The first night Steve spent on the cold bench at city hall was far longer than he'd imagined. He counted the ceiling lights, spiraling into dead loops, until the dawn's gray light brought the double tornt of hunger and cold.
When the first pale morning rays spilled through the hall's glass windows, he dragged his stiff body up and began his path to survival in this world.
mories of "Mahoutsukai no Yoru" flickered through his mind—he recalled that the protagonist, Soujuurou Shizuki, once worked at a restaurant in the comrcial district. He wasn't sure which one, but figured if he asked passersby, he could find out where the most prosperous restaurant district was in Misaki Town.
…
But… reality was much harsher than his plans.
Over the next three days, he tasted the most direct humiliation of his life. His fat-house build was the original sin of laborers. Most shop owners, seeing his bulky fra and obvious lack of fitness, rejected him without hesitation. Their eyes mixed suspicion, anxiety, and natural contempt, quickly making him accustod to his first social beatdown in the Bubble Era.
Again and again, he bowed as earnestly as he could, but was repeatedly and coldly refused. It was only natural—even in modern society, no electronics factory would hire a fat house unfit to turn screws, much less in this era.
On the afternoon of the third day, nearly breaking his legs, Steve was finally stopped by a shy manager at the entrance of a Japanese restaurant called "Kontsuki." The owner probably couldn't find enough help and decided to give him a chance.
The job was delivering food by old bicycle and moving heavy food crates. No lodging, and only two staff als a day—usually pickled daikon and a bowl of white rice with soy sauce.
But Steve accepted with tears in his eyes, because at least those two als would keep him from starving to death.
Thus began the harshest month of his life.
No longer a "keyboard warrior" leading the nation from behind a screen, he was now a bottom-level laborer, running around Misaki Town's streets and alleys every day on a creaky bicycle. His thin T-shirt was always soaked with sweat, and when the cold wind blew, it stabbed him like knives. His body, tested as never before, constantly protested during this period—muscle aches and joint pain made it impossible to sleep at night.
Every night, he curled up on the city hall bench, listening to his stomach growl, calculating whether he could save 100,000 yen on his ager wages.
Washing was done in public toilets; there was no way he could afford a comfortable bath. Every night, he could only wipe himself down with cold tap water, the sll of disinfectant etched into his bones. He couldn't bring himself to send his clothes to the cheapest laundromat until he'd accumulated a whole pile.
Like a programd machine, he numbly repeated the cycle of "work, eat, sleep."
His only daily comfort was seeing Soujuurou Shizuki, the silent, diligent coworker who also handled the restaurant's manual labor. But compared to himself, Soujuurou's efficiency was astoundingly high—he could lift the heaviest crates without changing his expression. He didn't talk much, but had a very simple heart.
When Steve collapsed from physical exhaustion, Soujuurou quietly reached out a hand to help him up. When Steve got scolded by the boss for clumsiness, Soujuurou would silently share so of his own work. Their communication was sparse, but this unspoken kindness was the only warmth in Steve's cold reality.
…
After a month, relying on inhuman perseverance, he finally managed to save up 100,000 yen. Every bill was stained with his blood and sweat, and weighed heavily in his pocket.
It was ti to move to the second phase of his plan.
That night, full of ambition, Steve finally found Soujuurou resting in the kitchen and, a little embarrassed, began to speak:
"Soujuurou-kun, can I ask you sothing? Could I borrow your coat for just one night? I'll return it tomorrow."
Soujuurou, wiping his sweat with a towel, was montarily stunned by the request, but imdiately took off his plain, clean dark jacket and handed it over.
"Here."
He said only that, with no hint of suspicion or doubt in his eyes, as if it were a trivial matter.
Steve received the still-warm coat, a warm feeling rising in his heart, and thanked him solemnly.
Imdiately after, he used his last coins to buy a pair of dark trousers from a secondhand clothing shop he'd already scouted.
Dressed in these "normal" clothes, with 100,000 yen in his inner pocket, he looked at himself in the mirror—still fat, but at least now a normal person.
The decisive battle had co.
Steve entered a pachinko parlor called "Slum Paradise." Deafening music, the clashing of steel balls, and the thick sll of smoke filled the air—too dense to dissipate. This was a whirlpool of desire, where countless gamblers in the materialistic age dread of getting rich overnight but ultimately went bankrupt.
But Steve would not beco one of them. He wasn't here to gamble, just to "work."
[Calm down… just act like an ordinary guest, exactly like I've rehearsed so many tis before…]
Taking a deep breath, Steve's [Astonishing Wisdom] truly activated. In his "vision," the whole world beca streams of data: machine flashes, steel ball bounces, every player's expression—every variable analyzed. He wandered the store for almost an hour, feigning aimlessness, while his brain, like a supercomputer, constantly recorded and analyzed the bead speeds, trajectories, and program cycles of every machine.
Finally, he locked onto an old model in the corner, with an obvious programming flaw—the seventh pin was subtly loose, giving the ball a 7.3% chance of falling into the "Heaven" zone.
At last, he sat down, traded 10,000 yen for a small basket of cold steel balls, and grabbed a handful. His heart pounded like a drum. As if he'd beco one of the antiheroes from "Gambling Apocalypse Kaiji," he used [Astonishing Wisdom] to precisely control the angle and strength of his fingers, launching the balls at a perfect rhythm.
Ti seed to slow; the balls bounced between the pins, their trajectories perfectly clear to his eyes.
Of course, most of the balls, like any regular player, missed. But Steve didn't lose heart—he was waiting for that mont. As long as he kept up this style, the jackpot would co with a probability of 7.3%.
He didn't know how long it took, but as his steel balls ran out, the very last one, carrying all his hopes, traced an exquisite arc, hit the loose pin, and dropped into the flashing "HOT" hole!
—"Waa, lala!"
The machine erupted with a deafening roar, and countless steel balls poured out like a flood, instantly filling Steve's box. Nearby gamblers eyed him with envy, but he calmly moved the box to the counter and exchanged it for a stack of Yukichi Fukuzawa bills. (10,000 Yen)
500,000 yen—when this figure appeared before his eyes, his heart nearly leaped out of his chest.
He didn't feel nostalgic at all, and left the den of vice imdiately.
Naturally, the first thing Steve did after earning his money was return to "Kontsuki" and hand Soujuurou his jacket. Soujuurou was surprised to see him return so soon, but Steve quickly returned the jacket and bowed deeply in gratitude.
"Thank you, Soujuurou-kun."
Then he found the boss and gave notice. The boss just curled his lips, snorted, and went back to work.
…
Returning to the city hall bench, Steve's world was completely different. He was no longer a holess man struggling for two als a day. Now, with 500,000 yen in hand, he felt his future was full of infinite possibilities.
…
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