<"A space-quake is a simple, fast way to move—only the landing is so brutal it tends to attract every city-management officer in the district." —a certain girl states with a perfectly straight face.>
Am I about to die?
Feeling his body tip backward out of control, the boy—back still to the ground—knew exactly what was coming: the back of his skull would slam into the jagged tip of a rock. At this speed, death was certain.
How did it even end up like this? he wondered blankly.
——————————I'm the timeline-rewind divider——————————
Early morning, 5 a.m. Tokyo, Japan—Comiket venue. Hours remained until the official opening, yet the entrance line already stretched a hundred metres.
The boy had secured a spot near the front. He knew that if you didn't seize the initiative at an event of this magnitude you'd be left scraping the bottom of the barrel, so the previous day he'd arrived with water and rations to camp out. Even so, a handful of people had still beaten him.
"Japan really doesn't kid around—look at the scale of this thing."
He took a sip of water, wetting his parched throat, a tiny excited smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The boy was speaking Mandarin.
No one around him batted an eye. Otaku culture spans the globe, and China has the widest footprint; you'll find them even in the States. A Chinese kid showing up here is nothing special.
His reason for coming was simple: he loved anime. To reach this holy land of otakudom he'd started preparing a year in advance—working part-time to save travel expenses, teaching himself conversational Japanese, even forging identity papers to get a passport. That's how deep his obsession ran.
Yet in his own eyes he wasn't a true otaku—certainly not a qualified one. His parents had died in separate accidents when he was small; after leaving the orphanage most of his life had been spent scrambling for cash, definitely not the stay-indoors, dive-into-2D type. At best he was a faux-otaku.
More importantly, he differed from the majority of the world's otaku in one big way:
He hated harem series.
To him, stories where the MC is so overpowered the world rubber-stamps his polygamy, or where some profession legally lets him marry a crowd, or where the hero chirps "I want everyone to be happy!" were all nonsense—zero plausibility, shamelessly milking the audience's unsatisfied real-world lust to boost sales.
Not that there's anything wrong with that—if you can't get a girl in reality, why forbid a guy his fantasies? Both Japanese and Chinese law protect freedom of thought, after all.
But perhaps because of his parents' deaths, the boy preferred works where the male lead stays devoted to one girl. The mere sight of a harem plot made him sick.
Example: play a dating sim, accidentally unlock a harem ending—normal otaku jump for joy, weep happy tears, rush online to brag. This boy? Eighty-percent chance he'd yank the disc out and chuck it in the trash.
Ah—sorry, wandered off-topic.
Time crawled as everyone waited. A ray of morning sun climbed over the horizon, lighting the silent square.
The boy packed his gear and stood quietly in line, counting down in his head.
The instant the gates opened, he turned into a ravenous wolf.
——————————I'm the shopping-finished divider——————————
Wow—worthiest otaku mecca on Earth, haul acquired in every direction.
At dusk, when Day-1 booths closed, the boy stretched, satisfied, and prepared to head back to his hotel.
"Hey, kid—wait!" someone called from behind. What surprised him was the fluent mainland Mandarin.
Turning, he saw a college-age guy in a plain light-blue tracksuit, slightly dorky, smiling and waving.
"Chinese?" the boy asked.
"Yup. Guan Yuyi, studying here."
Meeting a countryman in a foreign land bred instant warmth. "Need something?"
"Nah, nothing really!" Guan scratched his head with a silly grin. "Just—everyone else is hauling bags, only you're empty-handed. Got curious. Saw you were from home, couldn't help calling out."
True; after entering, most people exit clutching purchases. Seeing someone leave empty was odd.
"Don't tell me you bought nothing?"
"Pretty much." (TL-note: the garbled text is kept as-is; it's an intentional typo-joke in the raw.)
The boy smiled. "Bro, you're not an otaku, are you?"
Guan blinked, then laughed and admitted it freely. "Sharp eye—how'd you tell?"
No big secret, the boy explained. "The only reason you leave Comiket empty-handed is you bought so much you can't carry it and had to mail it home. Common knowledge."
The early bird gets the merch; anything that caught the boy's eye—doujinshi, games—he'd basically bought.
"Mail it… just how much are we talking?"
"Not that crazy—about ten orange-crate boxes."
He'd wanted more, but Day 1 wasn't over; blow the budget now and he'd be broke when the good stuff showed. Restraint was required.
"..." After a beat Guan wiped imaginary sweat. "That's… impressive."
"Pretty normal." The boy waved it off. "So why are you here, Guan?"
"Me? Covering for a dorm-mate who got food poisoning. Sales are… lacklustre." He shrugged.
The boy glanced at the stall—mostly anime merch. Comiket's main draw is doujinshi, and the vendor himself radiated zero otaku aura; no wonder traffic was thin.
"Look, little bro, fellow countryman and all—just pick something so I can tell my roommate I shifted stock. I'll give you a discount."
Watching Guan clasp his hands in plea amused the boy. "Since we're compatriots, why not just give me one for free?"
"Can't use my friend's stuff for favors."
"Fair enough."
He scanned the wares—either he already owned them or the characters weren't his type. About to grab any random item and leave, a figure box caught his eye.
"Guan, mind if I pick this up?"
"Go ahead."
Inside the window lay a scale figure: a girl with waist-length chestnut hair, huge amber eyes, a confident gentle smile on her exquisite face. Black long-coat on the outside, underneath the uniform of Tokiwadai—the famous girls' school from A Certain Scientific R××lgun.
The boy frowned. While Index verged on harem and he'd barely followed it, its spin-off Railgun was one of his obsessions; he knew every character by heart.
"I remember this thing. When the package arrived at the dorm the guy kept yelling 'That's not my Biribiri!' and tried to return it. I don't get it—she looks cute to me."
No mystery—this figure didn't match any canon design. Early Sisters had long-hair prototypes, sure, but the expression leaned toward Mikoto herself. Sculpt quality: top-tier, yet otaku buy figures for idol worship; an unknown character? Unsellable.
Unless it was a rare factory misprint—in which case value would skyrocket—but there was no official stamp; that theory died.
Even so, the boy liked it.
"Well, I'll take this one."
Guan looked floored.
"You sure? My roommate swore that figure would never sell."
"Tastes differ. I'm a long-hair fan; I can accept a ponytail Railgun."
"Your otaku world is scary."
"I barely qualify as one."
Money changed hands, item changed hands. As the boy turned to leave, Guan stopped him again.
"By the way, little bro, what's your name? Let's swap contacts; friends from abroad."
The boy hesitated. He wasn't desperate for friends, but the guy seemed decent and open-minded toward otaku culture.
"Guan Meng. Nice to meet you."
…
"Right, time for dinner, then rest up for tomorrow!"
Figure bag in hand, Meng strolled the unfamiliar streets, eyes scanning for restaurants with open seats.
Then he spotted a little boy chasing a bouncing ball right into the middle of the road.
Hey, kid, that's a death flag you're planting!
Sure enough, a truck barreled forward without slowing.
Not into shotas himself, Meng still couldn't coldly watch a child die—and an accident would ruin the rest of the con for him anyway.
While bystanders screamed, Meng vaulted the guardrail, lunged and scooped the kid safe. Thanks to daily workouts and fast reflexes, collision averted.
"You okay?" he asked urgently.
The boy, dazed, tilted his head and pointed: "Big bro, you dropped something."
Spinning around, Meng saw the figure bag lying in the lane exactly where the kid had stood—now targeted by a sports car roaring toward it.
"Noooooooo!" A howl of despair; Meng sprinted back.
Just as everyone thought him suicidal, he pulled the impossible:
Snatching the plastic bag, he faced the oncoming car; before the driver could react Meng stepped onto the hood, momentum differential be damned, landed steady on the roof. Ignoring the driver's stunned face, he checked the figure—then exhaled in relief.
Only dust—no damage.
Glancing back he realized the driver was frozen stiff, barely holding the wheel. Can't count on him to brake.
Guess I'll get off myself. He leapt toward the sidewalk.
He even considered a mid-air flip for style points—until his foot hit something slippery.
Which bastard threw a banana peel!?
——————————I'm the timeline-reset divider——————————
As death closed in, time seemed to slow; memories flooded past like a tide.
So I get a flashback at this age? A bitter smile.
Should've let the truck finish me—might've scored a free trip to another world!
The instant that thought surfaced he knew he'd read too many transport novels.
—Boy, why wish to cross worlds?
A flat voice echoed in his skull.
Finally lost it? Well, dying anyway.
"To stay alive—ending here is too lame."
—If you did cross, what would you do?
What kind of question is that?
With the rock spike inches away, Meng answered without hesitation.
"Spent life single—if I restart, I want a real romance. At minimum a proper date."
No one noticed the figure in his hand begin to glow faintly.
To onlookers' disbelief, the instant the boy should have hit the ground a pitch-black slit opened and quietly swallowed him—gone without a trace.
Chinese citizen Guan Meng. Spirited away in Tokyo, Japan.
P.S.: Originally the MC was supposed to die saving the kid, but the site admin says death-transport is bad for teenagers' mental health, so we got this version. Admin's getting tsundere lately. (´`)
P.S.2: Readers of my last book may find the protagonist's name familiar—because I'm lazy. Rest assured, they're not the same person. Clarifying now.
P.S.3: My previous novel got wiped by Qidian, so I've defected here. Please treat me well. Bow