I stood in the center of the small apartment, just breathing, forcing myself to listen to the sounds of this world as they layered themselves back into my consciousness. The steady, monotonous hum of a refrigerator running somewhere in the building. The distant, whispering rush of traffic on streets I'd once known but now felt completely foreign. The subtle creaks and groans of the old building itself—wood and metal expanding and contracting with the morning's warmth, a constant, gentle symphony of mundane decay.
I was truly, utterly alone in a way I hadn't been even in the deepest, most lightless dungeons of Nemucury. There, I'd always held the certainty that my companions were somewhere, fighting their own battles, moving toward objectives that served our shared goals. Our separation was tactical. Here, the isolation was absolute. There was just me, the ghost of Alex Miller, and the crushing weight of five centuries of experience trapped in a body that belonged to someone I barely remembered being.
My eyes swept the room in a slow, deliberate inventory. This was my base of operations, my command center, such as it was. The lumpy mattress on the floor, its sheets still rumpled and twisted from my panicked awakening hours ago. The cheap particleboard closet with its door hanging slightly ajar, revealing cramped glimpses of clothes that probably didn't fit right anymore. The small table where the dead computer sat like a silent, black monolith—my potential gateway to information, connection, understanding.
My gaze drifted over the faded posters on the wall, their corners peeling slightly. Anime heroes frozen in dramatic poses, their bright, optimistic colors dulled by years of sunlight and neglect. There was a profound shabbiness to it all that went beyond simple poverty. This wasn't just a place where someone lived cheaply out of necessity. This felt like the room of someone who had already given up long before I ever left for another world. The atmosphere was thick with a resigned apathy.
Had Alex Miller been this defeated? This resigned to a life of quiet mediocrity? The thought disturbed me more than I expected it to. It felt like a personal failure I needed to rectify.
Driven by a new, grim purpose, I moved to the drawer in the small desk. My hands, guided by muscle memory from centuries of delicate spellcraft and somatic components, moved with a precision that felt alien in this soft body. I pulled the drawer open with a soft, scraping protest of wood on wood.
It was a mess of random debris that spoke volumes about a disorganized, aimless life. Old pencils with broken leads and chewed erasers. A tangled nest of cables whose purposes I couldn't immediately identify—USB, HDMI, things whose names were slowly filtering back from the depths of memory. A few coins scattered among the junk like abandoned hopes. A forgotten candy wrapper, the kind of thing you shove in a drawer meaning to throw away later and then forget entirely.
I sifted through the detritus methodically, my fingers separating worthless clutter from potential assets with a deftness they shouldn't possess. And then I found it, tucked under a folded, outdated map of the city—a single fifty-dollar bill, slightly crumpled but unmistakably real.
For a single, heart-lifting second, a flicker of genuine hope ignited in my chest. Capital. Resources. The foundation upon which any strategic operation is built. I smoothed it out on the desk's scarred surface, the paper crinkling under my fingers. Fifty dollars. I tried to mentally access a ledger of this world's economics, struggling to recall the cost of basic necessities from a life I'd lived seventeen years ago.
Then, the reality of my situation crashed down on me like a collapsing ceiling. The hope was snuffed out, replaced by the cold drip of assessment.
Fifty dollars. In my past life on Nemucury, this wouldn't have covered a decent meal and ale at a common tavern. Here, it might buy a week of the most basic groceries—instant noodles, cheap bread, tap water. It was an insultingly small amount for someone who needed to rebuild an entire existence from absolute zero. It was a pittance. A joke.
The feeling that curdled in my gut wasn't despair. It was something harder, colder, and more useful: strategic realism. This wasn't nothing, but it was nowhere near enough. I placed the bill back down on the desk, not out of defeat, but as a commander might place a single, weak soldier on a map. Every resource had to be accounted for, every potential expenditure calculated to the last cent.
My gaze was drawn back to the computer as if by a magnetic pull. This machine was the key to everything. My library, my communication array, my window to the intelligence I desperately needed to navigate this world. I couldn't re-enter modern Earth civilization blind and ignorant, stumbling around like some medieval peasant dropped into the twenty-first century. Knowledge was power, and I was currently utterly powerless.
But it was broken. Dead. A silent, black slab of plastic and metal.
The options were bleak, each one more frustrating than the last. I could take it to a repair shop, but even my fragmented memories of this world's economics told me that fifty dollars would be swallowed whole by a "diagnostic fee," leaving nothing for the actual parts or labor. The thought of being dependent on the schedule, expertise, and honesty of some random technician was profoundly galling. After centuries of relying on my own skills and power, the idea of waiting helplessly for someone else to solve my problems felt like a personal failure.
But I knew what I could do. The option sat in my mind like a loaded weapon, dangerous and tempting. I could cast Observe.
The thought was immediately followed by a wave of profound reluctance that surprised me with its intensity. My mana pool wasn't just small—it felt fragile, brittle, like the thinnest layer of ice over a dark pond. It was the last, guttering ember of a once-great fire, and using it carelessly felt like a sacrilege, a betrayal of the very essence of what I was.
This wasn't Nemucury, where ambient power flowed through everything like lifeblood, where I could draw upon the leylines or the emotions of a city to replenish myself. Here, the air was a magical vacuum. Every drop of mana I spent was a drop gone, potentially for weeks. The slow, pathetic trickle of regeneration I could feel wasn't even enough to replace what I'd used healing my shattered hand.
Was this worth it? Was this pathetic collection of silicon, plastic, and etched metal worth that most precious, non-renewable resource?
I stood there, a internal war raging between the instincts of a demigod and the realities of a teenager. Starvation of information versus conservation of power. Without intelligence, I was just a strange boy in a strange room, powerless to affect any meaningful change, adrift in a time that was not my own. With information, I could form plans, make strategic decisions, and begin the long, arduous climb back to relevance. Back to power.
My strategic mind, the part of me that had commanded armies and negotiated the fates of worlds, made the cold, hard calculation. The computer was a lifeline. The mana had to be spent.
The decision made, a strange calm settled over me. I sat on the floor before the machine, my posture automatically straightening into something resembling a meditation pose. I placed my hands on its cool, dusty case, a gesture that felt both ritualistic and foolish.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, feeling for that shallow, tepid puddle of power within my core. I didn't need to speak an incantation—I'd moved beyond such crude requirements centuries ago—but the mental focus helped. I imagined a tiny, brilliant thread of blue light unwinding from the pool within me, traveling up through the channels of my arm, gathering behind my eyes like condensed starlight.
I pushed it outward, shaping pure intent into reality through will alone.
When I opened my eyes, the world looked exactly the same, and yet my perception had been utterly transformed. Overlaid onto my normal vision was a semi-transparent, holographic display that reminded me of the advanced tactical interfaces I'd seen in the war-rooms of flying citadels—clean lines of cool light, organized information, quantified reality presented in easily digestible chunks.
Text flickered to life in the lower right corner of my vision in a sleek, minimalist font that somehow felt both alien and intuitively familiar: [TARGET ACQUIRED: Dell Optiplex 780. SYSTEM SCAN INITIATED...]
A complex, wireframe schematic of the computer's internal components materialized in the air before me, perfectly aligned with the physical machine. I could see through the metal case as if it were glass, watching the intricate dance of circuits and boards beneath. Lines of soft blue light traced the connections between components, visually mapping the flow of power and data through the machine's electronic nervous system. It was beautiful, in a cold, technical way.
[COMPONENT ANALYSIS RUNNING]
My enhanced gaze became a living cursor. I directed my attention to the power supply unit first, and immediately a diagnostic sub-menu popped up with clinical, brutal precision:
[POWER SUPPLY UNIT: Delta Electronics DPS-400AB-1] STATUS: **CRITICAL FAILURE** - Capacitor C58 (1000μF, 16V) has failed. Electrolyte leakage detected. - Primary cause of boot failure. - Output voltage irregular. Significant risk of damage to other components.
I moved my focus to the motherboard. The entire board glowed with a sickly, pulsing yellow light that indicated systemic problems. The information updated instantly:
[MOTHERBOARD: Foxconn G41MX-K] STATUS: DEGRADED - BIOS battery depleted. System clock/timing errors likely. - Trace corrosion detected on DIMM slots A0 & A1. Memory errors probable. - Capacitor aging throughout board. Performance degradation ongoing.
The hard drive was next, and what the scan revealed made me wince internally.
[STORAGE: Western Digital WD5000AAKS] STATUS: **FAILING** - Reallocated Sectors Count: 1,728 - Current Pending Sector Count: 43 - Read Error Rate: Elevated and climbing - **PREDICTED FAILURE: IMMINENT** - Data integrity compromised. Recovery window: 72-96 hours maximum.
Finally, I examined the CPU cooling system. The Observe spell rendered a real-time thermal map over the components, showing heat distribution in gradients of blue to red. The area between the processor and the heat sink glowed an angry, throbbing crimson, clearly illustrating that the thermal paste had dried into a cracked, useless insulator, causing the CPU to overheat and violently throttle its performance to prevent catastrophic meltdown.
The spell faded like a dying candle, the enhanced vision winking out in a flicker of digital static. The return to normal sight was jarring, and the headache that followed was immediate and brutal—a sharp, hot spike of pain that drove through my temples and behind my eyes. I was down to maybe a third of my already pathetic mana pool, the precious power drained away like blood from a fatal wound, leaving a hollow, aching void in my core where the energy had been.
But I had my answer. The computer wasn't just broken—it was a patient on the verge of total systems failure, dying from multiple critical ailments simultaneously. I needed a new capacitor for the power supply, a complete replacement hard drive, fresh thermal paste, and a CMOS battery. The fifty dollars might cover the capacitor and thermal paste if I shopped with ruthless efficiency, but it was a laughable sum against the full scope of the repairs.
I leaned back against the uncomfortable bed, the frustration a cold stone in my stomach. The machine that was my key to this world needed more repairs than I could possibly afford, and every minute it stayed broken was another minute I remained cut off, isolated, and blind.
But frustration was a luxury I couldn't afford. It was a spark that needed to be quenched before it could cloud my judgment. I needed capital, and that meant I needed to find something of value in this apartment. Something I'd overlooked in my initial, dismissive assessment.
I got up and began a methodical search, treating the small, shabby space like a dungeon that might hide a single, precious treasure in an unexpected corner. I checked under the bed first, finding nothing but dust bunnies and a single, lost sock. The dresser held clothes that smelled of mothballs and felt cheap against my skin—evidence of a body that had changed or simply never been properly accommodated.
I emptied the closet completely, pulling out boxes of heavy winter clothes that seemed absurd in the mild apartment, old textbooks from subjects I could now master in an afternoon, and miscellaneous junk that Alex Miller had apparently deemed too important to throw away but not important enough to organize. Most of it was worthless clutter, the accumulated detritus of a life lived without much purpose or direction.
Then, my fingers brushed against something different tucked behind a box of outdated coats. A cardboard tube, the kind used by artists and architects for storing rolled papers or blueprints. It was professional quality—thick, sturdy cardboard with threaded metal end caps, not the flimsy poster tube you'd get from a convention. It was wedged deep into the corner, forgotten.
I pulled it out, surprised by its substantial weight. I unscrewed one metal cap and carefully, almost reverently, slid out the contents.
It was a rolled-up piece of art, but as I unrolled it gently on the floor, using my old textbooks as weights to hold down the corners, I could see it was something special. The paper had a heavy, luxurious weight and a slight texture. The image was a dynamic, breathtaking action scene from an anime I barely remembered the name of—One-Punch Man. The titular hero, Saitama, was captured mid-punch, his face a masterpiece of comical boredom juxtaposed with world-shattering power, his bright yellow suit and white cape a vibrant splash of color. But it was the quality that struck me. This wasn't a mass-produced poster. The lines were crisp and clean, the colors had a depth and vibrancy that suggested professional, high-end printing. My eye, trained by centuries of evaluating magical artifacts and priceless treasures, recognized the hallmarks of something potentially valuable.
Curiosity warred with caution. I was curious, a scholar's itch to understand what I was looking at. But I was also nearly tapped out magically. Using Observe again would drain me to the dregs, past the point of a headache and into true magical exhaustion, leaving me feeling hollowed out and vulnerable. It was a significant risk to take on what might ultimately be worthless fan merchandise.
But if I was right... if this was actually valuable... it could solve my immediate financial problems. It could be the key that unlocked everything else. The risk, I decided, was not just worth it—it was necessary.
I focused on the last dregs of my power, gathering the faint, shimmering remnants in my core. I pushed this tiny reserve up through my body and into my eyes. The enhanced vision flickered to life, unstable and wavering like a corrupted video file. The heads-up display glitched at the edges, text scrambling for a moment before resolving into coherence.
[TARGET ACQUIRED: Production Animation Cel - One-Punch Man, Season 1, Key Frame #B-174] [PROVENANCE SCAN: INITIATED...]
Lines of text scrolled rapidly down my field of vision, too fast for a normal human to read but imprinting the information directly into my understanding:
- Ink Analysis: Chemical composition matches Studio Madhouse production standards circa 2015. - Paper Stock: Professional-grade acetate animation cel, archival/museum quality. - Signature Authentication: Confirmed. Yusuke Murata (primary artist), faint graphite marking, lower right border. - Edition Number: 17/100 (Extremely limited production run for studio patrons). - Condition Assessment: Near mint. Minor edge wear consistent with careful storage. No fading, creasing, or staining. - Market Valuation Analysis (Cross-referenced with recent Heritage Auctions, Sotheby's, and private sales): Estimated Current Value: $2,400 - $3,800 Trending Value (12-month projection): Upward. $3,000 - $4,500+
The spell died completely, cutting out with a finality that felt like a door slamming shut in my mind. The headache that followed was transcendent, a white-hot brand of pain that seared through my skull and left me gasping. I slumped forward, catching myself on my hands, the production cel resting safely beneath me on the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my palms against my temples as if I could physically hold my skull together.
I was magically bankrupt. The shallow puddle was not just empty; it was a dry, cracked basin. The constant, low-level hum of power that had been my companion for centuries was gone, leaving a silence in my soul that was more terrifying than any physical pain. I felt disconnected, lessened, horribly vulnerable.
But through the pain and the hollow feeling, a fierce, triumphant smile spread across my face—a strange, painful expression on this young face. I had done it. I had found my first real asset. This single, pristine piece of painted acetate was worth more than everything else in this apartment combined, worth months of careful living expenses. It was a lifeline.
The exhaustion was bone-deep, a total-body weariness that went beyond the physical. But the discovery had lit a fire in me, a purely psychological energy that helped me push through the fatigue. I had a path forward. It would take time and care to sell the cel through the proper channels to maximize its value, but I finally had something to work with. A foundation.
In the meantime, my body was a pressing concern. The hunger I'd been masterfully ignoring was a sharp, grinding sensation in my stomach. My meager supplies of cheap noodles and canned goods wouldn't last more than a few days. I needed to make what I had stretch as far as humanly—or superhumanly—possible.
I couldn't cast a proper spell. I had nothing left to cast with. But I had just enough willpower, the last shred of my disciplined mind, to attempt one final, microscopic manipulation. Something so subtle it would barely register as magic at all.
I focused inward, past the headache, down to the gnawing emptiness in my gut. I couldn't conjure calories from the air. But I could, in theory, optimize the machine. I visualized the complex processes of my digestive system—the breakdown of food, the absorption of nutrients, the conversion into energy. I mapped the chemical pathways in my mind, a holdover from when I used to do the same with the flow of mana through ley lines.
I found a specific point of inefficiency: a particular enzyme cluster responsible for breaking down complex carbohydrates into simple sugars. I didn't have the power to improve the enzyme itself. Instead, I used the barest whisper of intent, the last echo of my will, to nudge its production rate. I didn't make it better; I convinced my body to make more of it, slightly increasing the efficiency of the conversion process.
The change was infinitesimal, a adjustment at the molecular level. I wouldn't become superhuman. I would still need to eat regular meals to survive and function. But it meant my body would extract a few more precious calories from the same amount of food. The feeling of fullness would last perhaps twenty minutes longer. The energy crash would be slightly less severe. It was the magical equivalent of tuning a car's engine for a few extra miles per gallon—a tiny optimization that would compound over time and mean the difference between starvation and sustainability.
The effort left me feeling completely and utterly hollowed out, scraped clean. I slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. But the gnawing, sharp edge of my hunger had dulled to a manageable ache. It was working.
With trembling but careful hands, I rolled the priceless animation cel back into its protective tube, screwing the metal cap on tightly. I treated it with the reverence I'd once reserved for holy relics and world-ending artifacts.
Then I found my phone. The screen's glow was harsh against my light-sensitive eyes, but I pushed through the discomfort. I began the painstaking process of research, my fingers moving with a frustrating slowness across the glass. I searched for "sell original anime art," "animation cel authentication," and "niche memorabilia auctions."
Websites and forums blurred together in a haze of text and images. I pieced together fragments of advice from seasoned collectors, warnings about scams, and tales of both incredible finds and heartbreaking forgeries. It was like learning the customs and dangers of a foreign market, a new kind of battlefield.
My research eventually led me to a highly specialized auction house's website. Their interface was clunky, clearly designed by someone who valued security and reputation over flashy aesthetics. But their credentials were impeccable, and their clientele was exactly the sort of dedicated, deep-pocketed collector who would recognize the value of what I had.
Sitting there on the hard floor, my back against the wall, I began to draft an email. I approached it with the same meticulous care I would use to craft a complex ritual circle. Every word was chosen for precision and impact. I revealed just enough to generate intense interest without revealing my ignorance or desperation.
"To the authentication department, I am in possession of a limited edition production animation cel from Studio Madhouse's One-Punch Man, Season 1. The piece is Key Frame #B-174, featuring Saitama, from the limited run of 100, and bears the verified signature of Yusuke Murata. The cel is in near-mint condition, having been stored archivally since acquisition. I am exploring options for its sale and believe it may be of significant interest to your clientele."
I read it over twice. It was confident, factual, and positioned me as someone who knew exactly what they had. I was not a desperate kid; I was a curator with an asset.
Packaging it became its own little ritual. I scavenged the apartment for materials. I found a sheet of bubble wrap in the closet, still smelling faintly of some long-forgotten online purchase. A sturdy cardboard box that had once held a textbook proved perfect for the outer shell. I wrapped the tube in layers of protection, then nestled it in the box, surrounding it with more bubble wrap until it was absolutely secure. Each piece of tape was applied with deliberate care, sealing in not just a piece of art, but my first hope for a future in this world.
That fifty-dollar bill? Its purpose was now clear. A significant portion of it would be spent on the most secure, expedited shipping I could find—tracking, insurance, signature confirmation. It was an investment in peace of mind, armor for my one valuable asset, ensuring it would arrive safely at the auction house and begin its transformation into the resources I needed to truly begin again.