrowed. With a snarl, he slammed a fist into the man's stomach, forcing him to double over in pain.
The Black officer chuckled as he watched. "Alright, Jayden, leave him here. This is Hell's Kitchen. He won't last ten days."
Wincing, the young man forced himself to straighten. He raised a trembling middle finger toward the Black officer. "Go pick cotton, you damn—"
"Motherf—! You Chinese piece of—!"
The Black officer's face contorted with rage. He immediately reached for the gun at his waist, his hand trembling as if ready to pull the trigger at any moment.
This time, it was the white cop's turn to grin.
The white officer held back his partner, pushing him back toward the car. "Isaac, don't lose your temper. Too many people around. If we're gonna do something, not here."
The Black officer spat on the ground and stormed into the passenger seat, fuming.
The white cop no longer bothered with the Asian man, though his eyes lingered for a moment longer, as if trying to burn the man's face into memory.
Just before the car drove off, his eyes gleamed with menace. "Yellow-skinned monkey… I've got my eyes on you."
"As soon as you step outside Hell's Kitchen, I'll drag you back here. Again and again. Until you die in this dump."
The squad car screeched off into the distance, leaving the Asian man half-squatting on the pavement.
The passersby around him wore the same look of apathy. Not one stopped. They all gave him a wide berth, as though he didn't exist.
After a long while, he slowly stood up, dazed, and looked around at the worn-down neighborhood, at the mix of Black, white, brown, and yellow faces swarming the streets—
And just… stared.
His name now was Cohen Wang. But in his past life, he had been Wang Wei—a fresh-off-the-press transmigrator, as of this very morning.
Back then, he had been just another working-class guy in China. Over thirty, with nothing to show for it.
Ten years spent drifting through the big city. When he finally returned home, he still had the heart of a young dreamer—just not the wallet to match.
He hesitated for a month. There was no food left at home.
So he tried writing.
And failed miserably.
His daily earnings? Six yuan and seventy-eight cents.
And his last remaining readers? Nothing but trolls behind keyboards.
That night, while he was hammering away at his keyboard at 2:30 in the morning—mid-rant with one particularly venomous commenter—something suddenly clogged his throat.
A wad of old phlegm.
Once. Twice. Couldn't swallow it down.
He choked.
Game over.
As his consciousness faded, a terrifying regret gripped him.
"Mom... I swear, I'll never roast a reader again!"
When he opened his eyes again, he had become a young, handsome, and homeless Asian man in the heart of the Big Apple.
He had nothing.
Even the memories of this new body were scattered and chaotic. The only thing that seemed intact was a fluent command of English.
Alone. Helpless. Terrified. This wasn't a dream come true—it was a cosmic joke.
He wanted to scream—
If this is the hand I'm dealt, then why reincarnate me at all? Just toss me straight into a grave and be done with it!
With nowhere to go but a face that could make magazine covers, he quickly became a "scenic attraction" on the streets of America.
But beauty, as always, was a magnet for trouble.
Before long, a group of ragged, glassy-eyed homeless men started approaching him.
One of them—a small-eyed, scruffy, middle-aged Asian man with a swollen bump on his forehead—actually rubbed against him.
What the actual hell?!
In his past life, he was thirty-three. In this one, twenty-two. That made over fifty years combined—and not once had a man ever tried to grind up on him!
On instinct, he let his fists fly and beat the man into a state of complete uselessness.
It was then that the two dirty cops showed up.
The crowd that had gathered scattered instantly. The man with the swollen head lay stiff on the ground, eyes closed like a corpse.
Cohen knew this was America, the land of cop-worship. Cops here had way too much power. So, he played along and didn't resist.
But then, while the white cop was cuffing his hands behind his back, the bastard couldn't help but sneer and mutter, "Motherf— damn yellow-skinned mongrels…"
Oh, hell no.
You think I died once, crawled my way into a new life—just to be humiliated like this again?
If this is how it's gonna be, what was the point of reincarnating?
Screw it. I've got nothing to lose.
He exploded. "Who the hell are you calling a yellow-skinned monkey, you lard-bellied white pig?!"
"Look at your fat face and floppy ears. You're bursting at the seams with grease! Anyone who knows you might think you're human, but strangers would mistake you for someone's prize sow on the loose!"
"You shouldn't be a cop. You should be working at a pig farm—handling the mating pens!"
"Breed yourself a litter of white piglets and live out your happy little piggy life with your inbred family!"
The white officer's face went blank, then flushed crimson. His lips quivered as he pointed at Cohen. "You—you—"
Before he could finish, the Black cop rushed over and grabbed Cohen by the collar.
"You yellow monkey, did you just insult us?!"
"Hmph."
Cohen turned his head away in contempt, refusing to even look at him. "Go home and eat your damn watermelon, you Black clown."
"I'm talking to your master over there!"
"Motherf—!"
The price of running his mouth?
A solid beating—and then getting dumped in this place like trash.
When the cops first mentioned "Hell's Kitchen," he thought he'd misheard them.
But when he finally straightened up and looked into the distance… he saw it.
That flashy, ostentatious tower.
Stark Industries.
His mind went blank.
Mother of God… This is the Marvel Universe?!
Who the hell sent me here?!
No money, no home—I could live with that.
Becoming an undocumented nobody? Fine.
Even getting beat up by cops? I swallowed it.
But being thrown into the damn Marvel Universe?!
Why not just kill me and get it over with? Would've taken less effort!
He stood there, stunned.
Then, suddenly, his eyes lit up. A thought struck him, and he turned to face the East, muttering under his breath.
"...Master… Master Ancient One… We're practically from the same neck of the woods, right? Can't you send me back to my original world?"
"Your world… it's way too hardcore for a guy like me…"
"Ancient One, if your spirit's up there somewhere, give me a sign, would you?"
Silence.
No swirling portals.
No glowy magic circles.
Nothing.
Disappointment.
Exhaustion.
Holding his aching chest, he stumbled to a corner of a nearby alley and slumped down beside a trash bin reeking of rot.
He gently pressed the side of his ribcage.
A sharp stab of pain shot through him.
One broken rib. Maybe two.
He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the sky with a deep, guttural sigh.
The way things were going, he probably wouldn't even live long enough to get revenge on those two bastard cops.
He started doing the math: maybe he could scrounge around for a few days. And if all else failed—well, he'd find a pit full of radioactive or chemical waste and take a dive.
Then, suddenly, a voice echoed in his head.
[Punishment God System successfully loaded.]
It's here. The system!
Heart pounding, he eagerly opened the system interface.
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