100 Kanojo | Meta Breaker | ENG
Chapter 2: The Forging of Resources 💰
The Seed Capital Quest 💼 & The Napkin Script 🎙️
😏🇦🇷 Valentino Mori
<< Every great empire, whether Roman or streaming, is built with a first brick... or in my case, with the first can of discount coffee. >>
3 AM in a Tokyo konbini is a strange universe. An oasis of fluorescent light in a sea of darkness, where time seems to stretch and turn sticky. For Valentino, it had become his second office.
His job was simple, monotonous, and perfect for his plan. Stocking shelves. Mopping the floor. Serving the occasional taxi driver looking for a caffeine fix or the group of laughing youths stumbling in after a night of karaoke. His body, now stronger and more resilient thanks to his mornings in the park, moved on autopilot. He placed cans of soda with rhythmic precision, arranged onigiri by their expiration date, and ran the mop over the floor with long, efficient strokes.
It was a soulless job, but it freed up his mind.
While his body performed the repetitive tasks, his brain was miles away, in the virtual world he longed to rebuild. He planned. He strategized. In his head, he was already producing his first video.
"Okay, the first video has to be a home run," he thought as he lined up a row of green tea bottles. "I can't compete on production quality, so I have to win with the script. An analysis. Something classic, timeless. A game I know by heart so I don't have to replay it."
His mind drifted through his old Steam library. Chrono Trigger. Final Fantasy VII. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. The classics.
When his thirty-minute break arrived, he headed to the small, claustrophobic stockroom. The place smelled of cardboard and instant noodles. He poured himself a coffee from the machine, black and bitter, and sat on a plastic stool. He pulled the black-covered notebook and a pen from his pocket.
He opened the notebook, turning past the page where he'd laid out his master plan, and began to write. In Spanish.
Video #1: "Ocarina of Time - The Tyranny of Nostalgia"
His fingers, now calloused from both the metal bar and cardboard boxes, moved quickly.
Intro: Is OOT really the best game ever, or are we just old?
Point 1: The temple design. Genius and frustration. (Talk about the Water Temple, obviously).
Point 2: The silent narrative. The power of Link as a mute avatar.
Point 3: The time skip. The emotional impact of seeing a ruined world.
He took out his phone and quickly searched for "Ocarina of Time Japan release date." He jotted down the info. Then he searched for "Ocarina of Time director." More data. His script wasn't just opinion; it was backed by facts. That was his style. The style that had made him stand out in his past life.
A customer entered the store, the chime of the bell pulling him from his concentration. Valentino sighed, took a final sip of his coffee, and closed the notebook. Break time was over.
He put his "napkin script" in his pocket and returned to the front of the store, greeting the customer with a practiced "Irasshaimase."
As he scanned a pack of cigarettes, his mind was already back in Hyrule. He was visualizing shots, editing cuts, modulating the tone of his voice for the narration.
He was working in a convenience store at 3 AM in a world that wasn't his. But in his head, he was already back in the studio. He was creating. And that was all that mattered. The seed capital quest was underway.
The First "Loot Drop" 👕 & The Ink of the Soul ✒️
Two weeks passed. Two weeks of a brutal cycle: training at dawn, sleeping for a few hours, working all night at the konbini, and filling the gaps with scriptwriting. Payday arrived, and with it, an envelope containing his first salary. It wasn't a fortune, but in his hands, it felt like the loot drop from a final boss. It was the tangible proof of his effort, the first reward from his "grind" in this new world.
Valentino didn't think about saving it. Not entirely. He knew that most of the money was earmarked for his PC rig, but first, he had to make a more important investment. An investment in his own morale, in his identity.
That afternoon, instead of going home to sleep, he headed to Shibuya.
The scramble crossing, with its tide of people and giant screens, was a sensory assault, but Valentino moved through the crowd with a confidence that didn't belong to his 16-year-old body. He knew what he was looking for. He ignored the big chain stores and ducked into the side streets, searching for the streetwear shops he knew from his online research.
He entered a store that smelled of incense and new clothes. The music was Japanese trap, a familiar rhythm in a different language. Over the next hour, he methodically shed the ghost of Rentarou's wardrobe. Goodbye to the pastel-colored polo shirts and generic jeans. Hello to oversized hoodies with cult anime graphics, cargo pants with multiple pockets, and a pair of sneakers from a brand he knew was trending.
He didn't buy much, just the essentials. A couple of outfits he could rotate. But every piece was a statement. Every choice was another step away from the "good boy" Aijo and a step closer to Valentino Mori. He left the store with several bags, feeling lighter, more himself.
But the day's mission wasn't over.
With the rest of his "loot," he headed to a different district, one known for its underground art scene. Following a map on his phone, he found what he was looking for: a small tattoo studio on the second floor of a building with no elevator. The entrance was hidden, discreet.
The inside was clean, smelling of antiseptic and ink. A tattoo artist with arms completely covered in art looked up from his design tablet.
"A little young, aren't you?" the artist said, his voice deep but not hostile.
"I have permission," Valentino lied with steely calm, sliding a portion of his salary across the counter. "And I know exactly what I want."
He showed two images on his phone, both familiar to anyone who had spent time in gamer or anime culture.
"I want these two," he said, pointing to his forearms. "Small, black and white. One here, and the other here."
The first image was the Ouroboros Seal of the Homunculi from Fullmetal Alchemist. A dragon devouring itself in a circle. He wanted it on the inside of his right forearm.
The second was the iconic Bonfire with the coiled sword of ash-bone from Dark Souls. For the inside of his left forearm.
The artist nodded, recognizing the designs instantly. A small smile formed on his face. "Good choices. A fan of equivalent exchange and suffering?"
"Something like that," Valentino replied with a half-smirk. "More like a reminder. That to gain something, you have to sacrifice something of equal value. And that no matter how many times you get knocked down, you can always go back to the bonfire and try again."
The tattoo artist looked at him with a newfound respect. This kid didn't just want a "cool" drawing. He understood the meaning.
"I like it," the man said. "On the forearms, huh? Pretty visible."
"That's the idea," Valentino answered calmly. The school uniform at the high school he was about to enter included a navy blue blazer. The long sleeves would cover the tattoos during classes without a problem. And outside of them... outside of them, he wanted them to be seen. They were for him.
"Alright, kid. On the table."
The pain of the needle was sharp, constant, but strangely welcome. It was a pain he had chosen. As the machine buzzed on his right forearm, he watched the black ink form the Ouroboros. It was a symbol of his situation: a cycle of death and rebirth, trapped in a body that wasn't his but that he was now forced to claim. The price of a new life.
Then, on his left forearm, the Bonfire. Every line of the twisted sword, every dancing flame, was a tribute to his own philosophy. To his stubbornness. It was the symbol of his "Spring of Reconstruction." The safe place he could always return to, to regain his strength before facing the bosses of his new life.
When the artist finished and covered both designs with plastic wrap, Valentino looked at himself in the mirror. He rolled up his t-shirt sleeves to see the bandages. They were visible. They were permanent. They were his.
He left the studio, the skin on his forearms burning under the wraps, the bags of new clothes in his other hand. The afternoon sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange. He felt no concern. The uniform would cover them when needed, and the rest of the time, they would be a visible part of who he was.
He didn't care what anyone else might think.
He had spent almost his entire first salary. But he hadn't lost a thing.
He had invested. In his skin. In his style. In the symbols of his gamer soul. And that was the best investment he could have possibly made.
The First Video 🎬
The spoils of his first salary lay on Rentarou's bed. The bags of new clothes were on one side, a testament to his new visual identity. On the other side, a modest but infinitely more important cardboard box: a USB condenser microphone. It wasn't the high-end equipment he used to have, not by a long shot, but it was a monumental improvement over his phone's built-in mic. It was his first real tool.
That night, after his shift at the konbini, he didn't go to sleep. The adrenaline of creation was stronger than his exhaustion.
His "studio" was a work of improvised genius. He stacked several manga volumes to create a phone stand at the perfect height. He placed the new microphone in front of it, connected to his laptop via an adapter. To dampen the echo in the small room, he hung the bed's comforter over the back of his chair, creating a ridiculous-looking acoustic fort.
He sat down, put on his headphones, and opened the notebook where he had written his script.
"Ocarina of Time - The Tyranny of Nostalgia"
He took a deep breath. The plan was simple: he couldn't record high-quality gameplay, so he would use clips from others, assembling them to illustrate his points. The star of the video wouldn't be the visuals; it would be his voice and his analysis.
He pressed the record button on an audio app.
"Hey everyone, how's it going?"
The voice that came out was his. Valentino's. Not the slightly higher, more formal tone of Rentarou, but his own deeper, more relaxed cadence, with that unmistakably Argentine rhythm. He spoke in Spanish, his native tongue, and the words flowed with a naturalness he hadn't felt since arriving in this world.
"Today we're going to talk about a sensitive topic. A sacred cow. We're going to ask if Ocarina of Time is really the best game in history... or if we're just a generation of nostalgic old folks who refuse to let go of the past."
Over the next hour, he recorded the narration. His voice filled the silent room, analyzing the design of the Water Temple, the narrative power of a mute protagonist, and the emotional impact of the time skip. It was smart. It was incisive. It was the high-quality content his former followers would have expected.
Then came the hellish part: editing.
Editing a ten-minute video on a tiny phone screen was torture. His fingers, larger than the interface was designed for, struggled to make precise cuts. The free editing app was limited and crashed twice, forcing him to start over. It was a clumsy and frustrating process.
"Fucking hell," he hissed through his teeth more than once.
But he persisted. He cut the gameplay clips, synchronized them with his audio, and added simple text to highlight key points. There were no flashy effects. No professional intro. It was raw. It was basic.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the video was ready.
He opened YouTube. Created a new account. A new channel. He needed an alias. Something anonymous. Something that reflected his situation.
"Analyst Zero."
It felt fitting. The starting point. Level zero.
He uploaded the video. The blue progress bar crawled across the screen with excruciating slowness. When it finally hit 100%, Valentino didn't feel a surge of triumph. He felt something quieter.
It was the satisfaction of having created something from nothing. Of having overcome the limitations.
He knew the video would probably get ten views, and five of them would be his. It didn't matter. He wasn't looking for instant fame. He was a professional; he understood the algorithm.
"The seed has been planted," he thought, closing the laptop. "Now, I just have to water it every day."
The first brick of his new digital empire had been laid. And though it was small and crudely made, it was his.
The Flavor of the Anchor 🍳
The sun was already filtering through the curtains when Valentino finally shut his laptop screen. The adrenaline from uploading his first video had kept him awake, but now, the combined weight of his morning training and his night shift fell on him like a slab of lead. His body, still in the process of reconstruction, was begging for rest.
He slept for a few hours, a heavy, dreamless sleep, and woke up with a feeling of emptiness. It wasn't sadness. It was a disconnection. He had spent the last few hours immersed in his old identity, speaking his language, analyzing a game from his past. Returning to the reality of the silent Aijo household was a dull blow. He felt adrift, a ghost in a house that wasn't his.
He needed an anchor ⚓.
He ignored the idea of a quick lunch. He headed to the kitchen. This place was quickly becoming his sanctuary, the only space where he could impose his own culture, his own flavors.
He opened the fridge and took out the ingredients he'd bought a few days earlier: pork cutlets, eggs, breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley. It was time.
The ritual began. The rhythmic, dull thud of the meat mallet pounding the cutlets on the cutting board was strangely therapeutic, a heartbeat that broke the silence. He chopped the garlic and parsley with a familiar precision, the aroma filling the air and transporting him thousands of miles away, to his grandmother's kitchen. He beat the eggs, mixed in the seasonings. He passed each cutlet through the egg and then the breadcrumbs, pressing firmly to ensure the coating was perfect.
As his hands worked, his mind calmed. This was his territory. This was his flavor. It was the most powerful affirmation of his identity, more so than the haircut, more than the tattoos. It was something that came from within.
He heated the oil in a pan, and when it was ready, he slid in the first milanesa. The sizzle was music to his ears, the sound of his home.
Just as he was about to flip it, his phone, left on the counter, buzzed insistently. A name flashed on the screen: "Mom ❤️".
His heart leaped. He quickly dried his hands on a kitchen towel and accepted the video call.
Silvina Aijo's smiling face filled the screen, the background clearly a hotel room with European architecture.
"My love! Valentín... oops, Rentarou!" she corrected herself with a laugh, a slip of the tongue she often made. Since he was a child, she'd called him "Valentín," a loving, Hispanized version of his name. The nickname, for obvious reasons, was a perfect fit for the soul now inhabiting her son's body. "Did I wake you?"
"No, Ma, not at all," he replied, his voice coming out naturally in Spanish before he switched to Japanese. "I was... cooking." He turned the phone to show her the pan.
Silvina's eyes went wide. "Is... is that what I think it is? Don't tell me you're making milanesas!"
"I learned from the best," he answered with a genuine smile, the first of the day.
"Oh, my boy, you're so grown up!" she said, her eyes shining. She paused, leaning closer to her laptop camera as if she could smell it through the screen. "Hey, but seriously, your Spanish has improved a ton. Your accent is perfect. Have you been practicing?"
"You could say that," Valentino said with a touch of irony. "I've had a... pretty intense cultural immersion." 😏
"I love it!" she exclaimed. Then, her expression shifted, becoming more analytical. She narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute... you look different. It's not just the Spanish. Did you get a haircut? And it's... blonde! Oh, so modern, honey! You look more awake, more... sharp."
Valentino ran a hand through his platinum streaks. "A little change. I wanted to start high school with a new look."
"It's not just the hair," she continued, her mother's gaze scanning him completely. Valentino realized he was shirtless except for a tank top due to the kitchen's heat, and his new muscle definition was visible 💪. "You're... bigger. Have you been going to the gym? And that shirt! Since when do you wear such stylish clothes? You're standing taller, too. Better posture."
He shrugged, trying to downplay it, but feeling a strange warmth that she had noticed every single detail. "I've been working out a bit, yeah. And I needed some new clothes."
"I like it," Silvina said with an approving smile. "You look good. You look... confident. Like you know what you want. I was worried you'd be down because of... well, you know. But you look great."
The indirect mention of the rejections was a small prick, a reminder of Rentarou's ghost. But his mother's validation was a far more potent balm.
"I'm fine, Ma. Better than ever," he said, and it was the most absolute truth he had spoken since arriving in this world.
They talked for a few more minutes. She told him about her work in Madrid, he told her about his new job at the konbini (omitting the night-shift part). It was a real conversation, full of the small details that solidified their connection.
"Well, honey, I have to go, I have a meeting," Silvina said finally. "Be good, eat lots. And save one of those milanesas for me! I'll be back in a couple of weeks, right after school starts. I love you! ❤️"
"I love you too, Ma. Take care," Valentino replied. The call ended.
He stared at the black screen for a moment. The feeling of emptiness was completely gone. The anchor hadn't just been dropped; it had been reinforced with steel.
He turned back to the pan and flipped the milanesa, revealing a perfect golden-brown. The aroma filled the kitchen, and for the first time, this quiet house in a Japanese suburb felt completely and utterly like home 🏡.
The Library of Empathy 🧠
That night, after his shift at the konbini and with the taste of milanesas still a pleasant memory, Valentino realized he had been avoiding the final pillar of his plan: the Mind.
He had been so focused on rebuilding his body, his finances, and his identity that he had left Rentarou's defective "software" running in the background. The echoes of the 100 rejections were still there, muted but not resolved. They were like a latent virus 🦠 that, if left untreated, could corrupt the entire system at the most inopportune moment.
He couldn't allow that.
He sat at his desk but didn't turn on his laptop. Instead, he turned off the light in the room, letting only the pale moonlight from the window illuminate the space. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and for the first time, voluntarily opened the Aijo_R_Trauma.dat 📁.
He didn't do it to suffer. He did it as an analyst.
He let the memories flow, one by one.
Rejection #12: The girl from the basketball club. She said he was "too nice." Valentino analyzed the memory. He saw a young, nervous Rentarou offering her his own water bottle, more concerned about her thirst than his own chance to impress her.
Analysis Conclusion: Kindness without confidence is perceived as weakness. Rentarou's Empathy: High Level. Execution: Poor ❌.
Rejection #45: The class representative. She rejected him because he "never said what he really thought." The memory showed Rentarou nodding along to everything she said, avoiding any kind of disagreement for fear of offending her.
Analysis Conclusion: Complacency isn't attractive. People value an opinion of their own, even if it's contrary. Rentarou's Fear of Conflict: Critical ⚠️.
Rejection #88: The girl from the music shop. She said he "didn't seem to have any passions." Valentino saw the memory: Rentarou, trying to seem "cool," pretended to like the same bands as her, offering nothing from his own world.
Analysis Conclusion: Passion is magnetic. Faking interests is transparent and boring. Rentarou's Authenticity: Low 📉.
And so it continued, for over an hour. He processed each of the 100 rejections not as personal failures, but as data points, like reviews for a failed product. He wasn't healing a trauma that wasn't his; he was compiling the world's most complete library of empathy.
He understood, on a fundamental level, the root of Rentarou's almost pathological kindness. He saw his fear of hurting others, his panic at rejection, his desperate desire to be accepted. He saw the pure goodness in the heart of the boy whose body he now inhabited.
As the last memory faded, a clear, profound thought crystallized in his mind, a truth he had learned in his own life and now saw reflected in Rentarou's.
"The heart heals when it understands, not when it forgets." ❤️🩹
He didn't try to forget Rentarou's pain. He didn't try to erase it. He understood that this past, these one hundred failures, was precisely what had forged Rentarou's incredible capacity for empathy. Each "no" had been a hammer blow that, instead of breaking him, had tempered his soul into something incredibly kind. The past had given Rentarou experience and had taught him, at a terrible cost, the value of affection.
Valentino wasn't going to discard that experience. He was going to honor it. He was going to take it and give it the tools that Rentarou had lacked.
Rentarou's kindness, guided by Valentino's confidence.
Rentarou's empathy, executed with Valentino's strategy.
Rentarou's goodness, protected by Valentino's strength.
He didn't erase Rentarou. He updated him. He patched him. He created version 2.0 🚀.
When he finally opened his eyes, the room was still in shadow, but his mind was clear. The last virus notification had been quarantined. The operating system was clean, stable, and more powerful than ever. The background hum of sadness was gone, replaced by a quiet, confident silence.
The final pillar of his internal resource forging was in place. He was ready 💪.
Reconnaissance & Intel 🕵️♂️
😏🇦🇷 Valentino Mori
<< To win a game, you have to understand the world's rules... and, if possible, read the guide beforehand. >>
The last week of spring break arrived like the silence before a storm. The April air was warm, heavy with the sweet scent of wilting cherry blossoms, a visual reminder that time was running out. For Valentino, this week wasn't an end, but the last chance to prepare before the "first day of school" loading screen appeared.
He had already strengthened his body to a point he considered "acceptable." The physical forge had turned weakness into resilience.
He had secured a flow of resources with his night job and his first videos. The economic forge had given him independence.
And he had stabilized his mental software, archiving Rentarou's trauma and consolidating his own identity. The internal forge was complete.
But a good player knows that raw strength, resources, and a solid mindset are useless without a good strategy. And a good strategy requires knowledge of the battlefield.
His imminent battlefield would be Nanrinan High School. A social microcosm with its own rules, hierarchies, and "game mechanics" that were completely unknown to him. And his "game guide"—that vague memory of a harem anime, if it even existed—remained locked away in the depths of his mind, a constant frustration.
That's why he spent the last afternoons of his break in a place he never would have frequented in his past life: the local public library. The place, a silent concrete building that smelled of old paper, dust, and the quiet promise of knowledge, became his command center. His mission here had two clear, overlapping objectives, as intertwined as the DNA of his two souls.
The first was practical: to close the generational and cultural gap. Although only six years separated his mind from his body, in the fast-paced world of youth culture, six years was an eon. He sat in the magazine section, flipping through teen fashion publications. He didn't care about the articles on love or gossip. He studied the photos like a data analyst. He mentally noted the repeating clothing brands, the hairstyles, the accessories. It was information. And information was power.
Then, with his headphones on, he dove into the J-Pop and J-Rock charts. He created a new playlist on his phone, "Market Research," and filled it with the artists dominating the charts. Most of it wasn't to his taste, but he listened over and over, looking for patterns, understanding the rhythms and lyrics that resonated with the youth of this world.
The most important part of this phase was his foray into the manga and light novel section. He walked the aisles, not reading, but observing. He touched the spines of the books, noting which were more worn, which had creases that betrayed multiple readings. They were clues. They were the tastes of his future classmates. It wasn't about faking it; it was about building bridges. It was the difference between a player who knows the meta and one who goes in blind.
The second objective was more personal, a thorn in his side. He was looking for a clue. Anything that would unlock the bolt on his memory.
The feeling that he was in an anime had become a certainty. But the name... "One Hundred Girlfriends." It floated in his mind, ridiculous and elusive. He searched the library's online database. He typed "manga one hundred girlfriends," "anime 100 kanojo," "harem 100 girls." The results were vague or nonexistent, probably because he couldn't remember the exact title.
"Maybe it's a newer anime, one that came out after my... transition," he thought, leaning back in a chair in a secluded corner, staring at the ceiling. "Or maybe it's a niche one. Or maybe, the worst option, I'm just going crazy."
The frustration was real. Having foreknowledge he couldn't access was like having the key to a treasure chest but not remembering where the hell he'd buried it.
He decided to change tactics. If he couldn't remember the specific plot, he could at least prepare for the archetypes. In his notebook, under his video scripts, he started a new section. He wrote in Spanish, his secret code.
Possible 'Party' (Harem) Archetypes: Analysis & Strategy 📋
Tsundere (Classic): High probability of appearing. Aggressive on the outside, sensitive on the inside. Key: don't react to the aggression. Ignore the 'tsun', respond to the hidden 'dere'. Non-aggressive physical contact and validating her insecurities will likely be super effective.
Kuudere (Cold/Logical): Also likely. Approach with logic, not pure emotion. Must show her that affection is a form of emotional 'efficiency'. Intellectual debate could be a form of flirting.
Dandere (Shy): Almost guaranteed there'll be one. Requires a slow, gentle approach, no pressure. Non-verbal communication is key. Must create a safe space and become her protector.
Genki (Energetic): Very common. The heart of the group, but draining. The strategy is to match her energy in short bursts, then act as an anchor so she can relax.
Ojou-sama (Rich Girl): Medium chance. The money is irrelevant. You win them over with unique experiences, sincerity, and by showing you're not impressed by their wealth.
He finished his list of potential archetypes and leaned back in his chair, looking at the page filled with his Spanish handwriting. He had turned his otaku knowledge into a kind of bestiary, a field manual for the potential personalities he might encounter.
As he reviewed his notes, a new perspective began to form in his mind. He had spent the whole afternoon looking for a "guide," a pre-written "walkthrough" that would give him the answers. But what if that wasn't the point? In his life as a streamer, the games he enjoyed most weren't the ones where he followed a guide to the letter, but the strategy games or open-world RPGs where you had to adapt, improvise, and create your own solution to problems.
He realized he had been approaching this all wrong. He was treating his new life like a puzzle game with a single correct solution, when in reality, it was much more like a roguelike 💡: a game where every run is different, where you have to use your knowledge of the "mechanics" to survive and thrive in the face of the unexpected.
His knowledge of archetypes wasn't an answer sheet; it was his knowledge of the game's mechanics. His confidence, his wit, his analytical skills... those were his "character skills." And his reconstruction plan was his "talent tree," where he was investing his experience points.
He didn't find the definitive answer he was looking for in the library. The fog in his memory didn't clear. But as he put his notebook away, he no longer felt the same frustration. It was replaced by a sense of clarity.
He left that afternoon with something much more valuable than a guide: a strategy. The strategy of trusting himself.
He paused on the library steps, feeling the warm evening breeze. An ironic smile formed on his face.
He was done trying to remember the game guide. Instead, he was preparing to play the game "blind," trusting his own skill. He was creating his own "build," his own strategy.
And that, he realized, was much more his style. It always had been.
The Player's Hunch 📈
After his epiphany at the library, Valentino felt more centered. The need to remember the future had been replaced by confidence in his ability to face it. With this newfound calm, he decided to take a different route home, one that led him through a small shopping area with a more relaxed atmosphere.
He found a café with free Wi-Fi and a quiet corner by the window. He ordered an iced coffee ☕, took out his phone, and began to check the day's news. It was part of his new routine: to understand the world's "meta," not just the teenage one. He read about local politics, the economy, anything that would give him a better grasp of his new environment.
While browsing a financial news portal, a headline caught his eye. Not because of the content, which was a rather boring analysis of the luxury goods market, but because of a name mentioned in passing in the text: "Hanazono Holdings."
The name resonated in his head like the chime of an "achievement unlocked." Hanazono. Flower garden 🌸.
The fog in his memory stirred. It didn't clear, but he felt a pang. An echo. The unmistakable feeling of having heard that name in an important context within the story he couldn't remember.
"Hanazono... Hanazono..." he thought, taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes unfocused, staring out at the street without seeing. "Was she one of the girls? The ojou-sama from my archetype list? 👑 Or maybe her family? Allies? Antagonists? Paid DLC?"
He didn't know. The information was corrupted, inaccessible. But the feeling, the intuition, was unmistakable. It was the same feeling he got in video games right before finding a secret passage or a rare item. A subtle shimmer on a wall. A misplaced musical note. A "player's hunch."
He opened an investment app he had downloaded. He had put a small part of his earnings into it, the equivalent of a couple of shifts at the konbini, more as an experiment than anything else. He looked up the stock for "Hanazono Holdings." The charts were an almost flat line. Stable, with no major ups or downs. A safe but boring investment. A "low-level mob."
"Okay, Valen," he said to himself under his breath, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Time to use a little of that 'viveza criolla'."
He addressed his reflection in the phone's dark screen as if it were his co-pilot.
"Alright, brain, what's the play? Logic 🧐 says it's a mediocre investment. There's no data to support any sudden growth. Moving my money here is a stupid bet."
He paused, his tone shifting to a more conspiratorial one, as if sharing a secret with his Twitch chat.
"But... the hunch," he whispered, tapping the screen, "the player's hunch, that sixth sense that tells you where the legendary loot is... it's screaming at me that there's something here. It's 'pinging' on my minimap."
He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as if deliberating with an invisible war council.
"It's a blind bet based on a phantom memory and a 'feeling'. It's the financial equivalent of running at a suspicious wall hoping it's a secret door and not a bug that clips you out of the map."
He looked back at the phone, his expression full of playful amusement.
"In other words, a dumbass play."
And with that conclusion, his fingers moved with the speed of a gamer executing a combo. He made a small, short-term investment. One of those quick capital exchange operations. He didn't risk all his money, not by a long shot, but an amount significant enough that it would hurt if he lost it.
He confirmed the trade. The app showed him his new position. For a moment, he felt a pang of "what the hell did I just do?".
Then, he shrugged and took the last sip of his coffee, making a slurping noise with the straw.
"Well," he thought, closing the app. "If I lose, at least I'll have a good story for my first stream about how my reincarnated intuition is a piece of crap."
He put his phone away and left the café, leaving his random bet on the stock market behind. He had no way of knowing it, but he had just activated, for the first time, the most broken game mechanic of his new life: absurd protagonist luck. And it was about to give him a spectacular return. 💎📈
The "Loot" Investment 💰
Two days passed. Two days of the same routine: training at dawn 💪, sleeping 😴, working the konbini night shift 🏪. Valentino had almost forgotten about his impulsive foray into the stock market. He had mentally filed it away as one of his 'brilliant ideas' that would probably end in a financial 'game over'.
He was on his break at work, at 3 in the morning, leaning back in the stockroom chair while eating a tuna mayo onigiri. He was scrolling aimlessly through his phone, his mind foggy with fatigue, when a notification popped up at the top of his screen. It was from his investment app.
[Position Alert: Your trade on H.H. has been closed with a return of +450%.]
Valentino blinked. The text looked like it was written in another language. He read the notification again, more slowly. The number didn't change. +450%.
He choked on the rice, coughing violently.
"No, no, no, it's a bug," he said aloud to the stale stockroom air. He opened the app with trembling fingers, his heart suddenly pounding with the same force it did after a set of pull-ups. It was true. The charts, previously flat, showed an absurd spike, a Mount Everest of sudden growth that had lasted just a few hours, just long enough for his short-term trade to execute with an insane profit. His small investment, the salary from a couple of nights' work, had multiplied four and a half times.
He looked at the new balance in his account. It wasn't enough to retire and live on an island, but it was... a goddamn treasure chest. It was the seed capital he needed, all in one go.
A breathless, incredulous laugh escaped his lips, a strange sound in the stillness of the stockroom. He covered his mouth so he wouldn't wake his boss, who was dozing in a corner.
"No way," he whispered, running a hand through his platinum hair. "What the hell happened? Did they announce a merger with Nintendo? Did they discover their CEO is an alien?"
He frantically searched the news. He found nothing. No logical reason for the sudden spike. It was an anomaly. A market fluctuation so improbable it was almost a statistical impossibility. A glitch in the Matrix.
Either that, or his reincarnated intuition wasn't crap after all. In fact, it seemed to be a legendary-tier skill.
"Okay," he thought, the adrenaline of the discovery completely wiping away his fatigue. "Rule number one of grinding: when RNG 🎲 blesses you, you don't ask questions. You take the loot and run."
The next day, after sleeping as if nothing had happened, his mission was clear. With his job money combined with his unexpected divine windfall, he had more than enough to complete his plan. It was time to upgrade his rig.
He headed to Akihabara, the electronics paradise. But he didn't go as a tourist. He went like a pro on a shopping mission. With a list of components on his phone, he ignored the pushy salespeople and went straight to the specialized shops he had researched.
He bought a decent graphics card, a fast processor, RAM, a reliable power supply. Each part chosen for its optimal performance-per-yen. It wasn't the million-dollar dream rig he had in his past life, but it was a solid, powerful machine. A real gaming and streaming PC. His 'starter armor set,' but a damn good one.
Laden with boxes, he made one last stop. He returned to the streetwear shops in Shibuya, this time to complete his wardrobe. He bought a couple more hoodies, more t-shirts, a beanie. Clothes that made him feel like himself.
That afternoon, Rentarou Aijo's room looked like an engineer's workshop. Open boxes, bubble wrap, instruction manuals, and electronic components were scattered across the floor.
And in the center of it all, Valentino, with music blasting from his phone and absolute concentration, began to assemble his new machine. Every connected cable, every tightened screw, was another step in building his new life, funded by the strangest loot he had ever acquired.
The manual grind was over. Now, with this new rig, the digital grind would begin.
The Birth of the Streamer 🎙️
The PC assembly was a ritual 🙏. Valentino worked for hours, his fingers moving with a comforting familiarity, connecting the motherboard, installing the graphics card, managing the cables with almost obsessive precision. It was like coming home. When he finally pressed the power button and the inside of the tower lit up with a soft LED glow 💡, a feeling of pure accomplishment washed over him. His base of operations was complete.
He spent the rest of the afternoon installing the operating system, his editing software, Steam, and, of course, Valorant.
That night, he decided there was no time to waste. His night shift at the konbini had been canceled for a last-minute fumigation, a coincidence so fortunate he could only attribute it to his new, absurd luck. It was a sign from destiny ✨.
He sat in front of his new setup. The larger, sharper monitor was a portal to his former world 🖥️. The mechanical keyboard responded under his fingers with a satisfying click. He placed the condenser microphone on its stand, adjusted the levels, and took a deep breath.
He decided his first "real" stream couldn't be under the alias "Analyst Zero." It was a low-quality name, a tutorial name. He needed something with more... soul.
He remembered the video call with his mother. The way his childhood nickname had slipped from her lips, an echo of his past life resonating in the new one. Valentín. And then, he remembered his own last name, the one he had lost. Mori. The "M."
A smile formed on his face. It was perfect. It was a tribute. It was a secret in plain sight.
He opened his Twitch account and changed the username. He was no longer "Analyst Zero." He was now "Valentín M."
He didn't turn on the camera. Not yet. His face, his new face, was for the real world. His voice would be his signature in the digital one. He opened Valorant, joined a ranked match, and just before the countdown began, he hit the "Go Live" button ▶️.
"Hey everyone, how's it going?" he said into the mic, his voice coming out clear and professional. He spoke in Spanish, his comfort language, his language of creation. "Valentín M here, starting from scratch on a new server. Let's see what the vibe is here. Time for a little warm-up."
At first, he had only one viewer 👤: himself, monitoring the stream from his phone. He played the first match in relative silence, focused, his reflexes and game sense coming back to him as if they had never left. He dominated.
In the second match, the viewer count climbed to three. Then five. Someone typed in the chat.
Valentino smiled. "Thanks, man. We do what we can," he replied, without missing a beat in the game.
The match got intense. Valentino entered his "tryhard mode." His voice grew louder, more passionate. He celebrated a headshot with a "Take that!". He complained about a teammate with a friendly "What are you doing, you animal!". And when he won an impossible round all by himself, his cry of "LET'S GOOOO!" echoed in the room.
The people in the chat reacted. Laughing emojis 😂. Fire emojis 🔥.
The viewer count climbed to ten. Then fifteen. It wasn't the crowd of thousands he used to have. But it was real. It was organic. It was a start.
He ended the stream a couple of hours later, with a small but active community of twenty people saying goodbye in the chat 👋. He took off his headphones, the silence of the room feeling strange after the chaos of the game.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the final "Stream Ended" screen. He felt exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion. The exhaustion of a job well done.
He hadn't just built a machine. He had lit a spark. He had opened a small portal back to his old life, and people, even if just a few, had started to peek through.
The streamer had been reborn. And this time, he had a whole new world to conquer. 🌍
The New Reflection 🗿
After finishing his first successful stream, Valentino didn't go to sleep. Adrenaline and a deep sense of satisfaction kept him awake. He felt on top of the world, a feeling he hadn't experienced since his arrival. He shut down the PC, letting the room return to calm, lit only by the moonlight 🎑.
He got up from his chair and stretched, feeling the muscles in his now-stronger back pleasantly protest. He walked aimlessly around the small room, touching things as if seeing them for the first time: the spine of a manga, the smooth surface of his new desk, the wrap still covering his newest tattoo.
He stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. It was the same mirror that had confronted him on the first day, the one that had shown him the face of a scared stranger. But the reflection staring back at him now was completely different.
He took off his shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. The moonlight was enough to sculpt his new silhouette.
It was no longer the thin, shapeless body of an average teenager. The grueling mornings in the park had paid off. His chest was more defined, his shoulders had broadened, and a subtle shadow marked the muscles of his abdomen. It wasn't the physique of a bodybuilder, but that of a functional athlete, a body forged by calisthenics 💪. It was a "skin" that felt like his own.
His gaze traveled up, past the wraps on his forearms, the permanent reminders of his player's philosophy ✒️.
Then, his hair. The platinum streaks 💈 gleamed faintly in the dark, a beacon of rebellion against normality.
Finally, his eyes. The gaze staring back from the mirror no longer held a trace of Rentarou's desperation. It was a calm, confident gaze, with a spark of wit 😏. The gaze of a man who had faced chaos and forged order. The gaze of a player who had finished the tutorial and was ready for the main campaign.
He touched his own bicep, feeling the hardness of the muscle beneath the skin. For the first time, the reflection didn't just look a little more like the "self" he remembered; it was an upgraded version. It was the soul of Valentino Mori, with his 22 years of experience, fused with the potential of a young body and the empathy inherited from Rentarou. It was the definitive version.
He nodded slowly at his reflection, a smile of pure, quiet satisfaction on his face.
The "Spring of Reconstruction" was over. He had transformed his mind 🧠, his body 💪, his resources 💰, and his soul 🇦🇷.
High school was just around the corner. And his vague memory whispered to him that, with it, something big was about to begin.
He was no longer afraid. He no longer felt uncertain. He was ready.
😏🇦🇷 Valentino Mori
<< End of the spring tutorial. Time to start the real game. >>
[End of Chapter 2]