"Masatoshi-kun, how did your exams go?" Sumi asks me, her tone curious, laced with a hint of concern.
"They were decent... I hope I pass," I reply, my voice shaky, reflecting the anxiety that churns within me. Today marks the end of my exams, with the results set to be revealed in about a month. The wait feels agonizing.
I'm Masatoshi Kazuta, just your average high schooler—well, perhaps a little more than average. At school, I'm often referred to as the NPC, a term borrowed from video games that describes non-playable characters who exist merely to provide quests and information, offering little in terms of significance to the gameplay. In essence, that's how others see me: a character without a real role in the grand narrative of their lives.
As I trudge down the hallway, glancing at the rows of lockers, I hope to spot my own among the sea of metal doors. Girls walk past, giggling and whispering to one another, their eyes flicking toward me.
"Look, it's the loser!" I can practically hear them mutter as I pass.
Not long ago, I developed a profound interest in reading novels, especially fantasy ones that transport readers to worlds filled with adventure and magic. Romance, however, has never appealed to me—perhaps because it feels like something I'll never experience firsthand. Instead, I've become enthralled by the genre known as "Isekai." This Japanese term translates to "parallel world," and Isekai novels often feature protagonists whisked away to fantastical realms, where they either lead charmed lives or face harrowing challenges.
More than anything, I yearn for that escape. To be reincarnated or summoned into another world would be a dream come true, allowing me to leave this dreary existence behind.
With my thoughts swirling, I continue walking through the bustling halls, surrounded by unfamiliar faces that seem to judge me. Finally, I reach my locker. I yank it open forcefully, only to be met with an avalanche of clutter tumbling out. As I kneel to pick up the mess, laughter erupts behind me.
Desperate for solace, my brain urges me to stand tall, shaking off the embarrassment. I rise, feeling drained and overwhelmed, my legs leading me toward the exit just a few feet away. I crave a moment of peace—an opportunity to retreat to the warm embrace of my dimly lit room, surrounded by the piles of novels I've sacrificed my savings to amass.
I step onto the bridge outside, with the symphony of honking cars and revving engines creating a chaotic backdrop. The noise feels oppressive, and even the simple act of walking seems like a monumental task. Eventually, I arrive home and ring the doorbell, my little sister opening the door with a teasing grin.
"Finally home?" she asks, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
"I know I'm late, sorry..." I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper, fatigue creeping into my words.
"It's alright, come inside," she replies, stepping aside to let me pass. Without hesitation, I head straight to my room, collapsing face-first onto my bed. I lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, consumed by thoughts about my future. What will I do when I grow up? Will I even be around to find out? These questions swirl in my mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind.
After some time, I sit up and shuffle over to my bookshelf, which is crammed with an overwhelming variety of books. I sift through the countless spines, selecting one that catches my eye. Studying its cover for a moment, I then flop back onto my bed and crack it open. I intend to devour the pages in one sitting, hoping the story will distract me from my relentless thoughts.
Once again, I manage to finish an entire novel without ever sitting up—an impressive feat, albeit one I've accomplished many times before. I find solace in these stories, even if the novels I've managed to read in one go are often shorter than most.
I stand up once more, returning to my bookshelf to place the novel back in its spot. As I scan the shelf, I realize, "I need to get new novels..."
True to my subconscious musing, I find myself walking to the streets again, determined to visit the local novel store to purchase something fresh. The sound of my footsteps echoes in the quiet late afternoon. The usually vibrant street feels uncharacteristically still for a 4 PM on a weekday. Dismissing the oddity, I reach the store, only to be met by a locked door. Confusion washes over me; it's usually open until 9 PM. Just as I'm about to turn away, something catches my eye—it's the shop owner, making his way down the sidewalk.
I quicken my pace to catch up to him, calling out, "Hey! Why is the store closed?"
He turns around to face me, holding a thick journal in his hand. It has no cover or title, just a plain, worn appearance. Clearing his throat, he responds, "I'm unfortunately closing down the shop permanently."
A sharp stab of disappointment pierces my chest. After all, this was my favorite place to escape reality! Yet, I don't press him for further details. Instead, my eye is drawn to the journal.
"What's that in your hand?" I ask, an eyebrow quirking up in curiosity.
"This? It's just a plain old journal I found lying around the store. Want it?" he offers casually.
"A journal, huh? Sure, if you're giving it away," I say, intrigued. I take it from him, suspecting there might be more to this unassuming book than meets the eye.
As I watch him walk away, fading into the distance, I can't shake the sadness that lingers over the loss of my beloved store. With a heavy heart, I turn to head back home, clutching the journal tightly, wondering what secrets it might hold.
I watch as the man in the distance gradually fades from view, his figure shrinking until it's merely a silhouette. A wave of sadness washes over me, reminded that the store I frequented for years is now permanently closed. I shuffle toward the abandoned storefront, my eyes downcast. The lingering scent of aged paper and worn leather fills the air, igniting a rush of nostalgia that takes me back to the very first time I stepped inside, clutching a novel that would later become my favorite.
Tears begin to well up in my eyes. Am I really getting emotional over a bookstore? I hastily swipe at my cheeks, hoping no one around me notices my vulnerability. The feeling of urgency quickens my pace as I head home; the sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, and my sister will surely be anxious about my whereabouts.
Once I reach home, I make my way to my room, each step heavy with memories. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, destressed. Eventually, I slide down to sit on the floor, staring at the journal I recently received. To the untrained eye, it seems like an ordinary journal, but the quality of the paper is exceptional—thick, smooth, and perfect for writing. If sold, it could fetch a high price, but that's not why I accepted it in the first place.
With shaky hands, I open the journal, revealing elegant handwriting that dances across the pages. Inside, I find a series of instructions—peculiar steps that hint at something extraordinary: the potential to be teleported into another world.
"Like an... Isekai?" I mutter to myself, a mix of disbelief and excitement coursing through me.
Intrigued, I flip through the pages, seeking a random one to follow. Finally, I land on a specific set of instructions.
1) Gather water.
I cautiously unlock my door and make my way down the hardwood stairs, where the faint sound of my sister tapping away on her phone echoes from the kitchen. Living with her means she handles most of the household chores, though I try to pitch in whenever I can.
With a sense of purpose, I pour a glass of cool, clear water, feeling its weight in my hand as I ascend back to my room.
2) Gather salt.
I head back downstairs again, retrieving a small dish of salt from the pantry, its grains glinting softly under the kitchen light.
3) Now, draw an octagram on the floor and sit in the middle.
Using a red ink pen, I carefully draw an octagram on the floor, the lines jagged yet distinct. Despite its imperfection, I admire my work, feeling a sense of accomplishment as I stand back to observe it.
4) Place the salt on your right side and pour the water on your left side. They must be contained within the octagram.
Following the instructions, I meticulously arrange the salt and water according to the guidelines.
Suddenly, a vibrant greenish-orange glow begins to seep into my room, illuminating the space and casting eerie shadows on the walls. Startled, I jump to my feet. Panic grips me as I rush towards the door, eager to escape this unexplainable situation—only to find the door locked! I frantically twist the handle, but it won't budge.
A deep, cold voice echoes in my mind. "Don't be afraid."
Caught off guard, I stumble back and hit the floor, my heart racing as the glow draws nearer, enveloping me in its warm embrace. I close my eyes and brace myself for whatever fate awaits me. One thing is certain: the instructions worked.
"Wake up, Masatoshi."
A gentle yet commanding voice pulls me from darkness. Slowly, I open my eyes. Beneath me lies a soft mattress, and as I stand up, my feet meet a cold, hard floor. I take in my surroundings, blinking against the unexpected brightness of the room. I realize I'm lying in a simple bed, and the structure around me is built of aged wood, with beams overhead that creak slightly as I shift.
Just as curiosity compels me to explore my new environment, an unexpected burning sensation flares in my eyes. I instinctively close them, and tears begin to spill down my cheeks as I stumble backward, unintentionally knocking over a heap of volumes stacked precariously nearby.
Once the discomfort subsides, I turn to see what I've disturbed—an array of books, all novels, their spines worn and titles faded from much love and use. However, the thrill of the find quickly pales in comparison to the urgency I feel to uncover the nature of my new surroundings.
Scouring the room, I spot a desk beside the bed, upon which rests a rotary landline phone, an odd relic in this foreign place. I approach it, intrigued and wary, knowing that the answers I seek lie just beyond this threshold of the unknown.
I stand there for a moment, puzzled by my surroundings, and wonder to myself, "Why is there an old rotary phone? I've never seen one in my life."
Driven by curiosity, I cautiously approach the ornate wooden desk. Each step echoes with a series of creaks, the sound resonating in the quiet room. Standing before the phone, I gaze at it intently. It exudes a sense of luxury, almost regal, as if it were crafted for someone of high social standing. The device is primarily made of polished metal, its intricate details catching the sunlight and reflecting it in dazzling patterns. For an instant, the glare overwhelms me, forcing me to squint and rub my eyes vigorously. In an effort to avoid the blinding light, I step to the side of the desk.
Examining the phone, I take note of its meticulous craftsmanship and the elegantly designed rotary dial. I bring the handset to my ear, feeling the cool metal against my skin. My finger finds its way to the "9" slot, and I deliberately spin the rotary until it clicks into position. Next, I move to the "1" slot, turning it twice. "911," I whisper to myself.
As the handset rings in my ear, each chime fills my heart with anxious anticipation. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the receiver.
"The number you have dialed does not exist."
A loud, persistent ringing from the handset indicates my blunder. Slowly, I place the receiver back into its cradle, feeling a mix of confusion and curiosity. Just then, a bright idea sparks in my mind. I turn toward the heavy wooden door, now standing before it. Taking a deep breath, I open it, allowing sunlight to flood in, momentarily blinding me once again. I rub my eyes, pulling my hand back as the glaring light fades, revealing a bustling city block.
Row upon row of houses—some made of sturdy brick, others of weathered wood—dot the street, while pedestrians stroll by, engaged in their daily routines. The air is filled with the sounds of honking cars, rumbling carriages, and snippets of conversation, creating a lively symphony. However, something feels distinctly off; the world appears a bit old-fashioned, almost as if I've stepped into a time warp.
Reaching into my right pocket, I feel a solid object. I pull it out in haste, discovering a worn leather wallet. Inside, I find three crumpled currency bills and an identification card. I extract the ID and hold it up to my face, scrutinizing it closely. It features the handsome visage of a man with dark blue, tousled hair. The card reads, "Birth date: May 13th, 1703." My jaw drops in disbelief. A card from so long ago?!
Stunned, I instinctively pull my hand to my face. The features I touch—a small mole, defined cheekbones—mirror those of the man on the ID. My fingers trace along my facial structure until it becomes unmistakably clear: I look just like him. The name reads "William Lidford Lias." Heart racing, I hastily reinsert the card into my pocket, my mind racing with questions. I rush back inside the house, closing the door behind me, and begin to rummage through the old drawers of the desk, frantically searching for a mirror. To my dismay, I find none.
My gaze shifts back to the rotary phone, and I walk over to it, positioning my face before the polished cradle. To my astonishment, I catch a glimpse of myself in its shiny surface—only to realize that I am not in my own body.
It suddenly hits me: just like in an Isekai novel, I've transmigrated to another world, occupying someone else's body. Gathering my thoughts, I step outside once more, noticing the lively street activity. People bustle past me, immersed in their own lives, seemingly unaware of my bewilderment. I spot a lady carrying a bag filled with what appears to be freshly baked bread. She is stunning, likely in her twenties, dressed in a modest Victorian dress that, while beautiful, does not accentuate her figure.
"Excuse me, miss…" I call out, my voice tinged with uncertainty.
She looks me over, her expression a mix of intrigue and caution.
"Hm?" she replies, tilting her head slightly.
"What year is it?" I ask, hoping for clarity.
The lady's brow furrows in confusion, but she shrugs it off, answering, "Oh… it's 1730. You might want to buy a calendar," she suggests lightly, a hint of humor in her tone.
Without thinking, I instinctively bow as a sign of respect, but her expression shifts to one of puzzlement.
"Why are you doing that? I'm not a member of royalty," she questions, her curiosity piqued.
Reality crashes over me; I'm in another world, in a foreign country, and the customs I practiced in Japan might not apply here. Quickly, I adjust my posture to rectify my earlier gesture.
"Sorry… it's just instinct," I say, hoping to convey my sincerity.
She seems to accept my explanation, nodding politely before continuing on her way. I stand there, momentarily rooted in place, pondering my next move. According to the year she provided, William—or I—should be about 27 years old. I had followed some vague instructions from a book, and now I find myself stranded in a world that feels far more advanced than it should be for this time period, trapped in the body of a 30-year-old man. What am I supposed to do now?