An hour later, Tanaka Masao leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.
"Whoa," he murmured to himself, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"They really aren't kidding about that whole 'reviewing the old helps you understand the new' thing. I actually learned a ton. Guess there's a reason this system stuff is considered premium."
[Ding.]
[Congratulations, Host, on obtaining 1 point of Corruption Value.]
The chime in his head made him blink.
"Huh? System," he thought, puzzled. "Where did that come from? I wasn't doing anything."
The digital voice responded in his mind.
[Host, my records indicate you previously vowed to never engage with this type of material again. Your recent activity meets the established criteria for obtaining Corruption Value.]
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
"Wait, seriously? The rules are that loose?"
He ran a hand through his hair, a new thought dawning on him. "And… I can get points from myself? I'm basically my own source?"
Then it hit him—a truly brilliant idea. His eyes widened.
"Hold on. According to all the junk in my—well, his—head, this specific manga doesn't exist here. At all."
He sat up straighter, excitement bubbling up.
"So if I publish this thing… I could get Corruption Value and make actual money. Oh my god, I'm a genius. I've cracked the code!"
He was buzzing with the revelation.
"Okay, okay, but where would I even take this? Somewhere… discreet." He glanced at the clock.
"Ugh, it's getting late. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'll figure it out then."
He stashed the manga back into the system's invisible inventory. With the system's mechanics finally making sense, the reality of his new life settled in.
His eyes scanned the room—his room—and he winced. Clothes were piled on the floor, empty snack bags dotted the desk, and a faint, musty smell hung in the air.
"Yikes," he muttered under his breath, finally truly seeing the mess.
"How did I even live like this?" He picked up a crumpled bedsheet and recoiled. "Ugh, what is that stain? That's just gross."
What followed was a long, grueling battle against the chaos. He filled two entire large garbage bags. The washing machine hummed constantly, and a mountain of clean laundry still waited to be folded. He stripped the bed, tossing the questionable sheets into the wash and replacing them with fresh, clean ones from the closet.
Finally, he wiped his forehead, sweaty and tired but satisfied.
"There," he said to the now-tidy room. "Now it's actually livable."
He caught a whiff of himself and grimaced. "Okay, I need a shower, Now."
He stood under the hot water for what felt like ages, scrubbing himself down with three rounds of shampoo and soap, determined to wash away the old grime and literally start fresh.
Stepping out, he caught his reflection in the foggy mirror. A round, still-unfamiliar face looked back.
"Well," he sighed, poking his cheek. "Still a long way to go. But… cleaner, at least. Less greasy."
Exhaustion hit him like a wave. He barely managed to put on pajamas before collapsing into the clean bed, falling asleep almost instantly.
—
Later that evening, the sound of the front door opening and his parents' voices drifted down the hall. Their footsteps paused at his doorway.
"Honey?" his mother's voice was laced with shock. "Did you… clean your room?"
His father peered over her shoulder, eyes wide. "Who are you and what have you done with our son?"
Tanaka Masao scrambled for a believable excuse. He rubbed the back of his neck, putting on his best sheepish act.
"Well… uh… there's this girl. At school." He let the sentence hang, looking down at his feet. "I just… I wanna try to be better, you know? For me. But, maybe also… a little for her."
The effect was instant. His mother's face softened into a knowing, delighted smile.
His father clapped him on the shoulder, a proud grin spreading beneath his glasses.
"That's my boy!" he boomed.
"Of course, sweetie! We're so happy for you!" his mom added, her eyes sparkling. "If you need anything, anything at all, just ask."
The support was overwhelming, and it didn't stop at words. After dinner, his dad discreetly slipped him a crisp 50,000 yen note (330$).
"For your… pursuits," he said with a wink.
Masao's face flushed with genuine gratitude.
"Thanks, Dad. Really."
The original owner's wallet was practically empty, drained by anime figures and collectibles. This money felt like a lifeline.
—
—
The next morning, well-rested and fueled by a new purpose, Masao was up with the sun.
He threw on a clean t-shirt and a pair of jeans, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and did a quick check in the mirror.
"Yep," he said flatly. "Still looks like a guy who never leaves his room." But it was a start.
His mission for the day: a trip to Tokyo. He needed to find a publisher, and Tokyo was the place to do it.
Sure, he told himself it was because the market was bigger there, but a small, honest part of him whispered it was really about putting as much distance as possible between this embarrassing mission and anyone who might know him.
He carefully packed the stack of printed manga pages the system had provided—his ticket to a new future—and headed out.
—
The train ride to Tokyo from Chiba was familiar, a route the old him had taken to pilgrimage to Akihabara, the holy land of anime and manga.
In under an hour, he was there.
It was a Saturday, and Akihabara was in full swing—a vibrant, noisy, overwhelming river of people.
Cosplayers posed for photos on every corner, and the buzz of energy was infectious. For once, Masao didn't feel out of place.
In the crowd, he spotted at least ten other guys with his same build and awkward posture.
"Heh," he chuckled to himself. "We really do come off the same assembly line, huh?"
He got stopped a few times by tourists asking him to take their picture, and in return, he shyly asked a few cosplayers for photos himself.
They were all nice about it, striking poses with a smile. He was surprised to find his hands naturally knew how to frame a good shot—a leftover skill from his predecessor.
He wandered past a popular maid cafe, its entrance bustling. Through the window, he saw maids laughing and chatting with customers. One of them, with a bright smile, was drawing a ketchup heart on a plate of omelet rice.
A pang of nostalgia hit him—the old him would have already been inside, ordering the "Special Magical Deluxe Omurice."
He patted his thin wallet.
"Maybe next time," he sighed, a little wistfully. "When I'm rolling in manga cash."
After a lot of wandering and doubling back, he finally found the kind of area he was looking for. It was a quieter, more discreet corner of the district.
The people here moved quickly, avoiding eye contact. Lots of them wore hats and masks, and everyone leaving the specialized shops carried their purchases in plain, opaque bags.
'This is the place,' he thought, his heart beating a little faster.
'Okay. Do I need a disguise?' He touched his face. 'Nah. This face is disguise enough.'
Just as he was psyching himself up to go into one of the stores, the door of a nearby shop swung open. His breath caught in his throat.
The girl who stepped out was dressed in an oversized green tracksuit, trying to look casual. Her blonde hair was tucked under a beanie, but a few strands escaped, shining in the light.
She wore large, black-framed glasses, but they couldn't hide the sharp, delicate features of her face. She was looking down, fumbling with the drawstring on her hoodie.
It was an image straight out of his deepest, nerdiest memories. The name left his lips in a stunned, involuntary whisper.
"...Eriri?"
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