3:07 a.m. in Tokyo was a silent predator. It crept through the slats of the automated blinds, clung to the soundproof glass of the 88th floor, and watched its prey: Kenji Tanaka.
Kenji, however, was an apex predator.
His office was a shrine to minimalism and ruthless efficiency. A single slab of polished obsidian served as his desk, devoid of any personal items—no family photos, mementos, or plants. There was only a curved holographic screen displaying a dozen data windows and the haggard faces of his management team, scattered across the planet's time zones. The air smelled of incense and single-origin coffee that a hundred-thousand-dollar machine brewed with surgical precision.
"Run that by me again, David." Kenji's voice was calm, almost sedate, yet it cut through the digital ether with the precision of a diamond scalpel. "Explain to me again why the Hamburg team has failed to meet its supply chain efficiency targets."
The pixelated face of David, a man who hadn't seen sunlight in forty-eight hours, wavered.
"Mr. Tanaka, it was a storm... a force majeure event. The port was closed for seven hours."
"Unacceptable," Kenji replied without raising his voice. "A force majeure event is a failure in planning. The performance targets were clear, David. We don't measure excuses; we measure results. The 'Odyssey' plan doesn't account for weather as an obstacle, but as a variable to be predicted. I need you to anticipate problems, not justify failures after they've occurred. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Tanaka."
"Good. Implement the rerouting to Rotterdam and absorb the costs. I don't want to hear about this again."
Kenji muted David's channel and moved to the next face.
"Sarah, status on the Singapore implementation."
It continued like this for another hour. Kenji didn't run a company: he orchestrated a symphony of global logistics. He was a conductor whose instrument was the flow of capital, goods, and data across the planet. And "Odyssey," his project for the last three years, was his masterpiece. A total restructuring of the corporation, a system so perfectly optimized that, in theory, it could run without human intervention. A self-sufficient, value-generating machine.
It was his legacy. His sole creation.
Finally, at 4:13 a.m., the last call window closed. The silence in the office transformed, growing dense and heavy. Only the soft hum of the servers broke the stillness.
It was finished.
He opened a new email draft. The recipient: the Board of Directors. He attached the final "Odyssey" report, a two-hundred-page document with charts that were, in their own way, works of art.
Subject: Project Odyssey: Implementation Complete. New Operational Tier Achieved.
His finger hovered over the trackpad. Three years of his life. One hundred and fifty weeks of eighteen-hour workdays. Relationships sacrificed, health ignored—all for this moment. For the creation of a perfect system.
He pressed "Send."
The email was gone. The monitor's light confirmed its delivery.
Kenji leaned back in his ergonomic chair, an engineering marvel that monitored his vital signs. He expected… something. A surge of triumph. A wave of relief. The profound satisfaction of a job well done.
Instead, what he felt was a void. A silent, absolute abyss. The machine was complete, and he, its creator, was no longer necessary. He was a redundant part.
That was when the first pang shot through his chest.
It wasn't a dramatic pain, but a notification. A red alert flashing on the control panel of his own biology. Kenji frowned, annoyed. Now? What inopportune timing.
The pang became an icy claw that clenched his heart. His left arm went numb. The holographic screen began to blur; the stock performance data melted into a smear of green and red. He tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to obey the command. A critical error in the control system.
As his body slid from the chair onto the cold, imported wool carpet, his mind—ever analytical, ever in control—made one last assessment. He didn't think of a light at the end of the tunnel, of lost loves, or of regrets. His brain, the central processor that had orchestrated an empire, dedicated its last cycles to identifying the cause of the problem.
Karoshi. Death by overwork.
The irony was almost poetic, but he didn't appreciate poetry. Only data.
His last coherent thought was a scathing critique, a final report directed at his own existence.
"Catastrophic biological system failure. Reliability below minimum standards. Unacceptable."
The darkness was not a void. It was a state of hibernation. A system shutdown awaiting a reboot. Kenji, or the consciousness that was once Kenji, awaited the next logical step.
Based on the extensive database of fiction he had consumed during his scarce periods of rest—an exercise in narrative pattern analysis, of course—the possibilities were limited.
Scenario A: The Villain's Castle. A classic. Reincarnation into a fantasy world with a clear mission and a defined organizational chart (heroes, villains, minions). Structurally sound.
Scenario B: The Divine Encounter. A meeting with a higher entity that would offer a set of skills or advantages. A welcome package for new employees, so to speak. The risk was the randomness of the offer.
Scenario C: The System. His preferred choice. A clear user interface, with stats, quests, and rewards. A world turned into a game was, in essence, a world governed by measurable goals. Quantifiable. Manageable.
What he definitely did not expect was the smell.
That came first: a scent of sandalwood, damp earth, and the sweet perfume of unknown flowers. Then, the light. It wasn't the artificial light of an LED or the divine glow of a celestial being. It was sunlight, warm and dappled, filtering through something.
He opened his eyes.
There were no gothic stone castles. No goddesses in revealing outfits. No blue screen floating before his eyes.
He was lying in an alley, his head resting on a burlap sack that smelled vaguely of spices. Above him, the curved roofs of dark wooden buildings were silhouetted against a sky of impossibly pure blue. The architecture was elegant, with interlocking beams and gray ceramic tiles that gleamed in the sun. The people passing by the alley's entrance wore robes of silk and linen, with wide sleeves and long hair pinned up with wooden or jade clasps.
His mind, programmed for immediate analysis, cataloged the situation. Ancient Chinese aesthetic. Low technological level. Untapped market potential, but with deficient infrastructure.
The shock wasn't cultural. It wasn't the panic of a modern man thrown into the past. It was the frustration of a top-tier CEO waking up in the middle of a disorganized startup with no clear business plan.
He sat up with a groan. The body he inhabited was young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and painfully thin. A quick assessment revealed a robe of coarse, patched fabric. He was, to use the proper terminology, a zero-value asset. An outcast.
That's when he saw it. The first serious anomaly in his environmental analysis.
In the main square, about twenty yards away, two men were arguing heatedly. They were burly, dressed in better-quality clothes than the other passersby. One was accusing the other of theft. The argument escalated.
And then, the first man, red with rage, adopted a strange stance, legs bent and hands at his waist. He shouted something unintelligible, and his fists began to glow.
It wasn't a trick of the light. It was an internal luminescence, a milky-white radiance that enveloped his hands like gloves of energy.
Kenji's brain did not process wonder. It did not feel awe. It felt a pang of irritation as sharp as the heart attack that had brought him here.
What is this waste of energy? His stance is unstable; it compromises his balance. The light is completely useless, an energy expenditure with no practical benefit in combat. It only serves to alert the opponent, eliminating the element of surprise. If he had simply thrown a punch, the motion would have been far more efficient. This isn't a fight; it's a bad business presentation. All flash, no substance.
The second man, instead of taking advantage of the obvious opening, responded in kind. His hands also began to glow, but with a pale yellow hue. The two began to circle each other, their luminous fists tense, in a display of power that only served to exhaust them before the real fight even began.
Kenji sighed, a sound that came out more like a weak whimper from his new, undernourished throat. He rested his head against the rough wooden wall and closed his eyes.
The world wasn't magical. It was inefficient. Terribly, painfully, absurdly inefficient.
A group of children ran past, chasing a creature that looked like a cross between a chicken and a lizard, with iridescent feathers. It was, undoubtedly, a "spirit beast" or some similar local designation. Kenji observed it.
Domestication potential. Food value? Reproduction rate? Could its feathers be a valuable material? The chase is chaotic. With a simple pincer tactic and the use of nets, they could catch it easily. These children need a supervisor.
He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache that had nothing to do with his recent death and everything to do with the overwhelming stupidity surrounding him. He looked around, at the beautiful but likely unsound architecture, the elegant but impractical robes, the people who used mystical energy to argue instead of to improve their crop yields.
This wasn't the wrong isekai. It was a managerial nightmare. An emerging market with no leadership, no strategy, and not the slightest understanding of resource allocation.
A beautiful woman, with the bearing of a noble, floated past a few inches off the ground on a shimmering sword. Her face was serene, and her robe billowed with an otherworldly grace. It was a vision of ethereal power and beauty, a moving painting that would have inspired poets.
Personal levitation transport. Impressive. However, the platform is unstable, and its shape must create enormous air resistance. The energy cost to remain airborne must be extremely high. A flatter, more aerodynamic design would reduce consumption and improve stability. Furthermore, traveling while standing is an unnecessary safety risk. She needs a harness, at minimum.
He stood up, dusting off his threadbare robe. His body was weak, his resources nonexistent. He was on the lowest rung of a society he didn't even understand. In his previous life, he would have delegated this disaster to a team of specialists. But there was no team here. No specialists. Only him.
A strange feeling began to bubble up in the void that Project Odyssey had left behind. It wasn't joy, nor excitement. It was something far more familiar: the irrepressible urge of a perfectionist manager faced with a broken system.
The frustration was transforming into… purpose.
This world was chaos. A failed project. A company on the verge of bankruptcy due to sheer incompetence.
And if there was one thing Kenji Tanaka could not tolerate, it was an inefficient system.
A dry, cynical smile touched his lips for the first time. It was an expression that didn't fit on a young beggar's face, but it was the signature of a CEO about to launch the most hostile takeover in history.
Initial situation report, he thought to himself, as his eyes scanned the square with a new intensity. Current assets: one young but weak body and a mind optimized for management. Liabilities: literally everything else. Short-term objective: survival and resource acquisition. Long-term objective: apply management principles to optimize this environment and secure a position of power.
He looked again at the two men who were still showing off their glowing fists like peacocks.
Initial Project: "Personal Development Optimization Protocol."
And the first test subject, the first "investment" in this new, absurd market, would have to be himself. First, he needed data. He needed to understand the rules of this ridiculous game.
The Immortal CEO had just found his new project. And may the Heavens help anyone who stood in the way of his efficiency.