The air in the room felt heavy, like it was holding its breath.
Stan pulled back that dark, menacing aura of his, the kind that made folks cross the street when they saw him coming.
A grin split his face, sharp and hungry, like a jack-o'-lantern left too long on the porch.
"Hope this little cheat of mine's gonna pave the way to my dreams," he said, his chuckle low, almost a growl, the sound of a man who'd just outsmarted the devil himself.
"I'm just a mortal, y'know," he muttered, half to himself, half to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room.
"The guy who used to own this body, though? Obsessed with pumping iron. Built this frame like a goddamn tank." His voice carried a strange mix of pride and disdain, like he was sizing up a car he'd stolen but hadn't decided if he liked yet.
Big as he was, muscles bulging under his too-tight shirt, that intimidating aura of his was the real weapon.
The two together—bulk and menace—fit like a glove, like they were meant to walk hand in hand through a world that flinched at his shadow.
Stan's eyes flicked around the room, restless, searching.
"If I'm remembering right," he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the guy who used to be me scraped together every penny he had for some kinda… cultivation manual."
His gaze snagged on a small wooden box in the corner, its lid yawning open like it was waiting for him.
The room seemed to lean in, the shadows growing longer, sharper. He crossed the creaking floorboards, knelt, and started digging through the box's guts—tangled trinkets, a chipped glass figurine, junk that smelled faintly of mildew and regret.
Then, at the bottom, his fingers brushed something solid, heavy with age.
He pulled it out: a book, old as sin, its yellowed pages curling like the edges of a bad dream.
No fancy cover, no leather binding, just a plain, unassuming thing that seemed to hum faintly in his hands. Stan tilted it to catch the dim light.
'Flower Cultivation Manual', the cover read, the letters faded but deliberate, like a warning whispered in the dark.
"Flower Cultivation?" he snorted, a rough edge to his voice. "Sounds like something for little girls braiding daisies."
But something in his gut—or maybe the ghost of the body's old owner—stirred, whispering truths he didn't want to hear.
He sank into the memories that weren't quite his, fragments of a life he'd hijacked. His smirk faded.
This wasn't some flowery, feel-good guide to growing roses.
It was a dual cultivation manual.
The kind that demanded you get up close and personal—real personal—with a woman to make it work.
Simple, primal, almost too easy: a few specific breaths, timed just right while you were tangled in the act, and your power would climb, like sap rising in a tree.
Stan's lips twisted, part grimace, part grin, as the weight of it settled over him.
The book felt heavier now, like it knew what it was asking.
Like it was watching him back.
Stan tore through the Flower Cultivation Manual like a man possessed, his eyes skimming the faded pages with a hunger that bordered on feral.
Most of it was hogwash—flowery jargon about enlightenment and destiny, warnings about "balancing energies" and "guarding the spirit."
There was even a whole section on the technique's history, some ancient mumbo jumbo about monks and forbidden rituals.
Stan didn't give a rat's ass about any of it. The past was just dust, and he wasn't here to play archaeologist.
He wanted the meat of it, the how.
He found it on a single page, tucked near the end like an afterthought.
One page, brittle and yellow, with instructions so simple they felt like a taunt.
He read it once, twice, and it was burned into his brain, sharp as a blade.
"Huh," he muttered, his voice a low rasp in the quiet of the hut.
"Just breathe a certain way while you're… y'know, in the act. Suck in the Qi from the air like it's cigarette smoke."
He tossed the book back into the wooden box with a careless flick, where it landed with a dull thud among the forgotten trinkets.
He didn't need it anymore.
It was in him now, like a secret he'd always known.
A smirk curled his lips, sharp and predatory, the kind of smile that made dogs whimper and kids hide behind their mothers.
"Time to take this baby for a spin," he said to the empty room, the words hanging in the air like a promise—or a threat.
He glanced around the hut, its walls rough-hewn and sagging, the kind of place that smelled of damp wood and broken dreams.
The memories of the body's previous owner flickered through his mind, unbidden, like a grainy film reel.
This was Bi Blue Village, a nowhere speck of a place, home to mortals who toiled and died without ever knowing the power Stan now chased.
A village of nobodies, except for two: the village chief, Sai Kirran, and his daughter, Vennie.
Sai was a cultivator, sure, but old—seventy if he was a day, his body honed to Body Refining Stage Five but creaking like an overworked machine.
Stan could almost see him, gnarled and weathered, clinging to his title like a man clutching a life raft.
Then there was Vennie, nineteen and sharp as a switchblade, already at Body Refining Stage Six.
Word was she was a shoo-in for the Five Buddha Cultivation Sect, a prodigy with a future that glittered like a knife's edge.
Stan's smirk widened, his thoughts darkening as he turned toward the door.
The village was small, the night was young, and the air felt thick with possibility—thick with Qi, just waiting to be claimed.
The door creaked open, a sound like a low moan from the bones of the hut, and Stan squinted into the daylight.
His patch of land was a sorry sight, hemmed in by a sagging wooden fence, the planks rotted and splintered like they'd given up on life years ago.
At the edge of the plot squatted the outhouse, a pitiful thing slapped together from mud and straw, leaning like it might collapse under the weight of its own shame.
Stan's lip curled, a flicker of disgust crossing his face.
How the hell am I supposed to use that? he thought, the image of squatting in that crumbling shack making his stomach lurch.
He shoved the problem to the back of his mind, like kicking a can down a dark alley.
Beyond the fence, a dirt road snaked toward the heart of Bi Blue Village, where a meager market peddled necessities and, come Friday nights, a black market bloomed in the shadows.
That's where the old Stan, the one whose body he'd hijacked, had scrounged up the Flower Cultivation Manual—a desperate purchase from a world of whispered deals and dangerous promises.
All around, other huts dotted the landscape, each as rundown as his, their roofs slumping like tired shoulders.
But one house stood out, proud and sturdy, its boundary marked by a fence that actually looked like it could keep something out.
There, in the yard, a lean man swung an axe, splitting wood with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.
His movements were precise, deadly, the axe biting into the logs with a clean thwack. Nearby, a handful of sheep grazed, but they weren't the fluffy kind Stan remembered from his old world.
These were beasts, tall as hippos, their wool matted and coarse, with three wickedly curved horns sprouting from their skulls.
They looked like they could gore a man and not think twice about it.
Stan's borrowed memories stirred, pinning a name to the man: Almex. A mortal, sure, but the kind of mortal who could track a deer through a monsoon and bring it down with nothing but a knife and bad intentions.
The guy was a hunter, the best in the village, and his wealth showed in the solid build of his house, the heft of his axe.
Lean as he was, Almex moved with a coiled strength that made Stan's bulky frame feel like a clumsy costume.
Worse, the man had a temper like a storm cloud, and for reasons Stan's memories couldn't quite pin down, he despised the old Stan.
Beatings had been regular, delivered with a sneer and a fist, like Stan's mere existence was an insult.
Better steer clear of that bastard for now, Stan thought, taking a deep breath that tasted of dust and regret.
He stepped through the boundary door, his boots scuffing the dirt road as he aimed for the village center, keeping his head low.
The air felt heavy, like it was waiting for something to break.
He'd almost convinced himself he'd slipped past unnoticed when a voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Hey, meathead! Where you off to? Get over here—I need a hand."
Stan froze.
It was Almex, his tone sharp and mocking, the kind of voice that didn't ask—it commanded.
Stan's jaw tightened, his pulse kicking up a notch.
He turned slowly, locking eyes with the hunter across the road.
Almex stood there, axe resting on his shoulder, a smirk twisting his lips like he was already savoring whatever trouble he planned to dish out.
But then, a spark flared in Stan's mind, bright and reckless.
Perfect time to test this Intimidation Aura, he thought, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.
The air around him seemed to thicken, the shadows stretching just a little longer, as if the world itself was leaning in to see what he'd do next.