His card worked, but he couldn't withdraw money. He had no way of contacting his family—not even a clue where "home" was.
Stranded in a foreign land where everything was unfamiliar, where he didn't speak the language, didn't even know which bank had issued the card. And even if he went to a bank, how could he possibly explain that he'd forgotten his password?
How would he prove that he was him? The only information he had was his new name—oh, and that he was fifteen years old...
Was this... a dead end?
What now? Was he supposed to start sleeping in a park from tonight? And what about food? How was he supposed to eat?
Kuroba Akira wandered aimlessly through the streets of this foreign world and foreign country, a hollow sense of dislocation gnawing at him. He didn't belong here.
Then he saw a cat.
Pure white, save for a black tail.
The cat seemed almost spiritual. It appeared in front of him, walked a few steps, then turned to look back at him—as if beckoning him to follow.
And since he had nowhere else to go anyway, Akira figured, Why not?
Maybe the cat would lead him to some rich lady looking to take in a stray.
And wouldn't you know it—it actually happened.
A real rich lady... or well, a rich old lady.
Kobayashi Mika, seventy-four years old. She lived alone in a two-story house with a small garden—detached, private, a full-fledged home.
When she saw Akira, it was like she instantly grasped his situation. She waved him over and said in his native tongue—clear as day—"Come with me."
At first, Akira thought he'd misheard. But then came another line: "Still standing there like a dummy?"
Hai leng zhe gan shen me?
She really spoke it!
But how did she know he wasn't local?
Just who was this old lady?
And so, Akira followed Granny Kobayashi home. She fed him curry rice and offered him a place to stay—a small room, roughly four tatami mats, about twelve square meters.
Later, Akira learned why she'd helped him. It was because of a promise her late husband had made:
"If someone shows up, led here by Blacktail, babbling in a foreign tongue—help them if you can."
Clearly, Granny Kobayashi's husband had been a transmigrator too. Most likely, he was from the same place as Akira. That would explain how she could speak such fluent Chinese.
Judging by her accent, her husband had probably been from Xiang.
Akira was nearly moved to tears. Senior transmigrator! I owe you my life!
Still, Granny Kobayashi made it clear: this wasn't unconditional charity. She would provide food, housing, and tuition until he could stand on his own—but once he started earning, he'd have to pay back the rent and meals.
Basically, a kind of educational loan.
But even so, Akira was deeply grateful to Granny Kobayashi and her late husband. Without them, he might have died a second time—this time on foreign streets.
As it turned out, he wasn't the only one she'd taken in. There were two others, though their schedules were so erratic that he barely ever saw them.
Once life stabilized, Akira began learning the language and familiarizing himself with this world.
Because this "Japan"... it wasn't quite the same as the one in his memories.
He started by scanning a world map. On the surface, nothing seemed too out of place—four oceans, seven continents. But then he noticed something odd about the landmass across the sea from Japan... his homeland from his previous life.
It was supposed to look like a hen laying eggs. But now it had a comb, tail feathers—even legs?
Puzzled, Akira folded up the map and pulled out a history book. A quick skim revealed that, at least up to a certain point, history matched what he remembered. All the right events, all the familiar historical figures.
But once he got to the modern era... things took a bizarre turn.
What was happening across the sea was beyond belief. Akira was left muttering, No way. It wasn't just that a legendary hero had descended—more like a whole swarm of overpowered heroes had shown up with cheat codes activated.
Could this also be the handiwork of transmigrators...?
As for Japan's own surreal modern history—his jaw practically hit the floor.
Had this country really gone down some unthinkable path?
Did they actually experience the absurdity of fighting themselves?
Apparently so. But it hadn't played out completely—it was like they'd only made it halfway. Now they were stuck in a limbo, unsure of which "father" to acknowledge.
Akira had no real interest in politics—especially not foreign politics.
The wheels of history keep turning, but what does any of that have to do with the current me...?
At least by modern times, this world's Japan had developed in ways similar to the one he remembered—maybe even with a retro flair.
High school girls were transitioning from sailor uniforms to Western-style blazers, but they still wore bloomers in P.E., school swimsuits were still one-piece, and Akihabara was still the electronics district...
Kinda nice, actually.
But political reform had triggered powerful butterfly effects. All the companies Akira knew from his past life? Gone.
Sony, Nintendo, Mitsubishi, Toyota—none of them existed here.
And yet, the Famicom was still around. Arcades were booming. Manga, anime, and gaming were thriving.
Japan had never gone through its Lost Decades. The economic bubble hadn't burst.
No one knew what the future held.
And that, for Akira, was bad news.
Because he'd lost his biggest advantage—foresight.
So much for getting rich off the stock market and coasting through life.
Still, if transmigration was a done deal, then dammit—he was going to make this life a smooth ride.
And to live comfortably, the most important thing was, of course... money.
Though Akira didn't want to work hard for it—he wanted to lie down and earn.
Sure, he wasn't bad-looking. But not handsome enough to live off his face.
Besides, even pretty boys had to charm women left and right just to survive. That wasn't the kind of life he wanted.
His ideal lifestyle was: Do nothing, and still have enough money to do anything.
In other words—financial freedom.
But to get there, he needed startup capital.
His initial plan was plagiarism—recycling old works.
After all, in his previous life, he'd been a writer. That was his strongest suit.
He'd consumed so many stories—surely he could crank out a few hits.
But then he discovered a seemingly trivial cheat ability, and a more devious idea began to take root.
And after meeting the class rep, that plan started to crystallize.
Meeting Anri Hitomi on the last day of summer break—getting fed, having his living situation resolved—it was a lucky break.
But Akira didn't see the class rep as his goal.
Because she was a genius who knew she was a genius.
She understood her own talent and had already converted it into skill.
But not everyone had that kind of self-awareness. Maybe some bookworm had a gift for baseball but never thought to try it, never had the interest—and so lived his whole life without ever picking up a bat. Talent wasted.
But Akira could see talent. If he got close to someone, built a good relationship, and nudged them in the right direction, he could help them go pro—and take a cut of the reward.
What was the average annual salary of a professional baseball player again?
If someone hit it big, wasn't it fair to give their bro a little cut?
Of course, if given the option, Akira would still prefer to be kept by a rich woman.
But if he could score a best bro willing to support him? He wasn't turning that down either.
He'd gladly live off women and men—that was balance!
Living off the kindness of all households—the true king of mooching!