Chapter 1: Where Has My Golden Cheat Gone?
Eighteen years ago.
New York, United States. Chinatown. An orphanage.
Thunder and lightning raged outside.
With a blinding flash, the front door was shattered to pieces, and Old Wang, a newborn with a necklace around his neck, landed on the floor, wailing his first cries.
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...
Ten minutes later.
The elderly director hurried over, umbrella in hand, a bitter expression on her face.
“Lightning strikes wherever it pleases—how am I supposed to find the money to replace the door now… Huh? Which heartless soul would abandon a child in this weather? Not even a swaddling cloth?”
She quickly scooped the naked infant into her arms, sighing. “Another mouth to feed... What am I going to do?”
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...
That very night.
A shadowy figure crept into the room and took the necklace.
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Eighteen years later.
New York, United States. Chinatown, Apartment 77.
Old Wang sat on a battered sofa, feet propped on an even more decrepit stool, wielding a rolling pin he had used for seven years, sipping a bottle of Erguotou aged for thirteen. He let out a sigh.
“The Titans really can’t be relied upon!”
This was the second time. The second time!
As a perfectly ordinary descendant of China on Earth, he had been swept up in the tide of transmigration, his soul sent to Azeroth by a twist of fate, where he became the apprentice of the legendary monk, Chen Stormstout, embarking on a grand (and somewhat tragic) journey to save Azeroth.
He had out-drunk the competition at Brewfest, petted the hounds in Molten Core, slain fools and vanquished overlords, marched triumphantly through the gates of Ahn’Qiraj.
He’d faced Kael’thas in Tempest Keep, fought Mimiron in Ulduar, challenged Old Gods, even sparred with Titans, pushing all the way to the Pantheon.
Fame, power, status, strength—he had reached the very pinnacle of it all.
Sargeras was sealed away, Argus purified, even the Old Gods had been preemptively beaten down. What was left to linger for?
The lady of Azeroth herself kept in touch, showering him with gifts and warmth, tearfully begging to call him “big brother,” vying to make him her spokesperson and guardian, asking him to care for her tender soul, only a few billion years young.
How could any of this still be entertaining?
So, when she and the Titans of the Pantheon asked if he had any remaining wishes, Old Wang’s thoughts turned to Earth’s skyscrapers and spicy crawfish.
He just wanted to go home.
The Titans understood his longing. They combined their powers, and with the “Heart of Azeroth,” a gift from the lady herself, Old Wang traversed the nexus of time and space. And then—
Some shameless meddler interfered, and he ended up in the wrong body!
(Queen of Blades: “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! Don’t slander me!”)
(Some big shot: “How is this my fault?”)
No—he’d landed in the wrong time and place!
He was supposed to return to his original body on Earth, but somehow he wound up at the orphanage’s doorstep, and, due to some still-unexplained mishap, was turned into a baby!
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
At least his soul and body were now one. Unlike some other transmigrators, who end up in someone else’s body—when it comes to finding a girlfriend, whose girlfriend would that be, anyway? If kids are involved, are they yours or the predecessor’s? Genetically speaking, probably not yours after all…
More importantly, just as he was about to freeze or drown, the old director saved him.
Fat little hands reached for the necklace at his neck—the “Heart of Azeroth”—a supreme artifact crafted by the lady herself, imbued with the power of every Titan in the Pantheon. Far superior to any of Magni’s handiwork, and even mightier than Sargeras’ own sword!
If he could activate its full power, drawing on his previous life’s mastery as a monk, he could revive the art of Pandaren martial arts. At age three, he’d be a master; at five, a grandmaster; by ten, a supreme grandmaster. By eighteen, surviving a nuclear explosion would be a breeze!
Old Wang had been delighted at the prospect—until his necklace was stolen that very night…
Even his cheat code was gone. Was there any transmigrator more miserable than him?
Luckily, his memories remained.
He resumed training in the Pandaren martial arts. As soon as he could move his limbs, he began to cultivate. “So easy,” Old Wang thought.
Pandaren martial arts were truly formidable—the strongest monk in history was no joke. Old Wang soon awakened his first trace of true qi (an ability unique to monks). His body was robust, he ate heartily, never fell ill, and the old director was pleased at the money she saved.
Of course, once he learned that a rich kid named Tony Stark had inherited Stark Industries, Old Wang became extremely cautious, never displaying his true qi in public. The last thing he wanted was to be monitored or controlled by S.H.I.E.L.D., or worse yet, dissected by Hydra.
Ever since someone called “Shang-Chi” made a name for himself in America, “kung fu” had become all the rage. There were at least a dozen martial arts schools in Chinatown alone—everyone from toddlers to the elderly practiced, and if there weren’t ten thousand students, there were at least eight thousand. But few could truly cultivate true qi.
Old Wang bought stacks of three-dollar “martial arts manuals” as a front, and no one suspected a thing.
The old man peddling the manuals publicly declared Old Wang a once-in-a-century, one-in-a-million martial arts prodigy—how could anyone doubt it?
And so, he continued training while searching for the “Heart of Azeroth.” Eighteen years slipped by in a flash.
The orphanage couldn’t support him forever; Old Wang became independent at fourteen. With the wisdom and experience of an adult, he could provide for himself.
But living well was another matter.
College was on the horizon, and tuition was exorbitant—far beyond his means.
What to do?
There was no author’s starting platform in this world.
Even if there were, a failed writer wouldn’t make any money.
“Am I really going to work security at a nightclub? Or accept Sister Hong’s offer to become a host?”
Old Wang raised his bottle of Erguotou, satisfied with the blurry reflection inside.
Regardless of how he fared in a fight, the true qi from Pandaren martial arts kept him youthful and attractive. If all else failed, he could always charm his way through life.
His body, honed as a monk, was beyond question. Ever the scientist, Old Wang had tested it rigorously—handling three or five at a time was no problem.
But how could a man who had saved the World of Warcraft countless times stoop to selling his body?
His stomach growled.
Forget it. A man needs food to live. He’d fill his belly and worry later!
Old Wang stood up to go out when his phone suddenly rang.
Seeing the name on the screen, he smiled.
Eighteen years in this world, and he hadn’t been idle.
You couldn’t just meet Iron Man or Black Widow on a whim, but some people were much more accessible.
“Ke Ying, missing me already?” Old Wang teased, crossing his legs.
“Wang, I told you, my name’s not Chloe Bennet, it’s Skye!” came a melodious, exasperated voice.
“Skye sounds awful—Ke Ying is much prettier,” Old Wang replied, shifting his posture.
“I’ve got good news—do you want to hear it or not?” Skye’s voice jumped an octave.
“I’m listening,” replied Old Wang, unhurried.
“Hurry over—the person you wanted has been found!”
Bang!
Old Wang leapt up, headbutting straight through the ceiling.
(This story is set primarily in the cinematic universe.)