I stood in my new dorm room, boxes sent by the delivery service earlier stacked around me like miniature skyscrapers. The scent of cardboard mixed with faint traces of detergent from the freshly washed curtains fluttering in the spring breeze.
Mom had packed everything tightly, labeling each box with her neat marker strokes.
"Clothes."
"Kitchen items."
"Books + sketchbooks."
"Console + DVD player."
I chuckled softly. She always worried about every little thing.
It was almost noon, just before lunch, and I'd barely finished sorting out half of my stuff when Sorata-senpai appeared at my door. "Hey," he said, giving a small smile. "Don't be late for dinner tonight. We're having a welcoming party for you."
I blinked, surprised, as he handed me a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "Here. I figured you'd be stuck unpacking until evening and skip lunch."
"Ah… thank you very much, Sorata-senpai," I said quickly, bowing slightly because it's polite.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. "It's nothing. It's just my task as usual."
As he left, I unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite, I mused internally, 'Seems like Sorata-senpai folded to Misaki-senpai's whims.'
After taking a short break for lunch, I continued unpacking, the rustle of cardboard and the soft hum of spring outside filling the quiet room.
One by one, I unpacked and arranged my belongings.
Old, worn clothes folded into the narrow dresser.
Basic cooking utensils placed carefully in the kitchenette.
Shampoo, toothbrush, towel arranged neatly in the bathroom rack.
Sketchbooks stacked beside my pillow for late-night scribbles.
Finally, I reached the last box labeled "Precious items" in my mom's handwriting, a small heart doodled beside it.
Inside the box was my three most important possessions.
First, my laptop. It was a 2009 Toshiba model, the same model I had in my previous life as my first laptop—except now, it was given by my dad. A quiet, hardworking salaryman with rough hands and soft eyes. He didn't understand my dreams, but he supported them anyway, silently slipping the laptop into my bag with a rare, gentle smile.
A bittersweet memory surfaced.
Back in elementary school, I was completely addicted to games and drawing. Every day after homework, I'd beg my dad to let me use his office laptop just to doodle pixel art in MS Paint or try typing lines of code copied from kids' programming magazines or to replicate some of my past life coding.
At first, he scolded me, worried I'd accidentally delete his work files or corrupt some important data. But then… one evening, as I feel sad in my room after another refusal, he knocked gently and handed me a box.
Inside was this Toshiba laptop.
"It's old," he said, scratching his cheek awkwardly. "But it works. Just… don't destroy it, okay?"
His way of saying I don't understand you, but I want you to be happy.
Second, my Yamaha PSR-270 digital keyboard.
Released back in 2000. Yellowed keys, faded labels, a clunky body that made my shoulders ache carrying it up the stairs. In this world, Mom bought it from a second-hand store last year.
"You're always humming melodies, Ren. Maybe you'll find something you love with this."
She always saw what I couldn't say.
Finally, eight sketchbooks.
One brand new, crisp and untainted, waiting for worlds I'd birth upon it. Three of them filled with messy notes and scribbles—copied memories from my past life, psychological analyses, game design theories, half-remembered code snippets. My way of preserving who I was… and what I wanted to be.
The last four is just full of stickmen in awkward poses, rough scratch lines crammed between anatomy notes, half-baked manga pages that only reached the first few panels before being abandoned.
There were unfinished illustration boards with different styles too: one attempting semi-realistic shading, another mimicking the soft, dreamy watercolors of shoujo covers, and some with rough digital thumbnail printouts taped in crooked rows.
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As I finished unpacking, a voice called out from the hallway.
"Ah, so you're the new guy moving in today?"
I turned. A girl stood there, short brown hair framing her delicate face, eyes glimmering with curiosity and something sharper—bitterness buried beneath forced cheer.
Aoyama Nanami.
The girl who confessed to Sorata-senpai and was rejected two times. Aspiring seiyuu, diligent worker, dreamer too earnest for her own good.
"Yes," I said simply and bowed. "My name is Natsuki Ren. First-year art student. Nice to meet you, umm...?"
She let out a small chuckle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear before smiling politely. "Welcome to Sakurasou, Natsuki-kun. I'm Aoyama Nanami, third-year. If you need anything, just ask, okay? It's quite hard to get used to living in this dorm. Well… maybe you're used to it already since it's rare for new students to get into Sakurasou directly like this."
I tilted my head slightly. "Why is that… Aoyama-senpai?"
Nanami waved her hand lightly. "It's okay, you can just call me Nanami. Jin-senpai must have told you, everyone here usually uses first names – it feels more like family that way. But… well, since you're polite, adding 'senpai' is fine."
Nanami tilted her head slightly, her ponytail swaying with the motion. "Ah… where are my manners? We're at Sakurasou Dormitory. You… know about this place, right?"
I met her gaze directly, unflinching. "Yeah. I've heard some rumors. Problem students, right?" I said it bluntly, politely and no hint of mockery—just stating what I knew.
She sighed, crossing her arms under her chest with a small frown. "Geez, they really should stop calling us that. Sakurasou isn't that bad, you know? It's just… a dorm for students with circumstances."
She studied my face, her brown eyes narrowing with curiosity. "But… it's really rare for a first-year to get sent here directly. Did something happen?"
I shrugged lightly, lips curling into a thin smile. "Not really. Maybe they just thought I'd fit here better."
Half-truth. Technically correct. No need to tell her I chose this dorm intentionally because I need to be here. Because I know who lives here. Because healing us… starts here.
Nanami blinked at my blunt answer before a small smile returned to her face. "Hmm… well, welcome anyway, Natsuki-kun. I'm sure you'll find your place here soon."
I bowed slightly, hands in my pockets as I lowered my head politely. "Thank you… Nanami-senpai."
She waved a hand with a little laugh. "It's okay. It's my task to make your stay here comfortable, as your senpai."
Her smile softened for a moment before she glanced over her shoulder, pointing at the door across my room. It was plastered with multiple DO NOT DISTURB signs in blocky black marker, some old and curling at the edges.
"Oh, yeah, Natsuki-kun. One more thing. You see that room?"
I followed her finger silently, taking in the barricade of warnings.
"That's Ryunnosuke's room. He's… well, a bit different." Her eyes softened with a complicated fondness. "He's a programming genius, but he rarely comes out. If you ever need any computer help or network stuff, just knock. Though… don't expect an answer immediately. Or ever, sometimes."
She chuckled lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's… a friend. A bit distant, but… yeah, he's a good person. Just… be patient with him."
I nodded once, storing that firmly in my mind. Ryunosuke… a genius programmer shut-in with social anxiety. If it's him… if it's Mashiro…
My chest felt strangely light for a second. One day, I'll make a team. The three of us. Heal, grow, create something together. Far in the future… when we're all ready.
"Got it. Thanks, Nanami-senpai."
She smiled again and turned away, but I caught her muttering under her breath, her expression tightening with focus.
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Once alone again after finishing cleaning and bathing, I sat down at my desk, the creaking chair matching the laptop aged hinges as I opened it. The screen flickered weakly, booting Windows 7 with a fan whine that sounded like a dying cicada.
'Why am I here?'
I asked myself that as the desktop loaded.
Not just to change Mashiro. That would be selfish. Even if I wanted to save her from the dehumanizing life the world forced upon her… that couldn't be my only reason to live.
No. I was here because I wanted to create.
I wanted to make something beautiful and strange and painful and warm—something that made people feel alive.
Mashiro… she was part of that journey. Someone I wanted to walk beside. Someone I wanted to find colors with, together.
My thoughts drifted to the day it all began.
I was fourteen when it happened. Sitting in my bedroom on a quiet Saturday morning, watching YouTube on my dad's old laptop. I was just scrolling through my subscriptions, checking out my favorite creators like usual. Then, on my recommendation homepage, I stumbled across… her.
I clicked the video. The quality was terrible – typical 2012 upload, blurry mess, only 480p at best. But even through the pixelated mess, I could see her. That hair. Those eyes. That expression. There was no mistaking it.
Mashiro.
My chest tightened with disbelief. No way… right?
Doubt clawed at my mind, but the more I observed, the clearer it became. Her appearance was too exact. Too specific. My thoughts spun with silent hypotheses.
Am I… in an anime world?
That theory wasn't baseless. After all, in this world, every single piece of fiction – anime, movies, music, games – existed almost exactly like back in my previous life. All the big IPs were here. The cultural giants: One Piece, Naruto, Bleach, Dragon Ball, Berserk, Hunter x Hunter. The unstoppable shounen era of the 90s and 2000s lived on here just the same.
Even games like GTA, Metal Gear Solid, Runescape, WoW, LoL, Dota, God of War, Need For Speed series, Assassin Creed, Valve game – the mega-sellers – all existed without a single missing piece.
But there were holes. Glaring absences in the cracks between global titans. Indie games, niche manga, underground music… completely gone. Some series that weren't too famous in my previous life but gained cult followings years later – Persona, Yakuza, and so many more – didn't exist at all.
It was like someone had copy-pasted only the biggest fragments of my old world's culture into this one, leaving behind the hidden gems and unpolished masterpieces.
And.... seeing Mashiro here with my own eyes, even blurry on a YouTube screen… it was the first real proof that something about this world wasn't quite right.
I watched the video, leaning closer to the flickering laptop screen. It was some exhibition in London. Even with the blurry quality, I could still make out what was happening. The critics were praising her excessively.
Her paintings were displayed across pristine white walls, and though the details were lost to the 480p resolution, I could still feel it. That beauty. Even with my limited art studies, I could tell her work was extraordinary. Beyond anything I had ever seen.
But there was something wrong.
When the camera panned to her, standing silently in front of her paintings, her eyes looked blank. Completely devoid of emotion. What once seemed like the typical kuudere trope felt different now. Darker. Almost unsettling. There was something in her gaze that made my chest feel tight – a silent scream hidden behind indifferent eyes.
Deep down, a cold thought gripped my heart.
If Mashiro's life ends up like in the light novel… she…
I couldn't finish the thought.
In the video, the critics and reporters surrounded her, voices overlapping as they praised her brilliance, calling her an inhuman genius. As if she was an art piece herself. Not a living, breathing girl with her own thoughts and feelings – just another masterpiece to be admired.
Something inside me snapped.
That was when the System booted up.
[System booting…]
[Welcome, Player.]
[This system will assist your creative journey. Please accept your one-time game draft gift as a starting point.]
And just like that, Undertale appeared in my mind.
---------------------------
This system isn't a overpowered cheat. Sure, it gives me complete creative blueprints – coding structures, sprite sheets, animation layers, music composition notes, even developer commentary and design reflections. In my case, because Undertale, I get scattered insights from Toby Fox about his games.
But to actually use that knowledge effectively and fully realized the games… I still need to learn everything manually. Luckily, the system give me enhanced memory and comprehension, allowing me to learn new knowledge rapidly—coding, music theory, pixel art fundamentals, and more.
Even so… it still took me two years to reach 46% completion.
Why?
Because back then in my past life, I only knew Unity C# and Unreal Engine with their shortcut-heavy accessibility scripting. GameMaker Studio's GML felt completely foreign, forcing me to re-learn programming logic from scratch.
Music production and drawing were even worse. I didn't have a single clue about either—no theory, no practical skills. Plus, I used a cracked version of FL Studio that crashed every few hours, corrupting save files if I forgot to back them up.
As for drawing sprite pixel art… my fingers ached from hours of placing dots one by one, eyes straining under the dim yellow glow of my study lamp. That's why I ended up filling four entire sketchbooks just for training.
I had the system's help.
Even though my learning ability is far faster than ordinary people, I still need time.
Now, though... after two years of struggle, tears, and countless failed renders. I knew;
If I dedicate myself fully, Undertale can be completed in a year.
Because now, I was adapted.
I could compose music tracks and arrange battle themes with emotional tension, though still limited to Toby Fox's and his electronic subgenre style. At least, I fully understanding the core of electronic style, like how to make chiptune, Synthpop, Electro-Orchestral hybrid, Progressive Electronic and more.
It wasn't like Shoji Meguro with his rock-jazz fusion, or Yoko Kanno who could jump from orchestral to pop effortlessly, or even Nobuo Uematsu's grand fantasy scores. Compared to legends like Joe Hisaishi or Hans Zimmer, my skills felt narrow.
I could animate sprite movements frame by frame, each flicker and motion honed from hours of practice and thick animation books I bought with my savings.
Coding event triggers and collision scripts was the easiest out of them all. Even so, I pushed myself to learn new languages like Assembly, HTML, and JavaScript to diversify my coding skills, though I was still at a basic level.
I also kept revisiting my past life's coding knowledge, adapting some of those techniques for Undertale to make it run smoother and remain compatible with both older and future hardware.
During those two years, I also forced myself to learn keyboard and acoustic guitar for composing efficiency. That guitar… it's still back home, leaning against the corner of our living room.
Dad rarely plays it these days, but when he does, Mom looks at him with this soft smile. That's usually our cue—my sister and I would sneak off to our rooms, pretending not to see anything while grinning like idiots.
Studying academics, in comparison, was a breeze.
I'd always been fairly smart. My grades were top-ten across grade. You can't enter game development major with scholarship if you don't have the capabilities. But ever since the System integrated with my memory and comprehension, everything became… clearer.
Concepts that once took weeks to fully grasp now clicked within days. Language structures, historical patterns, mathematical theorems – it was like flipping through an encyclopedia with perfect retention.
That's probably why I got accepted into Suimei Art High School this spring as a first-year student. My entrance exam scores weren't just good; they were near the top percentile for art theory, general knowledge, and logical reasoning.
Of course, teachers here only saw me as another quiet, smart kid with a troublesome streak they didn't quite understand.
"Natsuki-kun," my assigned guidance counselor said as she flipped through my thick file, her brows twitching slightly. We were in the registration room, my parents sitting beside me, silent but calm. "Your entrance scores are… impressive. We're glad you chose Suimei. We also… appreciate your previous contributions."
I bowed politely. "Thank you. I'll do my best."
She let out a small breath, stealing a quick glance at my parents as if silently confirming, Is he really okay?
Well, I couldn't blame her. What I did back in junior high still left its mark, enough that my name probably floated in a few district meetings.
A kid who turned an entire prestigious school's reputation upside down overnight… yeah, that label would stick for a while.
But my old homeroom teacher still praised me for what I did and shielded me from harsher consequences. My parents too… they supported me without wavering. Remembering that made my chest feel warm, even as the counselor continued explaining the Suimei guidebook with forced composure.
In the end, Suimei still wanted me. They just made sure to place me directly into Sakurasou.
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My phone buzzed. A LINE message popped up, the sender's name bringing a rare smile to my lips.
[Kana] : Oi, Aniki. Did you reach the dorm safely, or are you dead in a ditch somewhere?
[Kana]: Mom told me to be nice. So, uhh… don't starve yourself, okay?
[Kana]: (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡
[Kana]: Pfft. Gross. Anyway, call when you're free. Later, fossil brain.
Natsuki Kana. My younger sister. Sharp-tongued, sarcastic, but soft at the edges like our mother. She was only three years younger, but she acted like the older sibling half the time.
I typed back.
[Ren]: Alive. Unpacked. Met some weirdo upperclassmen already.
[Kana]: Lol. Welcome to anime hell, brother.
[Ren]: Thanks. Tell mom and dad I'm okay.
[Kana]: Will do. Eat real food. Bye~
I locked my phone and set it aside, glancing at my laptop screen. The booting was finally done. Without missing a beat, I opened FL Studio to continue tweaking a few tracks for my Undertale project. Alongside it, I booted up GameMaker Studio – the same engine Toby Fox used to build Undertale, and opened my saved game file. For today's attack patterns,
I switched between GameMaker's built-in sprite editor and GraphicsGale, the pixel animation software Toby used to craft those intricate bullet hell patterns inspired by Touhou.
Outside, the sky was shifting into its mellow afternoon hue, sunlight sneaking through my half-open curtains. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling the stiffness in my shoulders. My eyelids felt heavy.
'I need caffeine.'
I pushed myself up with a sigh, dragging my body to the corner of my room where my small portable kitchen setup sat cramped against the wall. I scooped instant cappuccino powder into my chipped mug, listening to the whirr of my electric kettle.
While waiting for it to finish boiling, I peeked out the window. In the backyard, Mashiro sat cross-legged on the stone path, her sketchbook balanced on her knee. Her pencil moved with quiet precision. A soft breeze rustled her hair as Sorata approached, calling her name with a faint note of worry in his voice.
Mashiro paused for a moment, then tilted her head slightly. "Okay, Sorata," she said softly, her voice almost carried away by the wind.
But as Sorata turned to walk back into the dorm, Mashiro stayed frozen. She looked down at her drawing, staring at it in silence. Then, suddenly she ripped the page out in one swift motion and hugged the crumpled paper to her chest, her thin shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly beneath the golden afternoon light.
I watched her from my window, the bitter scent of cappuccino swirling with the afternoon breeze.
Is this… what the light novel or anime never showed?
From the screen, it looked like any scene from a romcom anime – the quiet genius girl sitting alone, drawing under the sun, her expression unreadable behind that kuudere filter everyone loved.
But this is reality.
I didn't know what she was drawing. I didn't need to. Because every torn page felt like a wound – one so deep that even Sorata, or me, someone who didn't belong to this world, couldn't truly see.
In the end, genius means nothing if it hurts her like this…
I clenched my fist around the warm ceramic.
I didn't want to become some hero inserting myself into her lives arrogantly. But I couldn't stand by and watch her remain trapped in that empty world.
It's fine.
I have time.
I will build myself from scratch.
Somewhere deep inside, my old self whispered:
"Live slowly. Learn deeply. Create beautifully. Find her color—and your own."
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Outside, the last rays of sunset poured into the room, lighting my old Toshiba screen with fleeting gold.
And so, as the sakura petals fell and the chill of evening crept in, I continued to type, one word at a time.
For her.
For myself.
For the game that might finally teach this world what it means to be alive.