At 3:07 AM, Tokyo was a silent predator. The cold seeped through the slats of the automatic blinds, clung to the soundproof glass of the 88th floor, and watched its prey: me, Kenji Tanaka.
I considered myself, however, an apex predator.
My office was a sanctuary of minimalism and ruthless efficiency. A single slab of polished obsidian served as my desk, free of personal objects. Only the curved holographic screen displayed a dozen data windows and the haggard faces of my management team, scattered across the planet's various time zones.
"Repeat that to me, David."
My voice came out calm, almost soothing. David knew what that meant. When I raised my voice, I was irritated; when I lowered it like this, I was calculating exactly how much it would cost to replace him. David's pixelated face wavered on the screen. The man had not seen sunlight in forty-eight hours, and it showed.
"Mr. Tanaka, it was a storm. An act of God. The port was closed for seven hours."
"Inacceptable."
I did not shout. I never did. Shouting was for mid-level managers who had lost control. I never lost control.
"An act of God is a failure in planning. The performance targets were clear, David. We don't measure excuses, we measure results." I paused, letting my words settle in the room. "Project Odyssey does not consider the weather an obstacle. I need you to anticipate problems, not justify failures after they have occurred."
"Yes, Mr. Tanaka. I understand perfectly."
"Do you?" I let the silence stretch for exactly three seconds. "Good. Implement the diversion to Rotterdam and absorb the costs. I don't want to hear about this again. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
I muted David's channel without waiting for further confirmation. Next face on the screen.
"Sarah, how is the implementation in Singapore going?"
Sarah, at least, looked awake. Coffee, probably a lot of coffee.
"The numbers are within the expected range, Mr. Tanaka. The local team has exceeded projections by eight percent."
"And the bottlenecks you mentioned on Tuesday?"
"Resolved. We reassigned the warehouse staff and hired additional shifts. The flow is now continuous."
I nodded. Sarah understood the concept. Anticipate, adjust, execute. Simple.
"Excellent work. Keep that pace and document the process. I want it to be the standard for all locations."
"Understood, sir."
The session continued for another hour. Every region, every manager, and every metric analyzed orchestrated a symphony of global logistics. Odyssey, my project for the last three years, was my masterpiece: a total restructuring of the corporation, a system so perfectly optimized that, in theory, it could function without human intervention.
It was my legacy. My only real creation.
Finally, at 4:13 AM, I closed the last call window. The silence in the office transformed into something absolute. Only the soft hum of the servers broke the stillness. I was finished.
I opened a new email draft for the Board of Directors. I attached the final Odyssey report, a two-hundred-page document with charts that were, in their own way, works of art.
Subject: Project Odyssey: Full Implementation. New Operational Level Reached.
My finger hovered over the trackpad. Three years of my life. One hundred and fifty weeks of eighteen-hour days. Relationships sacrificed, health ignored. All for this moment: the creation of a perfect system.
I pressed Send.
The email disappeared and the monitor light confirmed its delivery. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, a marvel of engineering that monitored my vital signs. I expected something: a wave of triumph or, perhaps, relief; the deep satisfaction of a job well done.
Instead, what I felt was emptiness. The machine was complete and I, its creator, was no longer necessary. I was a redundant piece in my own system.
That was when I felt the first sting in my chest. It was a red alert flashing on the control panel of my own biology. I frowned, annoyed. Now? What an inopportune moment.
The universe shrank to the blinking of that warning. One moment I was admiring Project Odyssey and, the next, an icy claw was squeezing my heart. The pain expanded like ink in water. My vision narrowed and the holographic screen became a blur.
Karoshi. Death from overwork, damn it.
My last thought was a biting critique, a final report directed at my own existence: Catastrophic biological failure. Reliability below minimum standards. This is unacceptable.
*****
My consciousness, or what was left of it, floated in a programmatic nothingness. As a CEO, I expected an orderly transition process. My analysis of narrative patterns in fiction—consumed as a time-optimization exercise—suggested three possible proposals for new projects, given that I didn't feel dead yet; at least, not entirely:
Proposal A: Reassignment to the Villain's Castle. A classic. Reincarnation in a fantasy world with a clear hierarchy and defined organizational chart. Structurally sound, though with a high risk of hostile liquidation by the hero.Proposal B: Divine Merger and Acquisition. An encounter with a superior entity that would offer a set of skills. An attractive signing bonus, though with a risk of poor negotiation of terms and conditions.Proposal C: System Implementation. My preferred option. A clear user interface, with stats, missions, and rewards. A gamified world is, in essence, a world governed by measurable objectives.What I definitely did not expect was the stench. That was the first sensory impression: an olfactory assault, a nauseating mix of exotic spices, rotting fish, damp earth, and the unmistakable smell of a lack of sanitation. Then came the sunlight, brutal and direct, stabbing my eyelids.
I opened my eyes.
There were no Gothic castles, no ethereal large-breasted goddesses, no blue screens floating before me. I was lying in an alley, my head resting on a burlap sack that stank of cloves and something vaguely fecal. The stone floor was cold and sticky. Above me, the curved roofs of dark wooden buildings were silhouetted against an incredibly pure blue sky. The architecture was elegant, with interlocking beams and gray ceramic tiles, but it betrayed a clear lack of structural maintenance.
This is... Southeast Asian aesthetics. Low technological level. Untapped market potential, but with deficient infrastructure.
The impact was not the panic of a modern man thrown into the past, but the frustration of a high-level CEO waking up in the middle of a disorganized startup without a clear business plan.
"Hey, you! Street trash!"
A harsh voice snapped me out of my analysis. A shadow loomed over me. I looked up and saw a city guard—or so his ragged leather tunic and the spear he held with insulting laziness indicated—watching me with contempt. He had the belly of someone who enjoys too many food-based bribes and a beard that looked like an abandoned bird's nest.
"Are you alive or just occupying valuable space? If you're dead, the corpse cart doesn't pass until dusk. If you're alive, pay the ground tax or get lost."
I sat up with a groan. The body I now inhabited was young, perhaps sixteen or eighteen years old, and painfully thin. A quick inspection revealed a coarse, patched tunic. It was, to use the proper terminology, a worthless asset. An outcast. The voice that came out of my throat was weaker than I expected:
"Ground... tax?"
The guard let out a dry laugh.
"Of course, philosopher! Do you think you can use my alley for your beauty sleep for free? Nothing in this life is free."
He stepped closer, pointing the spear vaguely in my direction.
"Either you give me two copper coins, or I'll give you a relocation incentive with the tip of my spear. What do you say, beggar? Do you have the coins or do I prefer to save you the effort of thinking?"
Okay, this is low-level extortion by a corrupt public official. A strategic retreat was the only logical option.
"Understood."
With an effort that made my joints creak, I stood up. The world swayed for an instant. Severe malnutrition. The performance of this apparatus was dismal. The guard looked disappointed by my submission; he probably expected a fight or a plea to brighten his boring morning.
"That's right. Go die somewhere else," he grumbled, leaning on his spear. "And the next time I see you sleeping in my zone, I won't be so generous. You hear me?"
"Perfectly."
I brushed off my tunic while my mind already processed the new reality. Panic was for middle management. I was a CEO. CEOs don't panic: they pivot and use situations to their advantage. And the first step was clear: I needed a competitive analysis of the environment to identify resource acquisition opportunities.
I left the alley and entered the main square. The bustle hit me like a wave: vendors shouting prices, children running between fruit stalls, the sound of hammers on metal. Everything was chaotic and inefficient. That was when I saw the first serious anomaly.
Two men were arguing heatedly in the center of the square. They were burly and wore better quality clothes than the other passersby. One accused the other of theft.
"You stole three sacks of rice from me, you damn thief!" "I didn't steal anything! You owe me money for last month's work!"
The argument intensified and a circle of onlookers began to form. Then, the first man, red with rage, adopted a strange stance: legs bent, hands on his waist. He shouted something unintelligible and his fists lit up, wrapped in a white internal luminescence like energy gloves.
My brain did not process amazement, but a sting of irritation as sharp as the heart attack that had brought me here.
"What stupidity."
The phrase left my mouth before I could stop it. The guard, who had not yet moved away, looked at me with bewilderment.
"What are you mumbling about, worm?"
I ignored him. My concentration was total on the two idiots in the square.
A total waste of energy, I whispered. I couldn't stop myself; it was like seeing a financial report full of errors. The light emission is useless, an expense with no practical combat benefit. Anyone with a brain would notice that their exaggerated movements leave too many openings.
The second man responded in the same way. His hands glowed with a pale yellow tone. Both began to circle each other, glowing fists held high, in a demonstration of power that only served to exhaust them.
It only serves to alert the opponent, eliminating the element of surprise. All flash, no substance. The return on investment is negative.
I rubbed my temples. My head ached from the overwhelming stupidity around me.
If he had simply thrown a punch, it would be different.
The two men finally lunged at each other. Their fists collided with a flash and a sound like breaking glass. Both were thrown backward and landed with groans of pain.
Pathetic, I muttered. They spent all their energy on a single exchange. One doesn't need to be a combatant to deduce that if they had coordinated better, one could have parried while the other attacked.
A group of children ran past, chasing a creature that looked like a cross between a chicken and a lizard. They tripped over each other, shouting without coordination. My brain immediately switched targets: With a simple trap and nets, they could have caught it easily. These children need a supervisor.
"You're definitely crazy," the guard said, backing away. "Talking to yourself like an old drunk."
I paid him no attention. My focus was already on the next anomaly. An ethereal vision crossed the square: a woman of noble bearing glided on a shimmering sword a few inches off the ground. It was an image that would have inspired poets; it only inspired frustration in me.
Personal levitation transport. Impressive in theory. I narrowed my eyes. However, it must be harder to maintain balance than simply walking. If she used a vehicle or a wider sword, the instability would be reduced. Furthermore, traveling while standing poses an unnecessary risk. She needs, at minimum, a harness. Why does no one here think in terms of safety?
The guard gripped his spear with both hands, frightened.
"Hey, are you okay? Maybe you should go see a healer."
I moved slightly, ignoring him. I was on the lowest rung of a society that didn't even understand the basic principles of optimization. In my past life, I would have delegated this disaster to a team of specialists. But here, there was only me.
And a strange sensation began to emerge in the void that Project Odyssey had left: the irrepressible urge of a perfectionist manager faced with a failing system. Frustration was transforming into purpose.
"This place," I said aloud, my tone shifting from beggar to consultant, "is a management disaster. An emerging market without leadership or strategy."
A dry smile formed on my lips. It was an expression that did not fit the face of a young beggar, but it was the signature of a CEO about to launch the greatest hostile takeover in history. I looked at the guard.
"Do you know what your problem is? Your position is reactive. You wait for problems to arise instead of preventing them."
I took a step toward him. My body was weak, but my voice had the weight of years of experience.
"You are incompetent. You don't watch the rooftops; an assassin could jump down right now and you'd be dead before you could raise your spear. Your security protocol is a joke. If this were my company, you would be in a performance improvement program or fired. Probably fired."
"I... who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"
"Someone who understands efficiency. And believe me, you don't."
I walked away before he could respond. My legs were shaking, but my mind was already working. I had a young, weak body, but an optimized mind. Short-term goal: survival and resource acquisition. Long-term goal: optimize this environment and consolidate a position of power.
I looked at the two idiots in the square, who were still trying to get up.
Let's start with a Personal Development Optimization protocol.
I stopped at the edge of the square, observing the chaos with the eyes of a CEO evaluating a bankrupt company. And if there was one thing Kenji Tanaka knew how to do, it was turn a bankruptcy into a profitable empire. A smile spread across my face. I was finally slightly excited.
This world was a mess. And I had just accepted the position of Chief Executive Officer.
First, I needed data. Then, I would optimize everything.
******
Author's Note: This story is a rewrite. I'm keeping the first 20 chapters public for now so I have time to fix mistakes and things I didn't like about the original version. Once I reach 50 chapters on Patreon (Patreo.com/shurazero), I'll start releasing them here one by one. I want to see how these introductory chapters are received and make sure the story is on the right track.
The main issue before was that my protagonist lacked personality. I'm working on fixing that without changing who he is at his core. You don't have to love him; I just want you to follow his journey as he discovers his own humanity