A_literal_Sunfish

It’s 2100, and Vincent Carter – Ying – is a twenty-year-old virgin with a penchant for profanity, he has but three guiding principles:

“In a world where honour and valour seem like unaffordable luxuries, cowardice remains the pragmatist’s ultimate virtue. Spinelessness isn’t shameful, it’s simply self-preservative romance.”

“Doubt is unironically the cheapest superpower a person can have, after all if it’s human, it’s probably plotting something. And if it’s plotting something, it’s probably hiding something. And if it’s hiding something… well, you get the idea. So question everything, one sceptical step at a time.”

And lastly,

“Muscle heads – because who needs brains when you can just flex your way through life? Couldn’t be me, I’ll tell you that much.”

Armed with nothing but these… questionable (?) values, as well as experiences shaped by a hellish life in the slums, Ying dives headfirst into the latest VR sensation – Cultivation Climax, a world brimming with great magic, ancient mysteries, and blood-curdling conspiracies just waiting to be unravelled.

 However, because Ying’s life is just that kind of special, he is greeted with a rather ‘lovely’ surprise upon opening his eyes to the new world…

Ding!

[Your misfortune is truly astounding!]

[You have awakened the absolute WORST talent for Cultivation!]

‘…’

“…W-what?!”

Yes, what indeed.



https://www.royalroad.com/profile/633482/fictions. I'm the author.

The Forsaken-Grade Cultivator

The shout tore through the stagnant night air like a blade, sharp and jagged.

"Give us back our money you cheating swindlers!!"

A group of men roared as they galloped down the desolate streets, wielding dim wittedness and broken beer bottles. They were about five in number, their boots pounding against cracked asphalt littered with shattered glass and discarded syringes. Moonlight glinted off the broken beer bottles clutched in their fists, their faces twisted into masks of drunken fury.

Ahead of them, two figures wove through the labyrinth of crumbling buildings—a lanky man in a dirt-brown windbreaker frayed at the seams, and a wiry teenager in a faded ski mask that clung to his sharp jawline.

Andersen