After setting a training plan and clear goals for Shiginomiya, it was time for Kuroba Akira to get to work himself.
He grabbed a chilled plate of watermelon from the fridge and headed upstairs to the second floor, stopping in front of Hijikata Isamu's room.
"Hijikata-san! Hijikata-san! It's nighttime—get up already!"
Akira knocked loudly—without any restraint. He had to. Anything less and Hijikata wouldn't budge. The man slept like a dead pig.
Having once been a corporate drone himself, Akira understood all too well that feeling of closing your eyes and never wanting to open them again. Living on the edge of collapse, unsure if the next nap might be your last.
He genuinely worried about Hijikata's health.
You've been given a second chance at life through transmigration—and now you're about to work yourself into an early grave again?
He didn't know how Hijikata had died in his previous life, but if it was the same as Akira—death by overwork—that was just too tragic.
After a solid round of banging, there was a loud crash from inside the room, followed by a raspy duck-like groan. Akira stopped knocking.
Yep. That sound says it all.
Most likely, Hijikata was awake now but still half-delirious, and had stubbed his toe or whacked his knee trying to get up.
Seconds later, the door creaked open. Hijikata stood there with panda eyes, hunched over like a zombie, barely clinging to consciousness.
"Ugh… Akira-kun… what time is it?"
"It's already nine o'clock, Hijikata-san. Later than your usual wake-up time."
"Shit!"
After a colorful curse, Hijikata scratched his bird's nest of hair. His slack features instantly tensed with stress.
"Damn it… I just wanted to take a short nap! How the hell is it already nine?! Crap, I'm gonna miss my delivery deadline!"
Even so, before bolting back to his desk, he paused to thank Akira.
"Seriously, thanks for waking me up. I'd be royally screwed if you hadn't. So? What's up?"
Akira handed him the plate of watermelon.
"Brought you some melon."
"…Where'd this come from?"
"Kobayashi-obaasan bought it. Asked me to bring you and Tashiro-san your share."
Hijikata stared at the watermelon like he was seeing salvation. A middle-aged man's eyes began to shimmer, and he wiped them with the back of his hand.
"Damn… Kobayashi-san… she's a living saint…"
"It's because of Kobayashi-ojiisan's last words. That's why she takes such good care of us 'lost souls from another world.'"
"I know… but still. Even if that's the reason, it's amazing she goes this far. She doesn't owe us anything. If it weren't for her, I'd probably have died on the street by now."
Weren't we all…
Akira might've called her "the old hag" constantly, but it was never meant disrespectfully. It was affectionate, just like how Kobayashi Mika always called him Shirako.
In truth, he was deeply grateful for her unconditional support.
That said, her relationship with her own son seemed strained. Akira had lived here for nearly half a year and had yet to see the man even once.
Still, she'd been able to borrow things from her granddaughter, so maybe it wasn't a full-on estrangement.
If things stayed this way, Akira had already decided—he'd be the one to take care of her in her old age.
She probably wasn't short on money, but for the elderly, company was worth far more than cash.
After handing over the watermelon, Akira casually asked, "Hijikata-san, could I borrow your laptop for a bit?"
It wasn't the first time he'd borrowed it. When gathering information about this world, Akira had used the library, but also frequently relied on online searches.
He'd been surfing the web since second grade in his past life—over twenty years of experience. And he knew that reading just one type of media was a great way to end up brainwashed. Clickbait media loved to cherry-pick facts to manipulate people.
Even if this world's internet hadn't yet descended into algorithmic hell, Akira was cautious. He filtered and cross-checked information out of habit.
You never trust just one source. You triangulate. That's dialectical materialism, baby.
Hijikata used a desktop for work; his laptop was a backup, usually for side tasks or slacking off.
He stepped aside, gesturing to his room.
"Sure, come on in."
"No need—I just need to borrow the laptop itself."
"Huh? But my room's the only one with an ethernet port. Kobayashi-san even had it installed just for me. We don't have Wi-Fi here yet…"
"Don't need the internet. Just need Office."
"Oh, alright. Wait here."
Hijikata disappeared into the chaos of his room and emerged a moment later, fishing the laptop and charger out from the mess on his desk.
"Just don't delete my backup files, yeah? Not that I need to remind you."
The two exchanged a knowing look—a bond forged in otaku brotherhood.
Despite the age gap, they had zero generational divide. The two of them were the only ones in the house who could laugh at decades-old internet memes.
Tashiro-san was also a transmigrator, but she didn't seem like she'd been online much in her past life. She rarely showed up, and when she did, she never joined their conversations.
"Thanks, Hijikata-san. Once I start making money, dinner's on me."
"Hah, I'll hold you to that. I've turned into a total washout in this world—just don't end up like me."
Hijikata chuckled self-deprecatingly, yawned, rubbed his face, and returned to his room to keep working.
Akira knew things were hard for him. Most of it seemed to be financial—he was probably in deep debt. But Akira himself was flat broke and couldn't offer much help.
Plus, he knew nothing about programming and had no plans to start. That path was for ascetics. After thirty, most coders started balding. Hijikata's hairline was already retreating like a tide.
Not every transmigrator landed in a power fantasy.
Just because you crossed into another world doesn't mean you've escaped suffering. Sometimes, you just fall into a different sea of misery.
At least all three transmigrators in the Kobayashi household had their own personal struggles.
But still—this was their second chance. They couldn't let it end the same way.
This time, they were going to live easy. Live smart.
We've already died once. What's a little more hardship?
Laptop in hand, Akira returned to the living room. Shiginomiya was practicing lines from Blue's character, now reading aloud with fairly convincing emotion.
Akira didn't interrupt. He just sat down at the table, plugged in the laptop, and powered it up.
That familiar, retro Windows 7 startup screen appeared—the newest OS in this world.
But Akira wasn't here to play games. He booted up Office.
Back in his old life, he'd been a scriptwriter and copywriter. His closest companions had been his keyboard and WPS (word processing software).
When he wrote in the school library, it had only been for practice—and to jog his memory for stories worth plagiarizing.
But now?
Now it was time to get serious.
Let's write something.