He was just a part-timer paid by the hour, and yet the cashier still insisted on checking if he was of legal age. The dedication of Japanese service workers was... touching.
Even though Yin Ze's body language screamed seasoned adult, his youthful appearance—long hair slicked back and tied into a trendy ponytail—was enough for the clerk to dig in their heels and hand over a different box of Pocky sticks.
Well, whatever.
With two fingers holding the snack and a thumb flicking it up, Yin Ze squatted by the roadside in classic Asian style, eyes unfocused, crunching on the chocolate-coated stick.
...He might have been trafficked to another world, but life had to go on.
First, he needed to at least get through high school. As for college? Not even worth thinking about. He could barely remember his multiplication tables.
Still, being magically granted native-level Japanese was something to be thankful for. Very practical—if he ever made it back to China, he could try applying to international companies. For now, though, he'd stick to his old trade, save up some cash, adjust to this place, and figure out the next step.
That was the upside of being a skilled laborer. He wasn't aiming to strike it rich, but at least he wouldn't starve. And this was Japan—a market full of opportunities.
With the money Takizawa left behind, he could scrape by for another month. He just needed to buy a few essentials and head home.
If there was one thing they had in common, it was probably their shared passion for art.
Back home, Yin Ze had been a nameless brick in the giant game industry cake—a humble concept artist constantly abused by clients.
After years of grinding, he'd finally been on the verge of promotion to art director: the kind of gig where he'd sketch rough ideas, toss out casual advice, and coast through the day.
And then—bam!—he got isekai'd here. A bitter pill to swallow.
Yin Ze cracked open a chilled soda, chewing on a Pocky stick as he browsed online.
In his line of work, the talent pool was a battlefield. It was like tossing bait into a sea of Lovecraftian horrors.
Craig Mullins—forever the GOAT.
At this point, Jia Jia was already working overseas. The Lightsaber Bro had just landed a top spot at DW. Yang Qi's "Asura" project was taking shape. The next wave of household-name legends were making their move.
The golden age was on the horizon.
Just thinking about it made Yin Ze tremble and snap the Pocky in half. His ambition was flaring up.
He was a time traveler with ten years of future aesthetic experience and insider knowledge. Wouldn't it be a shame not to rise to the top? He could start his own class and rake in both fame and fortune!
Yes! This was his Ten-Mile Slope Swordmaster arc!
Just as he was daydreaming about adoring fangirls flooding his comment section, he came across a draft by someone named "CM." One glance at the master-level work drained all the color from his face.
...Okay, maybe he was more of a Thousand Sword Strokes on the Ten-Mile Slope kind of guy.
The laptop held several sketches—probably Takizawa's. To Yin Ze's professional eye, the designs were amateurish, but there was heart in the effort.
Judging from the tone in his diary, Takizawa had likely dreamed of becoming a manga artist or animator.
A practical guy with a wildly impractical dream.
Two of the toughest professions in Japan—one overly abundant, the other criminally underpaid. Why would anyone willingly walk that path? Then again, choosing art was already irrational enough.
He found a drawing tablet. Its surface was etched with scratches that crisscrossed into near-circular patterns.
Seeing those marks struck a chord.
"Let's pass the baton, then," Yin Ze murmured.
He opened the drawing software and pulled up one of the more heavily-worked practice sketches. With a steady hand, he began editing.
As dusk approached, he visited a nearby print shop to print out the finished piece. Back at the apartment, he placed the page into a metal basin and lit it on fire.
"I polished your dream just a little. Hope it reaches you."
Maybe the body still carried traces of the boy's emotions, because as the paper curled into ash, Yin Ze felt a strange blend of sadness and regret.
After cleaning up, he went back online to job hunt.
It was a tedious routine—first filtering by location, then pay, then suitability. After more than an hour, he'd shortlisted a few decent options.
Outside, night had fully fallen, the neon lights painting rivers of color across the city.
Yin Ze rubbed his tired eyes and collapsed onto the floor, staring at the ceiling.
What would tomorrow bring? What did the future hold? Honestly, he didn't have a clue.
But hey, he was already here.
There weren't many choices left but to accept it and move forward.
Tomorrow, he planned to finish a few more portfolio pieces and look into Takizawa's background. The day after, he'd return to school to talk graduation plans with the teacher.
He drifted into sleep, and with it, into a dream.
A boy pedaled his bike, breath held in concentration. A man behind him gripped the seat to steady him. Once the boy found balance, the man let go—only for the bike to wobble and crash. The man laughed, hands on hips, teasing his son.
Summer heat. A big and small figure, both wearing matching tees and shorts, sat under tinkling wind chimes. At the sound of "Start!", they raced to devour watermelon. Juice and seeds flew everywhere, cheeks puffed like hamsters. The mess earned them a scolding from mom, and they were banished outside to sulk under the shade of a convenience store.
Opening ceremonies, races, tug-of-war—the dad was always in the crowd, camera in hand, cheering loudly.
On the way home, they found a stray kitten. After much pleading, mom finally agreed to keep it.
Waiting by the TV to catch tokusatsu and anime. The boy played the hero; dad, the villainous scientist with a pot for a helmet. Of course, the hero won every time.
Memories flickered.
Seasons flew by—spring's blooms, summer's heat, autumn's breeze, winter's snow. School uniforms faded. Cicadas sang at dusk. The wind fan hummed.
Eventually, the boy stopped living on that street. Only mom and the now-chubby orange cat remained.
Then one day, the cat died. Soon after, a tall stranger appeared at the door with a gift and an awkward smile.
Meals moved to the floor. Leisure TV shows became late-night anime. Rental homes had no garden chimes. No one helped with bikes anymore.
Growing up, the world turned gray. Neon signs lit up the city, but most were just store ads.
The trees lost their vibrant green. The playful wind felt more distant.
Old manga. Dusty DVDs. Only in these worlds did time stand still.
On screen, a cheerful hero journeyed with friends through fantastical lands. Somewhere, that boy and father watching TV together lived on.
So he picked up the pen—nostalgic, hopeful—and began to draw. To tell stories.
Yin Ze woke up with tears on his face. He wiped them away instinctively.
Six a.m. Dawn was just breaking.
Dreams fade quickly—sometimes forgotten within seconds of waking.
But fragments lingered.
They were Takizawa Satoru's memories.
The sorrow and loss still echoed faintly, but as wakefulness returned, they drifted further away.
Maybe there was still a thin thread tying him to Takizawa's soul. But it would snap eventually.
Yin Ze sat in silence.
"You were a good kid."
The word "boy" carries both brilliance and despair. Both innocence and foolishness. Some grow wings; others fall.
He washed his face, stepped to the window, and looked out at gray Tokyo. The morning breeze brushed his damp cheeks with a refreshing chill.
With a chocolate stick in his mouth, he smirked.
Too bad I'm not a kid anymore. Can't just bawl my eyes out like you.
Something he should've said earlier—two days late.
He paused, then spoke in passable Japanese.
"Nice to meet you, Takizawa-kun."
I'll keep drawing for you. After all, this is my job too.
He smiled gently, turned around, and started boiling water for instant noodles.
A new day had begun.
Time to unleash the full might of the skills he'd sharpened under ruthless clients back home.
He was the King of Tool Artists!
Goal: Submit thirty job applications today!
By late morning, Yin Ze had already cranked out several UI designs, assembly-line style. He planned to take a break in the afternoon and sketch some character concepts.
It felt like his job-hunting days again—passionate, determined—and for once, no one was demanding edits.
This body was young. A nap after two all-nighters, and he'd be good as new.
Let's gooo!
The phone suddenly rang.
Yin Ze picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this Mr. Takizawa? This is Ippei Kashiwai. I emailed you yesterday, but since you didn't reply, I figured a call would be faster."
"...Ah, I must've missed it. What's this about?" Yin Ze was understandably confused.
"There's a welcome party for new hires tonight, in Yoyogi."
"New hires?" Yin Ze blinked. "You must've got the wrong guy—I'm still in high school."
I haven't even sent out my résumé yet.
"Is this Takizawa Satoru?" the caller asked, now sounding a bit puzzled.
"Yeah."
"Then it's correct."
"Wait, for what company?" Yin Ze asked.
"I'm Enterprise," the man said. "You passed the entry evaluation with excellent marks."
"...Huh? So what does the company do? Outsourcing? Game dev? Am I on the art team or marketing?"
Had Takizawa seriously landed a job without telling anyone?
"We're a talent agency," Kashiwai said, sounding thrown off.
"A what?"
"Voice acting. A seiyuu agency."
"...Huh?"
"A VOICE ACTOR AGENCY!!" Kashiwai finally shouted.
"Wha—WHAT?!"