The room was dim, lit only by the pale, cool glow of a computer monitor.
Slumped in a worn-out chair was a young man, his form heavy and still, like he'd just passed out there.
The screen's light washed over his face, catching on a pair of smudged, thick glasses and highlighting a few red pimples that spoke of too many late nights and energy drinks.
His hair was long, greasy, and stuck to his forehead in clumps; you could practically see the dandruff and oil. It hadn't seen shampoo in a while.
The guy on the chair twitched. Then he groaned.
After a few seconds, Tanaka Masao's eyebrows furrowed, the flesh on his face tightening. His eyes flew open and he jackknifed upright into a sitting position, gasping for air like he'd just run a marathon.
"Whoa… holy crap," he panted, a hand pressed to his chest. "That was… intense. I just dreamed I was some poor, bullied fat guy. So glad that's over."
But the voice that came out wasn't his. It was deeper, stuffier, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
He froze.
"Wait a second," he said, and the weird, muffled voice said it with him. "What the hell is wrong with my voice?"
That's when he finally looked up. The dim room. The humming computer. He squinted at the screen. A beautiful anime girl was frozen there, locked in a tragic-looking 'game over' pose.
The desk was a mess of crumpled tissues and a few worn-out manga with art styles that… matched the screen. The air smelled… lived-in. A little sour.
A cold dread started to pool in his stomach. Slowly, almost afraid to confirm it, he held his hands up to the blue light.
They were puffy. Soft. A little grimy under the nails. They were… not his hands.
His gaze travelled downward, over the vast, rounded dome of his stomach. It completely blocked the view of his lap.
A horrible, curious impulse took over him. He lifted a hand and gave his gut a solid, open-palmed slap.
Thwack.
The sound was risp in the quiet room. A hot sting bloomed on his skin.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he breathed out, the reality of it finally crashing down.
This wasn't a dream. The memories—the shoves in the school hallway, the lonely lunches, the endless hours in this dark room—they flooded in, feeling less like a nightmare and more like a terrible documentary he'd been forced to star in. His life now.
He silently hitched up his loose sweatpants and sank back into the chair, the old thing groaning in protest.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to just breathe, trying to sort through the mental chaos.
How did he get here? Truck-kun? Was it a truck? The memory was just a blur of headlights and a feeling of being thrown…
And the guy who used to live in this body? It was a classic story. He was the easy target. The kid who was too slow, too soft, too scared to fight back.
Found his comfort in pixels and fantasies until… well.
Until he'd apparently loved his fantasies a little too hard and checked out for good, leaving this… this mess behind.
He let out a long sigh. A wave of self-pity washed over him.
"Are you serious?" he muttered to the empty, stale air.
"Talk about a rip-off. Every story I've ever read, the guy wakes up a stud. Or at least, you know, not this." He gestured vaguely at his new body. "I was decent before! A little skinny, maybe. But still. This is just… unfair."
He wasn't wrong. His old body was nothing special, but it was… manageable. This new one was a project. A big, sweaty, hundred-plus-kilogram project. He patted the belly again, this time with a sort of morbid resignation.
"Well. At least you're… sturdy? I guess? Probably why those little jerks liked using him as a punching bag." The thought made him scowl. "Right. Note to self: lose the weight. Eventually."
Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus.
Okay. New world. New body. New, crappy life. If this is really happening, there has to be a silver lining. There has to be a golden finger, his own Cheat, maybe a system.
Hesitantly, feeling a little stupid, he whispered into the gloom, "Uh… system? Hello? Anybody home? Little help here?"
For a second, there was nothing. Then—
[Ding. System loading…]
The sound seemed to come from inside his own skull. At the exact same time, his computer monitor flickered. The game-over screen vanished, replaced by a sleek, blue progress bar zipping from left to right.
He felt a weird… ping in the back of his mind, like a new Bluetooth device pairing up.
His heart did a little flip. 'No way. It's actually happening.'
"Okay, okay, don't freak out," he told himself, though a grin was already breaking out on his face. "This is it! The golden finger!"
But the grin faltered. "Wait a sec. Why's it on the computer? Shouldn't it be, like, in my head? Is this just a weird Windows update? Please, for the love of god, don't be a Windows update…"
His panic was short-lived.
The bar hit 100%. The screen resolved into a clean, simple interface. At the top, in bold, red letters that looked weirdly familiar—like something from a default word processor—were two words:
[Emotion System]
He blinked.
"Emotion System?" he mumbled, a little disappointed. "That sounds… vague. And why does the font look so cheap?"
Tentatively, he reached for the mouse. "System? You there?"
Text instantly popped up on the screen below the title.
[I am here, Host.]
The voice in his head was feminine, neutral, totally at odds with the life-changing moment.
"Why are you on the computer?" he asked, curiosity overriding his awe. "What if the hard drive crashes? That seems like a pretty big design flaw."
The text changed.
[This unit's presentation is a courtesy based on your established preferences and neural patterns. Primary integration is complete. Interface can be transferred to any digital medium you interact with, or projected directly into your consciousness. The current visual presentation was deemed most comfortable for initial acclimation.]
"Oh. Right. Okay, that's… actually pretty considerate. Thanks," he said, feeling a little less silly.
He started clicking around. The layout was stupidly simple, like a mobile game. The currency was something called 'Corruption Points'—a big, fat zero making the 'Shop' button look useless (greyed-out). There was a 'Backpack' icon. He clicked it.
One slot was occupied. A single, brightly pixelated gift box sat there, labeled with a cheerful: [Newbie Gift Pack!]
"Well, no point in waiting around," he said to himself, a fresh thrill of excitement rushing through him. He moved the cursor and double-clicked.
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[email protected]/Raven_scroll (30+ Advance Chapters)