"Where am I? Huh?"
Rubbing his trembling hands together in the cold air, wearing a short-sleeved summer uniform, the completely mismatched atmosphere lingered. Staring at the unfamiliar slope before him and the distant, Japanese-style detached house, the man occasionally knitted his brows, exhaling white gasps. He felt something inexplicable.
This was Steve, male, 28, not a student. On what should have been an ordinary night—so ordinary it was almost abnormal—his chubby self had, as usual, collapsed into sleep from exhaustion. But when he awakened, he found himself standing on an unfamiliar slope.
The air was filled with a cold aura, different from anywhere he remembered. The architecture, the style of cars on the street—everything told him the truth: this was not the era he knew.
That's why the overwhelming confusion and panic instantly gripped the man's heart. Until his eyes fell on the grand, solitary Gothic mansion atop the hill—he was transfixed. In that instant, all the knowledge he possessed about the world of "Type-Moon"—words and illustrations he thought were mere fiction—came flooding into his mind like water through a broken dam.
This was Misaki Town.
This was the Kuonji Manor, the place where the story of "Mahoutsukai no Yoru" ("Witch on the Holy Night") begins.
He had crossed over.
It wasn't soul possession, but with his nearsighted, powerless, chubby body, he had been thrown into this world obsessed with the past and filled with deadly danger.
The cold wind mixed with the scent of dry leaves, making the skin on his bare arms and calves break out in goosebumps. Steve shivered, and this physiological coldness immediately jolted his nearly paralyzed brain back into working order.
The man abruptly turned and, as if to flee, left behind the Western-style mansion, which looked like a quiet beast in the lingering light of dusk.
"This isn't funny at all…"
He was out of breath, cold sweat soaking the back of his black T-shirt and sticking it to his skin. The wind made it sting even more. The adrenaline rush made his already heavy legs feel even weaker.
Imagining a fictional story in the real world is one thing, but actually being in that situation is something else entirely.
If you want to be quick-tempered as an ordinary person, would you really go visit the Fifth Magician and her fairy tale witch right now? Why? Just to rely on a plot you've almost forgotten after watching it a few times? Or with a body that's out of breath after running just a few steps?
Steve pictured what would happen if he knocked on that door. The best-case scenario would be the half-dangling magician JK kicking him out with an annoyed look. Worst-case? The doll-like, exquisitely beautiful witch would unleash a curse of destruction then and there.
Would any ordinary person really want to touch the main story of the Nasuverse? How many lives would you need to feel confident enough for that?
So, after all that thinking, Steve no longer looked back at the Western-style mansion that symbolized "story" and "danger." Instead, all his senses were focused on the "reality" and "survival" presented by the slope beneath his feet.
His feet, in oversized black slippers, thudded and clicked on the asphalt, sounding especially sharp in the quiet dusk, almost as if mocking his anachronism.
Yes, he was out of place.
In what should be Japanese winter, a fat man wearing shorts and slippers is an unusual sight by any standards.
The slope was longer than he'd thought. Every step made his knees protest. It was so tough that he had to cling to the roadside guardrail and descend step by step.
During this process, he had plenty of time to consider the most pressing issue in front of him. He checked his pockets—empty, and he was hungry, too. No wallet, no phone, no keys, nothing to prove his identity.
He was a complete "black household" (unregistered resident), a vagabond suddenly thrown into this unfamiliar country more than thirty years ago.
When he finally reached the bottom of the slope and stepped onto a flat street, the breath of civilization washed over his face. Unlike the stillness of the hill, here was full of the sounds of life. Several boxy cars passed him by, their lights drawing long beams across the darkening sky. He recognized the models—Toyota Crown, Nissan Juke… These antique cars, which he'd only seen in old movies, were now alive, right before him.
A few high school students, dressed in the distinctive black suits and uniforms and sporting the hairstyles of the era, passed by him. They looked at him with undisguised curiosity and oddness, then walked away, chuckling together.
He unconsciously tugged at the hem of his T-shirt to make himself less conspicuous, but it was obviously pointless. His very presence was the most sudden thing in this era.
A strong sense of alienation and unease enveloped him, as if he were an alien dropped into an ant nest, watched by countless invisible eyes.
'In the end, what I, a physical transmigrant, need most is information. I must immediately check the current year, month, and date, understand the prices here, and find out where the cheapest lodging is.'
His brain started working furiously without him realizing, automatically planning the best course of action.
Step one: find a newsstand or convenience store—newspapers will answer most questions.
Swallowing his saliva, Steve followed the flow of people toward the brightly lit downtown shopping street. Neon signs on both sides of the street flashed in Japanese kanji and katakana. The air was a mix of food aromas, car exhaust, and the faintly sweet perfume of the era. Everything was familiar, yet unknown.
It was as if he were visiting a retro theme park, but deep down he knew this was neither a dream nor a game—if he got cold and hungry, he'd die for real.
Soon, he spotted a small bookstore on the corner, with shelves outside displaying newspapers and magazines. He hurried over, pretended to browse magazines, but his eyes were glued to the date on the front page of the newspaper.
—"Heisei Year 1, November 7, Tuesday."
…The first year of the Heisei era.
His heart suddenly sank. Even though he'd expected this, seeing the fact in black and white before his eyes still made his head spin with the overwhelming sensation of time's passage.
He really couldn't go back.
The world of the internet, smartphones, and everything he knew was still more than thirty years in the future.
Forcing himself to calm down, he glanced over the other headlines:
"Nikkei average hits new high," "Sales tax sparks social debate," "Berlin Wall may collapse"…
Each word deepened his realization.
He took a deep breath, tore his eyes from the paper, and started thinking about his next step. He knew the time now, but he was still penniless. At this time, there's no Paypal or Google pay; all transactions are cash, and you can't even buy a bottle of water without money.
What should he do? Work in the underworld? Would anyone hire a foreigner without ID who doesn't speak the language fluently? Steal? Snatch something?
His moral baseline and pitiful courage quickly dismissed those options.
No way… Did he really want to sleep on the street, leave a stain in the corners of this bustling era, and quietly freeze or starve to death?
In that moment of despair, his eyes were drawn to a small pavilion nearby, with a red police lamp blinking on top. It was a police box—a koban.
A middle-aged officer in uniform sat inside, leisurely sipping tea. Instantly, a solution formed in his mind: ask the police for help. He could pretend to be a tourist who'd lost his wallet and passport and ask for assistance. That was the fastest and most likely way to get temporary shelter and food.
But the risks were just as great. They'd definitely demand ID, nationality, and entry records. But as a physical transmigrant, Steve had nothing to provide. If a thorough investigation found no such person, what awaited him? Would he be treated as mentally ill? Or, worse, as an unidentified spy?
He immediately began reasoning through the two options. Countless possibilities branched and spread in his mind, and the man once again fell into familiar hesitation.
Steve stood amid the corner crowd, staring at the small police box glowing warmly in the cold night. It felt like both an entryway to life and a trap that would swallow everything.
Should he go or not?
The man's palms sweated with nerves, and his heart pounded violently. His very life, and his survival in this world, might depend on his next decision.
…