The rattle of the rolling shutter echoed in the quiet street. "Sunshine Mart" was open for business.
Akira—transmigrated, amnesiac, and officially designated a "trauma-afflicted refugee" two days prior—surveyed his new domain. The relief funds had secured him this: a modest convenience store with goods below and a cramped loft above that served as his home. He'd slept there last night, lulled by the bizarre afterglow of the app, Conquest. No aching back, no fatigue. Just the phantom warmth of digital skin against his.
No old man, no grand system, he mused, arranging a faded Sword Art Online promo poster by the door. But a butter app that replaces sleep and teaches you kung fu? I'll take it.
He was just about to call out a perfunctory "We're open!" when shadows detached from the alleyway.
Three men, posturing with practiced slouch, surrounded him. The leader, a greasy-haired man with a smirk, rubbed his thumb and fingers together. "This street's under our protection. Business costs extra, kid."
Akira's societal instincts, honed in a past life of office politics, kicked in. They weren't here for the store's meager till. They were here for him—the new, seemingly vulnerable refugee. A lesson needed teaching.
"Protection money?" Akira scoffed. "From just you three?"
"Smart mouth. Hurry up and—"
THWACK.
Akira moved. His body reacted not with his old office-worker hesitation, but with a fluid, instinctual violence. A vicious kick to the groin sent the leader soaring with a strangled, decidedly un-masculine shriek. Before the others could process it, Akira was among them—a pivot, a shoulder check that felt like hitting a sack of grain, a rising uppercut. In seconds, they were a groaning pile on the pavement.
As the unharmed ones scrambled to drag their comrades away, Akira stared at his own fists, breath steady, heart pounding with exhilaration, not fear.
Since when?
The memory surfaced: yesterday, idly exploring Conquest's interface, he'd clicked [External Combat Practice]. A notification flashed: "Martial Arts Mastery Acquired. Proficiency: 10%."
He fumbled for his phone. The character panel confirmed it. Martial Arts Mastery: 11%.
A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. Getting stronger by playing an H-game? This golden finger wasn't just thoughtful; it was poetically, hilariously broken. Those twelve in-game hours couldn't pass fast enough. Not just for the strength, but for a return to a certain meticulously rendered apartment and its lonely, captivating resident…
The bell above the door chimed, scattering his thoughts.
The woman who entered seemed to lower the temperature of the room. She wore an elegant evening gown and a shawl, an ensemble utterly incongruous with the fluorescent-lit aisles of instant noodles. Removing her sunglasses, she revealed eyes like chips of polished jade. Her short hair was sharp, her beauty cold and precise.
Akira's brain, now permanently wired by the app, performed an instantaneous, involuntary rendering: Bikini. Popsicle. Physics-defying jiggle. Awe-inspiring.
"The neighboring shop reported a disturbance," she stated, her voice cool. "I am Hellish Blizzard, B-Class Rank 1 of the Hero Association. Describe the incident."
Akira painted a vivid, slightly embellished picture of his heroic defense of small business.
"Your initiative is… notable," she said, a flicker of something—annoyance? appraisal?—in her jade eyes. "Next time, prioritize calling for a hero. We handle the risks."
"The situation escalated too quickly for calls," Akira replied, shrugging. "Besides, I'm not afraid of retaliation. Not with heroes like you around."
A faint, almost imperceptible snort. "Here is my card. Now, please carry two cases of mineral water to my vehicle."
Transaction complete, she turned. Akira's gaze—and imagination—followed the elegant, swaying line of her retreating form, from the sharp cut of her shoulders down to the curve that filled the back of her dress with such strategic, breathtaking promise.
Peaches, he thought, his mouth going dry. Definitely peaches.
He looked down at the business card in his hand. "Hellish Blizzard." Then at his phone, glowing with the icon of Conquest.
A dangerous, thrilling idea began to crystallize. This world was a mosaic of crossed narratives. And he now had a tool that could, perhaps, let him rewrite his role in all of them.
Must be a side effect of the app, Akira reasoned, watching the sleek sports car vanish around the corner. Rewiring my impulses. He'd always been a decent person. A very decent one.
But Hellish Blizzard's silhouette, that masterclass in strategic tailoring, was an undeniable fact. If only… He shook his head, dispelling the vivid, app-inspired imagery. Hmph!
By 10 PM, Akira was laid out on the futon in the storage loft, a thin mattress separating him from cardboard boxes of instant ramen. He didn't mind the cramped space. His entire being was focused on the phone in his hand, its screen counting down the final seconds.
00:00.
He tapped the Conquest icon.
There was no grand light show, no spatial tear he could perceive—just an instantaneous, silent displacement. One moment he was staring at a water-stained ceiling, the next…
Ahhh.
He wasn't in the loft. The air was rich with the scent of night-blooming flowers and damp earth. Crickets chirped a steady rhythm. Moonlight bathed a familiar, traditional Japanese courtyard wall ahead of him. The Izumi Residence.
The sensory fidelity was absolute. The slight chill, the texture of gravel under his shoes, the distant white noise of the suburban night—it was all impeccably, impossibly real. This super-realistic H-game, his private gateway, was so perfect it pulled a giddy laugh from his throat.
He approached the wall. To leave, he knew the drill. He turned and pressed a hand against the empty air at the edge of the property line.
A translucent menu shimmered into existence:
Shop
Work
Fight
"Fight."
The menu advanced. Sub-options appeared, tiered by difficulty:
1-5 Thugs (Available)
5-10 Thugs (Locked)
10-20 Thugs (Locked)
...
His current stats only permitted the lowest bracket. He selected [1-5 Thugs].
The world didn't change. Instead, a brief, stylized combat animation played in a flash across his vision—a blur of strikes, blocks, and a disarming kick. A result screen materialized:
[Encounter Resolved]
Targets: 5 local thugs. One armed with a blade.
Outcome: Flawless Victory. Used environment to tactical advantage.
Rewards:
Martial Arts Mastery → 50% Proficiency
Strength +1
¥500,000
Efficient, Akira thought, admiring the game's design. It skipped the tedious grind and delivered the power-up directly.
He immediately clicked "Fight" again, aiming to max his proficiency. A new prompt halted him:
[Insufficient Stamina]
Requires rest or consumables.
His character panel showed his green stamina bar completely depleted. No matter. He opened the Shop.
His eyes scanned the bizarre inventory before settling on two purchases:
Delay Small Pill: Restores 40 Stamina. (Not Stackable).
Great Strength Pill: +5 Strength for this session. (Not Stackable).
Two capsules, resembling oversized cod liver oil pills, appeared in his palm. He swallowed them dry. A warm surge spread through his limbs. His stamina bar refilled by half, and his Strength stat ticked upward.
The [5-10 Thugs] option now glowed, available.
He selected it. Another flash of pre-rendered combat—this time showing him using a grabbed thug as a shield against a nail-studded bat. The result screen updated:
[Encounter Resolved]
Targets: 9 thugs. Leader utilized modified weapon.
Outcome: Flawless Victory. Masterful crowd control demonstrated.
Rewards:
Martial Arts Mastery → PERFECTED
Strength +1, Agility +1
¥200,000
Perfected. A thrill shot through him. He checked the shop again, but no advanced "Sword Arts" or "Ki Techniques" had unlocked. Were they random drops? Event-based?
He glanced at his stamina bar, now sitting at a precarious 15/100. No more grinding tonight.
A slow smile spread across his face as he turned from the invisible interface. The tangible world of the simulation awaited. He cracked his knuckles, the memory of digital combat fresh in his muscle memory, and approached the Izumi family villa. The wall was low. His movements, now guided by perfected martial mastery, were silent and fluid as he scaled it, vanishing into the shadowed garden within.