History had undeniably taken a different path, and yet, the global structure remained largely unchanged. The Russian Empire still met its end, eventually dissolving into the modern-day Russian Federation. But as Jinguu Akira flipped through the dense, peculiar, and almost comically distorted historical records of this world, an unshakable sense of unease gnawed at him—something was... off, though he couldn't quite say what.
He closed the thick history book with a muted thud, carefully returning it to its shelf. After sitting in silence for a while, lost in thought, he began idly browsing various major websites—checking the news, skimming through the current state of global affairs.
"Politics, economics... no obvious anomalies. Tianchao's gone through quite a transformation, sure, but its core remains intact. Obama is still the President of the United States. Bill Gates has somehow remained the world's richest man for an absurdly long time. The Middle Eastern oil princes are still neck-deep in their excessive luxury."
His brows furrowed as he shifted tabs. "But... when it comes to culture and entertainment, the changes are too drastic."
Jinguu's eyes narrowed as he scrolled through Japanese anime, manga, light novels, and even major Hollywood films. He played a few music samples as well.
Though he hadn't been a specialist in any of these fields before his reincarnation—and certainly not someone who knew every intricate detail—he did know enough to spot the glaring inconsistencies.
"No Touhou Project..."
He typed "Hakurei Reimu" into the search engine.
Nothing.
"No Type-Moon..."
He searched "Arthur Pendragon." The results yielded only the historical British legend. And of course—King Arthur was male.
"Forget about Love Live! then..."
He bit his lip, staring at the mounting evidence. Picking up a notepad from the table, he began jotting down and diagramming whatever he could.
Then his eyes drifted to the nearby calendar.
2011. That's what it said.
"In this era... maybe Love Live! not existing is plausible. But for there to be no Touhou, no Type-Moon... that's not just odd—it's unbelievable."
Even American blockbuster films weren't matching his memories.
Before his reincarnation, Jinguu had just been a minor artist at a company—a failed novelist, really. He didn't know every field inside and out, but he was definitely a Hollywood film buff. He never missed a major release back in Tianchao.
And yet now, he couldn't find any of the films he loved.
"Damn it... one more try."
He typed name after name into Google and Yahoo.
"Oota Jun'ya."
"Nasu Kinoko."
"Urobuchi Gen."
The results were a twisted blend of disappointment and delight.
"This is a world... without cults!!"
He stood up abruptly and began pacing. His steps exaggerated, one hand feverishly stroking his chin as his expression danced between joy and despair like a Sichuan opera performer changing masks.
It was noon.
His stomach growled.
Jinguu left the bedroom and headed to the first-floor kitchen. He opened the fridge—
—and froze.
Aside from bottled water and a few drinks, it was completely empty. Not a vegetable in sight.
Even a skilled chef couldn't cook without ingredients. And while he was a decent cook in his previous life—capable of making passable homestyle dishes—in this situation, he had no choice but to give up.
Technically, he could still go out and shop.
But by the time he cooked and cleaned, who knew how late it'd be?
His laziness took over.
No way.
Not today.
"Good thing I planned ahead!"
Smirking triumphantly, Jinguu hurried over to a box tucked away in the kitchen. Inside: a treasure trove of instant noodles in every flavor imaginable.
Japanese cup noodles were notorious for their wild and eccentric tastes—flavors that defied belief. He never had the chance to try them in his previous life. Now, that dream was finally within reach.
"Sure, this is the age when I should be eating more fruits and veggies... but instant noodles every once in a while won't kill me."
Justifying it to himself, Jinguu set the kettle to boil.
While waiting, he poured some dog food into JOJO's bowl.
Then, with expert speed, he opened the packaging, added the seasoning, and waited.
Soon, the unmistakable aroma of instant ramen filled the air.
Truth be told, this was the one dish he was absolutely best at.
With the cup in hand, he rushed back upstairs, ready to spend the entire afternoon comparing the anime of this world to his old one.
But it wasn't long before a string of curses burst from his lips.
"Goddamn it! This kind of copyright awareness is too much!"
Tapping his mouse irritably against the desk, Jinguu suddenly remembered—he was in Japan now, not Tianchao.
In Japan, anime aired on television. Unless you had a recorder to save late-night broadcasts, the only way to watch later was to wait for the Blu-ray release.
Online streaming? Sure, but only long after the original air date—and the video quality was terrible.
Uploading anime or manga without permission was outright illegal.
There was simply no way to watch the latest anime online right now.
"Thank God... I can still access Tianchao's sites."
Humming proudly, he slurped his noodles.
As a reborn citizen of Tianchao, the idea of paying to watch anime was absurd.
But... he had forgotten one crucial detail.
There was no Great Firewall anymore.
Tianchao and Japan had open internet access. Which meant—
"When the hell did Tianchao's copyright standards get this strict??!"
Collapsed in his chair like a deflated balloon, Jinguu rubbed his temples.
"Ah... right. This Tianchao isn't the one I remember."
Now the world's second-largest economy, Tianchao had undergone sweeping reforms in the early 21st century. Even a war hadn't derailed its economic trajectory.
Decades of growth, early global integration, and widespread affluence had made piracy obsolete. With people now willing—and able—to pay for official content, the copyright issue had long since been resolved.
Which left Jinguu in an unfortunate position.
"Looks like... I really do have to go out shopping."
Setting his empty ramen cup aside, he begrudgingly resorted to low-resolution, older anime online.
But he wasn't watching for entertainment.
He was studying.
He picked only well-known titles from this world—watched the first two episodes—and moved on.
He wasn't interested in the plot.
He was searching. Analyzing.
Looking for what didn't exist.
By the time the clock hit six in the evening, he closed the website.
"Some of these titles... I vaguely recognize. Heard of them, maybe. But most of the true classics just don't exist in this world."
There were plenty of original series here, of course—but none that struck him as revolutionary.
His hands trembled.
In that moment, Jinguu Akira understood.
He may have found his reason for living.
"The production level of anime has plateaued in 2011—but the ideas, the legends, the masterpieces... they're all missing! The 'otaku' and '2D' community still exists—and it's thriving. Which means... this is it. This is the opening I've been waiting for!!"
His fists clenched.
This world's entertainment industry remained mostly intact—but anime...
Anime had a void.
A massive, gaping void.
And it was calling to him.
"I can do it... I can recreate those masterpieces! The novels, the manga, the cult franchises—I'll bring them all back. And when I do—I'll be the god of this new world!!"
Laughing madly, he raised his arms skyward. His sudden, manic declaration startled JOJO, who leapt up from his nap and barked in alarm.
Realizing it was just his master losing his mind again, the Labrador whined, tail between his legs, and slunk off to the far corner of the room.
But just as quickly as it had come, reality crashed down like ice water on Jinguu's shoulders.
"No... No. That's impossible. Even with reincarnation... that's not something I can do."
He slumped into the chair. Deflated. Hollow.
"I might be able to replicate the art. Maybe. But the music... the writing... the dialogue, the monologues... There's no way I remember all of it."
The original creators of those classics might not even exist in this world.
Even if he tried to fake it, he knew he'd be stripping away the soul of something sacred.
What made those anime great wasn't just the plot.
It was the synergy—the fusion—between story and sound.
He wasn't a musician.
Even with the scattered memories of this body's previous owner—some piano skill, some music reading—he couldn't hope to recreate those iconic BGM scores.
It was simply impossible.
Hope turned to despair.
Exhilaration gave way to grief.
The emotional whiplash left him gasping for air. His chest twisted in agony—sharp, sudden, overwhelming.
"Wait... this pain... It's real."
His eyes bulged, red with burst vessels.
He stumbled up, his throat rasping like a drowning man grasping for breath. His blood surged—raging toward his brain like it meant to force open some unseen door.
"Hurts... Hurts... hurts—!!"
Whether in this life or the last, Jinguu Akira had never known pain like this.
It was unbearable—like his soul was being ripped apart.
Tears streamed down uncontrollably.
He wanted to scream, to cry, to roar, but no sound came out.
He collapsed to his knees, curled inward like a dying shrimp, trembling violently.
"Am I... am I dying? Was there some kind of illness hiding in this body...?"
That was the final thought that drifted through his mind—flickering—before consciousness slipped from his grasp.