The morning sun peeked through a thin veil of clouds, casting a soft light over the quiet park.
Junichi was soaked in sweat, breath steady, as he slowed his run to a walk. He'd been going since five. Nearly an hour without stopping—and yet, he wasn't even winded.
It was a far cry from the body's original condition. The old Junichi had been sluggish, always the last one to finish the warm-up lap. Now, he felt like his muscles had finally caught up to the rhythm of his thoughts. No doubt a side effect of that strange system.
Back at home, he fixed himself a simple breakfast—porridge and a soft-boiled egg. Light, but warm and filling.
After a quick shower and change into his uniform, he grabbed his bag and headed out.
School might've felt meaningless before, but now it was part of the plan. Even with strange powers and a system, the real world still asked for credentials. He needed to keep up appearances—for now.
Municipal Junior High No. 3, Chiba Prefecture. Third Year.
The school was ordinary. Generic in the way only Japanese public schools could be. But stepping through those gates brought on a strange feeling—like he was walking into someone else's memory.
How long had it been since he wore a uniform like this?
As he reached the classroom, the usual buzz of conversation flowed from inside. But the moment he opened the door and stepped in, silence fell.
Every pair of eyes turned to him.
Then, slowly, the noise returned—but not a single person spoke to him.
Junichi wasn't surprised.
The body's memories were crystal clear. This version of Junichi Aoki had been painted as a villain—a social outcast.
He walked to his desk in the back row.
It was covered in trash—empty wrappers, crumpled notes, a plastic bottle.
Someone had even scrawled across the top in marker:
"Drop dead."
Without a word, Junichi placed his bag beside the desk and started clearing the trash, sweeping it onto the floor.
"Oi, Junichi," a voice called out.
He glanced up to see a freckled boy with over-gelled hair standing a few seats away. Hayashi Mikami.
"You just gonna dump your crap on the floor like that?" Mikami said with a forced smirk. "Clean up after yourself, man."
Junichi looked at him flatly. "Relax, I was going to. No need to get worked up."
"I'm not worked up, just saying. You always act like everyone's out to get you."
Junichi raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they?"
That shut Mikami up for a second.
"Tch… whatever."
He sat back down with a huff.
Junichi remembered Mikami well. Self-proclaimed class rep, unofficial enforcer of groupthink. He was one of the main reasons the real Junichi had been ostracized. Mikami played a key role in manipulated the girl with hearing loss into isolation, then pinned the blame on Junichi when things turned ugly.
The class had eaten it up.
Junichi didn't say anything more. He grabbed a cloth from his bag and quietly wiped off the graffiti.
The whispers resumed.
So this is what it feels like, he thought.
He felt like an actor dropped into someone else's role. The stares, the whispers—it was like stepping into a cage full of people who had already decided you didn't deserve to exist.
Would I want to go back to school?
He recalled reading a question like that in a forum years ago.
Some answered eagerly—nostalgic for sunny afternoons and laughter between classes.
Others replied bluntly—Hell no.
Loneliness. Fake smiles. Isolation.
For some, school wasn't a memory—it was a scar.
But school was just a training ground. A tutorial level for real life.
If someone couldn't survive here, they'd be eaten alive out there.
The bell rang. Their homeroom teacher, Matsuda Kengo, stepped in. Worn out, disinterested, the man looked more like he belonged in an office than a classroom.
"Alright, take your seats. Page 42. Let's get started."
Junichi opened his math textbook... and froze. The terms, formulas, layout—they were vaguely familiar, but not enough.
Yeah... I forgot everything. But why can I remember about manga, anime and novel. Nevermind I just forget about it.
It wasn't just math. Reading Japanese was still slow. He knew the characters, but stringing them together took effort.
He glanced around. No one was paying attention to him. So he quietly slid his kanji notebook onto his lap and started reviewing.
No time to waste. He had two months until graduation. If he wanted a shot at high school—or at keeping this new life on track—he needed to catch up. Fast.
Lunchtime.
Junichi didn't have a cafeteria pass, so he made his way to the convenience store nearby. He picked up a tuna mayo onigiri, a croquette bun, and a small milk carton. Total: ¥310.
He found a bench beneath a tree just outside the school fence and ate quietly.
The croquette bun was cold. The rice a little too firm. But it was better than sitting alone in a noisy cafeteria full of fake smiles.
"Still tastes the same," he muttered.
After eating, he returned to class early and resumed studying kanji.
He was halfway through JLPT N3. Another couple of weeks and he'd be fluent enough to pass for a native. Maybe even ace the entrance exam.
That's when he felt someone looming.
He looked up—Hayashi, again.
"You seriously think this is gonna help?" Hayashi scoffed. "Cramming kanji won't fix your crap grades. Or your rep. Everyone still thinks you're a freak."
Junichi calmly closed the notebook.
He leaned back a little in his seat and said, "You've got one shot to walk away, Hayashi."
"Huh?"
"If you keep talking, I promise you—you'll leave this room with a limp."
The tone wasn't loud or angry. Just quiet flat look.
Hayashi blinked.
Then, without another word, he backed off and returned to his seat.
Junichi flipped his notebook open again and resumed copying kanji.
He wasn't here to prove anything.
Not to them.
Not anymore.
This life was his now. And no one was going to take it from him.