In the Slum District of the Manhattan Base City,
It was a poor apartment, the kind where the wallpaper peeled at the corners like old skin and the floorboards groaned under every footstep. A man lay paralyzed in the corner bed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, labored rhythm. His eyes, hollow and distant, stared at the same water stain on the ceiling that had been there for two years.
In the adjacent room, a young girl with round glasses sat cross-legged on a thin mattress, her lips moving silently as she traced words in a battered textbook. And in the cramped kitchen, where the stove flickered with a weak blue flame, Martha stirred a pot of thin soup while talking to her eldest son.
"Ethan, please don't put too much pressure on yourself. I can still earn money. You should focus on your dream to get admitted to the university. You don't have to work too hard for the family right now," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a woman who had said these words too many times.
The young man with a skinny frame and short black hair smiled. His shirt had a small hole near the collar, and his knuckles were rough and calloused. Every night, he soaked his hands in warm water just to stop them from cramping.
"Mother, please don't worry. I am just working as the cleaning boy in the Iron Fist Dojo. I like the job," he said, flexing his fingers. The joints popped softly.
Martha finally looked up from the pot. Her eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying, but from exhaustion. She studied his face for a long moment, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw that had lost their boyish softness too early. He had grown up in a house that demanded growth.
"Okay. If you insist. But don't overdo it," she said softly, turning back to her soup.
Ethan smiled and entered his room. The apartment had three rooms. One for him, one for his sister, and his parents lived in the drawing room come bedroom. His father's bed sat in the corner of the main room, surrounded by pill bottles and a breathing machine that hummed like a dying insect. The medical bills were stacked on a small table, a paper monument to their slow financial ruin.
He sat on his bed, which sagged in the middle from years of use, and took out his phone. The screen was cracked in the lower left corner, but it still worked. He scrolled through the news feed and stopped at an article about a small beast tide in the southern part of Manhattan City.
Martial warriors had suppressed it within an hour. The video showed men and women in combat suits unleashing techniques that lit up the night sky. Their fists cracked the air like thunder. Their movements were poetry.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He could feel the longing in his chest, a dull ache that had become familiar over the years.
"How I wish I could have become a martial warrior," he muttered.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out a worn booklet. The Iron Fist Technique. It was a "Gift" from the dojo which normally cost 50000 credits for normal students of the dojo.
He flipped to a random page and stared at the illustration. A human figure with arrows pointing in seventeen different directions. Lines of text that used words like "meridian convergence" and "fist intent resonance."
He read the same paragraph three times. Four times. Five times. Each time, the meaning slipped through his fingers like water. He could feel the frustration building in his temples, a tight pressure that made him want to scream.
"Damn it! Why don't I have a system? Every transmigrator has one," he cursed, throwing the booklet onto his bed.
Yes, he was a transmigrator. The memories of his past life had surfaced three months ago during a fever. He had woken up drenched in sweat, his mind flooded with images of a different world.
Smartphones that were sleek and unbroken. Food delivered to his doorstep. Thousands of novels about people who were just like him, except they all had one thing he did not. A system. A cheat. A shortcut to greatness.
And yet here he was. Mopping floors at a dojo that barely acknowledged his existence. Reading manuals that might as well have been written in ancient Sanskrit. Staring at a cracked phone screen while his father struggled to breathe in the next room.
"Today should be my credits enter my bank account after 5 months of working there," he thought.
He had worked four months for free because he wanted that stupid technique. The dojo master had called it an "investment in youth."
Ethan called it a scam, but he had smiled and nodded because he had no other choice. His father needed medicine. His sister needed books. His mother needed rest. And Ethan needed power.
Suddenly, a notification appeared on his screen.
[Congratulations! Your bank account has been credited with 10,000 credits.]
His eyes lit up. A warmth spread through his chest. He could buy his father's medicine for the month. He could afford the cheap protein powder that would help him build muscle. He could breathe a little easier.
But then.
[Ding! The host has finally come out from his pauper situation. The Infinite Shop System is activated.]
A notification sounded in his head. Instead of getting afraid, it sounded like the chime of heavenly dao to him. It was crisp and clear, like a bell ringing in an empty temple. His skin tingled. His hair stood on end.
"Hahahaha! My system is here. Finally. I am going to dominate the universe."
[Ding! Host please don't get ahead of yourself. You are still a pauper. Don't dream too big.]
Cough! Cough! He choked on his own excitement. The system had given him a reality check, and it stung.
"Okay system tell me what can you do?" he asked, his voice trembling.
[I am the Infinite Shop. Anything you can think of, you can buy it from here, but you will need money.]
"Huh? That's it? You are not so cool after all," Ethan felt a slight frustration.
[Ding! Host should respect the system. I am the coolest thing in the existence.]
"Huh? If you are so cool, can you sell me the Shadow Monarch talent?" he asked with a smirk. He didn't think the system would get his joke.
[Yes. If you have 10000 universal coins, you can buy the Shadow Monarch talent.]
Ethan stood up from his bed like an electric shock spread through his head. His knees almost buckled. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Are you sure? You can give me " The" Sung Jinwoo's Shadow Monarch talent?" he asked this time specifically.
[Yes.]
He gulped down his saliva. He didn't know what universal coins meant, but according to his knowledge, it should be the highest grade money of the universe. His mind raced with possibilities. Armies of shadows. Infinite power. A throne in the abyss.
"Then what about Instant Death power of Yogiri Takatou?"
[Ding! Host will need 1 trillion Reality Coins.]
Ethan sat down with a thud. His legs gave out completely. If the system was telling the truth, it was a fucking broken system. The kind of system that could rewrite the laws of existence. The kind of system that could turn a nobody into a god.
"Let's get to the present situation," he thought.
"Can you sell me the comprehension of the Iron Fist technique?" This time he asked something conceptual.
[Ding! Minor completion is 15000 credits, major completion is 50000 credits, perfect completion is 100000 credits and finally Unity realm is 500000 credits.]
Ethan's heart started beating wildly again. It was really possible. He could finally understand that stupid booklet. He could finally stop feeling like a fraud. But too sad, he didn't have the money.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen. His feet felt heavy. Each step was a battle. He found his mother still stirring the soup, her back hunched over the stove. The steam curled around her face, and for a moment, she looked older than her years. He could see the grey hairs spreading through her black bun. He could see the tension in her shoulders.
"Umm mom. Do you have 5000 credits to share? I'll return in 10 days," he said, gritting his teeth. His voice cracked on the last word.