The living room was bathed in the flickering glow of a ridiculously cliché rom-com, the kind where the heroine tripped into the male lead's arms at least three times per act.
On the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets, two figures lounged like mismatched puzzle pieces.
—The son, Lin Feng
Tall, even slouched—6'3'', age 19 of lean muscle honed from a few years of gym routines and the various types for part time jobs he did. His sharp jawline could cut grass, and his short black hair, slightly tousled from his mom's relentless head-pats, gave him the look of a disgruntled panther. Eyes like frozen amber-cold to the world but thawed just for her.
—The mother, Li Meixiu
A striking contrast beside her towering son. Petite, 5'6'', age 42, with skin like fresh cream and long, ink-black hair spilling over the couch in lazy waves. Her face was a masterpiece of youth—soft cheeks, a button nose, and lips perpetually curled in mischief. But her eyes—large, dark, and shimmering with unspoken warmth—held the weight of a woman who'd loved fiercely and laughed louder. She looked young for her age—was it years of diligent skincare, or just unfairly good genes? Who knows.
"A-Li," she giggled, poking his bicep, "that actor looks exactly like you when you are forced to eat vegetables."
Lin feng didn't glance up from his phone. "Mother. That man is thirty."
"And yet!" She flopped against him, her scent—honey and vanilla, with a hint of burnt cookies—filling his space. "Still my grumpy kitten."
Around them, the aftermath of their weekly 'lazy Sunday feist' lay scattered—empty plates stacked like a culinary Jenga tower, chopsticks abandoned mid-bite, and a single fortune cookie felt unopened (Mom insisted they save it for "good luck")
A yawn cracked her lips. "Mm. Nap time.'
"It's 8 PM."
"Nap time," she repeated, already burrowing into his side like a contended cat claiming it's throne.
Son sighed but shifted, letting her pillow her head on his chest.
Somewhere between the movie's third-act breakup and inevitable make-up kiss, they both fell asleep completely.
The last thing Mom remembered was the steady drum of his heartbeat—a lullaby she'd know for nineteen years.
PAIN.
That was Lin feng's first thought as something heavy, furry, and very pissed-off slammed into his ribs.
"Wha—?!" He jerked upright—
—and froze.
No TV. No couch. No ceiling.
Just—
A sky too blue, like a polished sapphire. Trees too tall, their trunks wider than city buses, leaves shimmering with unnatural silver veins. And a boar.
Not just any boar.
A monstrous, tusked nightmare the size of a minivan, its fur glowing faintly red, beady eyes locked onto him with murderous intent.
"A-Li?" Mom's voice, groggy and confused.
He whirled.
She sat a few feet away, blinking like a startled rabbit, her pajamas replaced with a strange silken robes the color of twilight. Mr. Bunbun, Lin Feng's childhood stuffed rabbit, was clutched in her arms—somehow here, somehow real. While Lin Feng's clothes remain same, his typical outfit, A black shirt neither too tight nor too loose, but good enough to show his muscles, and a black pants.
The boar snarled, hooves tearing the earth.
Instinct took over.
Son moved—faster than he ever had on earth—grabbing a fallen branch and swinging like he was back in the octagon (MMA- fighting cage/ring).
CRACK.
The beast's skull caved like overripe fruit, its body collapsing in a heap.
Silence.
Mom stared at him. "...Did u just One-Punch Man a big pig?
"Mother. Focus." He yanked her up, scanning the forest. "Where the hell are we?"
A rustle. A figure emerged from the trees—a old man in tattered robes, clutching a bleeding arm, his face pale with terror.
"You—" He gasped, eyes darting between them. "How are you alive in the Deathfang Woods with qi?!"
Mom tilted her head. "Qi?"
The old man's gaze locked onto her. Then, trembling, he dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the dirt.
"G-Grandmaster! This lowly one didn't recognize your aura! Spare this insignificant life!"
Son and Mom exchanged a look.
"A-Li," she whispered.
"Yeah."
"I think we're isekai'd."