Asmon Greystone stood at the edge of Mount Everest’s Peak Summit, the world sprawled out below him like a picture-perfect postcard. The sun was setting in a blaze of orange and pink, and he, naturally, had one goal: the ultimate selfie.
“Alright, Asmon, this is your moment,” he muttered, angling his phone just right. “Perfect lighting, perfect angle… chin up, jawline sharp. Yeah, you handsome devil, you’ve got this.”
He shuffled closer to the edge, squinting into his phone screen. “Closer… just a little closer… need to get that cliff in the background. Make it look epic. We will go viral with this!”
Ignoring every survival instinct in his body, he leaned out, holding his phone at an absurdly dangerous angle. “A little more. Just gotta get that perfect—AHHH!”
The ground beneath his foot decided it was tired of his nonsense and crumbled. Asmon flailed like a startled cat, his phone tumbling out of his grasp and snapping one final, blurry selfie mid-fall.
“NO! My phone!!!” he screamed as gravity claimed its victory, his life flashing before his eyes—mostly a highlight reel of bad decisions. As the wind roared in his ears, a ridiculous thought crossed his mind: At least the selfie’s gonna have great motion blur… Just like the final moment of his life, the next think he know is intense pain followed by complete darknes.
[DING! Congratulations on successfully binding to the MAGA System! Maximized Accelerated Growth Amplifier System!!!]
The crisp, mechanical voice jolted Asmon awake. Before he could even process what was happening, more notification flooded his mind.
[You've taken a step, MAGA activated! Your bronze rank movement technique has evolved to silver rank martial art ‘Make Step Great Again.’ ]
Asmon blinked, his jaw practically hitting the floor. “What the—?” He froze mid-thought as memories of his very recent, very undignified fall off Mount Everest Peak Summit crashed into him like a bad joke. One moment, he was snapping a selfie at the edge; the next, he was doing his best impression of a human comet.
And yet… here he was, alive, un-splattered, and in an unfamiliar room.
“Did I… transmigrate? And not just that—I've got a cheat system now?” His voice cracked with disbelief as he took a tentative step forward.
[‘Make Step Great Again.’ Partially mastered!]
Immediately, his body moved with unnatural ease. A rush of warmth coursed through him.
Asmon stared down at his feet like they’d sprouted rocket boosters. "Okay, this is real. This system is insane!" Testing his new skill, he darted forward, transforming into a golden blur that reappeared several meters away. "Holy crap, I’m practically a ninja now!"
After a few giddy moments of whooshing around the room like an over-caffeinated squirrel, Asmon stopped to catch his breath and absorb the memories flooding his brain.
Apparently, he was now the "Asmon G.Trumpwood" of Valorcrest Land, a place where strength, martial arts, and ridiculous power levels reigned supreme. His new identity was… less impressive. He was the 15-year-old disappointment of the illustrious Trumpwood Family in Ironvale City. Born into privilege but blessed with the martial talent of a soggy noodle, Asmon had struggled to scrape by at the second level of Body Tempering for years.
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To make matters worse, his dad, Victor Thrumpwood, had pulled every string and risked his life to secure him a spot at Silvercrest Martial Institute, a prestigious martial arts academy. But the day before his big break, some cousin-slash-bully named Harris Thrumpwood had decided to play gatekeeper and beat him within an inch of his life for refusing to give up his chance.
Asmon’s fist slammed into the nearest wall. “Harris, you absolute dirtbag! I’m gonna—"
[You've thrown a punch, MAGA activated! Your bronze rank punch technique has evolved to silver rank martial art ‘One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel.’ ]
He froze mid-rant. A rush of knowledge exploded in his mind like someone had crammed a martial arts manual straight into his brain. “Wait… WHAT?” His lips curved into a wide grin. “This system is freaking OP!”
Testing his newfound skills, Asmon shadowboxed the air, each punch feeling like it could pulverize boulders. “Man, if just punching walls levels me up, imagine what actual training will do! ”
And so, fueled by equal parts excitement and spite, he sat cross-legged to cultivate.
[MAGA activated, You’ve successfully broken through to the third level of Body Tempering!]
Asmon’s eyes snapped open. He flexed his arms, marveling at the new power surging through him. "Three years stuck at level two, and I break through in two minutes? Forget OP—this system is downright broken!”
He rummaged through his belongings until he found a small jade bottle. “If meditating is this good, what happens if I take one of these bad boys?” Inside was a Low Qi Essence Pill, a low-grade cultivation booster for beginners. He popped it into his mouth without hesitation.
[You’ve taken Low Qi Essence Pill, effect is Amplified, absorption accelerated and maximized]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the fourth level of Body Tempering!]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the fifth level of Body Tempering!]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the six level of Body Tempering!]
The rush of power was so intense, Asmon felt like he could punch through the heavens. He flexed his hands, practically vibrating with excitement. “Sixth level! I’ve leapfrogged half my family in one sitting!” Even Harris Thrumpwood, the guy who had turned him into a human punching bag, was now a level below him.
The thought brought a smug smile to Asmon’s face. “Oh, Cousin Harris, you’re in for a world of hurt. Let’s see how tough you are when I’m the one throwing punches.”
Fueled by his newfound strength and the absurd potential of his system, Asmon plotted his next move. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a flicker of guilt about abusing his cheat system.
But then he remembered Harris’s smug face, and the guilt evaporated faster than water on a hot skillet.
"This is going to be fun."
He leaned back, his grin stretching ear to ear. Among the younger generation in the Thrumpwood family, only the golden boy Weston, who had already strutted his way into Silvercrest Martial Institute, could top him now. Even Harris, the so-called second-best talent, was lagging behind at the fifth level. And now? Asmon had left him eating his dust.
“System, I think I love you,” he muttered, half-joking, half-serious. This Maga system wasn’t just heaven-defying—it was downright unfair to everyone else. The geniuses at Silvercrest? Pfft. Give them a box of tissues for their tears; he’d be leagues ahead in no time.
But the grin faded as he remembered something. “If I’m right, Harris’s taking my family token today and heading to Silvercrest Martial Institute,” he muttered, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes. “We’ll see about that. What’s mine stays mine.”
Asmon strode to the door, ready to throw a wrench in someone’s day. But as soon as he stepped outside, he hit an obstacle. Well, a person.
A large, burly man blocked his path like an oversized wardrobe someone had carelessly plunked in the hallway. “Chubbs Thrumpwood.” Asmon narrowed his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”