In Manhattan, New York City, the morning rush hour had passed, but the noisy, crowded streets hadn't quieted down. The bustling clamor still filled the air.
"Mister Melin, here's your breakfast."
"Thank you, Mr. Li. It's kind of you to make this trip every day."
"No need to be so polite, Mr. Melin. You've paid for it."
"I think you're just after the tip, aren't you?"
"Haha, you caught me."
Joking as they spoke, Melin still handed over a few dollars in tip to Mr. Li, who owned a small Chinese breakfast shop in nearby Chinatown. The place wasn't big, but the flavor was authentic, so Melin often went there for breakfast. Over time, they got to know each other, and now Mr. Li would bring the food directly without Melin having to go out.
Not only was Melin, a white man, never condescending toward them—he was genuinely warm and often helped the Chinese community, earning their goodwill. And of course, the generous tipping helped too.
What they didn't know was that beneath Melin's appearance lay the soul of someone from the Middle Kingdom. Even after hundreds of thousands of years, he had never forgotten his roots.
"Thank you, Mr. Li. Your cooking is still as delicious as ever."
…
…
"As long as you enjoy it, Mr. Melin."
"It's a shame, though. I haven't been able to find an authentic Chinese restaurant."
"I'm sorry I can't help you there, Mr. Melin. To suit American customers, most places here have adjusted the flavors. Finding real, authentic Chinese cuisine here isn't easy. If you ever have the chance, you should go to my homeland. Not only is the food truly authentic, but the landscapes and people are beautiful."
"Of course, I'd love to go someday." Melin nodded.
Whenever the conversation shifted to that mysterious Eastern country, Mr. Li—though of a working-class background—would unconsciously beam with pride, as if it were ingrained in his bones.
Melin understood that feeling all too well. Once—no, even now—he often felt the urge to contribute to his homeland from a past life and witness her majestic rivers and mountains once again.
But he didn't dare. The restrictions left behind by the Eastern immortals were too terrifying. Someone like Dohko might only be monitored, but if one surpassed the human realm and reached divine levels, stepping into that land meant being severely suppressed—the stronger the power, the greater the suppression. Until he fully understood those restrictions, he wouldn't set foot there.
"There's still work at the shop, I'll head off now. Have a great day, Mr. Melin."
"Thank you."
After Mr. Li left, Melin looked at the soy milk and buns in the bag and smiled, ready to head back inside—but then a nearby voice caught his attention.
"Hank, what's that? It smells amazing."
"I don't know. Some kind of food, I guess? Uh… Hope, how about this…"
"I'm hungry, Hank."
"Didn't you just have breakfast?"
"But I'm hungry again."
"…Fine, I'll give it a try."
The man with glasses walked toward Melin.
"Hey there, sir. Hello. Would you be willing to sell me that food? Don't worry, money's not an issue."
Melin glanced at him, then at the little girl behind him, whose eyes were filled with curiosity and a hint of mischief. He smiled.
"Sorry, sir. This isn't for sale."
"Come on now, how about three times the price? You could buy two more with that, couldn't you?"
"Sorry, like I said, it's not for sale," Melin declined again.
"Listen, I…" The man dropped his friendly tone, growing stern. He was ready to drop some tough words just to satisfy his daughter.
But Melin's next move stopped him in his tracks. Melin walked right past him and crouched in front of the girl.
"Wait! You…" The man panicked, thinking he'd angered Melin and that he was about to hurt his daughter. He quickly reached into his pocket for a small throwing dart, ready to attack—but then froze.
Melin had simply pulled out a bun and handed it to the girl, smiling kindly. "Here you go, kiddo. I know you're not really hungry, but you should still try it."
"Huh? You noticed?" The girl blinked in surprise. The wariness in her eyes disappeared, replaced by curiosity.
"Of course. But… your dad is pretty funny," Melin said with a wink.
"Giggle~ Is he? I think so too! What's your name?" she asked.
"Of course, little lady. My name is Melin."
"You can call me Hope!"
"Hope? That's a beautiful name."
"I think so too!"
…
The man stood watching, feelings mixed. He was happy, because his daughter looked genuinely joyful—something he rarely saw. But he also felt a bit jealous that the joy came not from him, but from a stranger she just met.
He quietly put the dart away, and just then, Melin and Hope walked over to him.
"…Thank you." All the things he wanted to say boiled down to that one sentence.
"No need to thank me. A child's smile is priceless, isn't it?"
"…Yes." The man looked at his daughter's happy face and smiled. "Sorry about earlier. I'm Hank. Hank Pym."
"Melin."
"You live here?"
"Right there." Melin pointed to his house.
"Then I guess we're neighbors. Just moved in." Hank gestured to the house next door.
"Looks like life just got more interesting," Melin said with a grin.
"I think so too." Like father, like daughter—even their catchphrases matched.
"Wow~ This is so good! Uncle Melin, what's this called?" Hope asked excitedly.
"It's called a bun. It's a type of food from the East. It symbolizes prosperity and rising fortune—meaning life gets better and better," Melin explained.
"Really? Then it's decided! From now on, I'm having buns for breakfast!"
"Haha, no problem." Hank would never say no to his daughter's requests—especially not one like this.
"Don't rush, little lady. Chinese cuisine has so many delicious dishes. Buns are just the beginning."
"Really?"
"Of course. But the food here isn't very authentic, so it might not taste quite the same."
"That's too bad…" Hope's joyful face fell, and she pouted sadly.
"Haha, I've been learning Chinese cooking recently. Would you like to come taste it sometime, beautiful young lady?"
"Hmm? Of course!"
"Then it's settled."
"Mm-hmm!"
Their first friendly exchange as neighbors ended there. Melin returned inside with the rest of his food, while Hank and Hope continued setting up their new home.
"We're so lucky, Hank. Just moved in and already have such a great neighbor!"
"Yeah, we really are," Hank nodded with a smile, though his mind was racing, wondering about Melin's identity. He hadn't forgotten that the moment he reached for his dart, a mysterious presence had locked onto him.
…
"Master, that man…"
"I know. Don't worry about it, Galan. This city is full of destiny. It's normal to run into people who aren't ordinary," Melin said.
Hank's identity was no mystery to Melin. From the moment he saw them, he had already known. The first Ant-Man, a superhero and a genius scientist. His invention—the Pym Particle—could alter mass and size, even allow access to the mysterious quantum realm.
His wife had been the first to enter the quantum realm and return successfully—the original Wasp. Of course, at this time, she was still trapped in the quantum realm.
And the little girl Hope? She was the second-generation Wasp—a future superhero.
A whole family of superheroes.
"But still…"
"Alright, Galan, eat your breakfast. It won't taste as good cold."
"Master, I meant to ask… Your cooking is way better than Mr. Li's. Why do you still buy breakfast from him?" Galan asked, a little grumpily.
To Melin, mastering cooking—or anything, really—was child's play. He could make the world's finest cuisines, and they tasted so good that Galan once nearly swallowed his tongue along with the food. But Melin rarely cooked for himself, preferring to buy food outside.
To Galan, it felt like living next to heaven but being stuck in hell every day.
"Little joys, gathered over time, become great happiness," Melin replied with a gentle smile.
Galan stood solemnly, full of reverence. As expected of the god he worshipped—one who loved the earth and all its people.
But in the next second, he was completely thrown off.
"Besides, what—do you expect me to cook for you every day? Would you even dare to eat it?" Melin teased.
"I would!" Galan blurted out his deepest desire, only to regret it instantly.
He was Melin's subordinate—how could he expect his god to cook for him every day? Even if he dared to eat it, if word got out in the Sanctuary, Shion and Ares would probably lead all the Saints to flay him alive. His brother Saga wouldn't protect him—in fact, he'd probably kick him a few extra times out of jealousy.
"Well… it's not impossible. But on one condition." Melin's smile turned sly.
"I agree!" Galan shouted before even hearing the condition. For food that good, he'd risk anything.
Melin's grin widened. Galan had taken the bait.
"I signed you up for the law program at NYU. Go get your PhD, and I'll do the cooking."
At that, Galan's fired-up expression collapsed into misery. He looked pitiful, like a guilty child, fiddling with his fingers.
"Master, I… don't I already have a doctorate?" he asked in a small voice.
"In what?" Melin asked, rolling his eyes.
"Um… Martial Arts…"
"You tell me—when did the world start giving PhDs in Martial Arts?"
"J-just recently… it's a new department…"
"Yeah, because you held your fist to Howard's face and forced him to make it."
"It's still a doctorate… right?"
"Invalid. Go get a real one! You're the only Gold Saint with a master's degree."
"Master, I'm a Silver Saint, not Gold…"
"Orpheus, Albiore, Misty, Marin, Shaina…"
With every name Melin listed, Galan's head hung lower, nearly touching the ground.
"So… go get that PhD! You're a disgrace!"
"Waaah…"