Chapter 1

Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan.

The boy ran, his hurried footsteps slapping against the damp asphalt. The early spring air carried a lingering chill, mixed with the unmistakable scent of earth stirring back to life. Evergreen trees lined the sidewalk, their deep green hues standing in stark contrast to the pedestrians bustling past in their colorful Sunday best. The city breathed with a lazy holiday air, a tranquil harmony between man and nature.

But the boy had no time to appreciate it.

He looked no older than eighteen or nineteen, his youth evident yet stripped of any childishness. His jet-black hair was unstyled, neither dyed nor curled, left in its natural state. Beneath thick brows, his dark eyes gleamed—sharp, deep, and intense, like polished obsidian.

Yet at this moment, those eyes burned with urgency. His entire expression was taut with anxiety, his breath quick as he muttered in Chinese, "I'm going to be late... I'm going to be late... Shit..."

Trailing beside him was a girl, strikingly beautiful, with long brown hair tied high in a ponytail. She looked fifteen or sixteen, her youthful features adorned with a small teardrop mole beneath her eye. Language is a delicate art, and in the phrase "beautiful girl," every word carried weight—especially the first. Her bangs cast a delicate shadow on her forehead, her large, lively eyes shimmering with the innocence and curiosity of a small animal. Her nose was soft, her lips a faint pink, and her presence so radiant it was almost blinding.

She was shorter than him, her slender frame wrapped in a black and yellow sports jacket perfect for the season. She jogged beside him, unfazed by his complaints, tilting her head in confusion. "I've already told you," she said, a slight pout forming, "I don't understand what you're saying in Chinese..."

In a foreign country, hearing an Asian speak Chinese was enough to determine their origin. And yes, the boy sprinting through the streets of Tokyo, panic evident in every movement, was speaking fluent Mandarin.

His voice cut through the foreign city like an unexpected gust of wind, unsettling yet clear.

"Kasumi," he gasped, still running, "I was just complaining: I'm going to be late!"

He fumbled with his worn leather wallet, its attached keychain jingling in the sunlight. His fingers dug inside, pulling out a fistful of coins before scanning his surroundings. The sound of metal clinking together filled the air.

It was strange. People often assumed men were naturally stronger than women. In physical exams, boys had to run 200 meters farther than girls. Those who cried for gender equality rarely volunteered to run the extra distance. It was an unspoken truth, embedded deep in human perception.

Yet here was this boy, gasping for air, drenched in sweat—and beside him, the girl jogged effortlessly. Leisurely, even. Her face was calm, her breathing steady, as if she were merely out for a casual stroll.

"I see! Chinese is really profound!" she chirped, her voice light. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, she tried to mimic his words using Japanese phonetics. "Does it sound right?"

"Like, like, like..."

Too exhausted to argue about her clumsy attempt at Chinese, he waved her off and kept running. She huffed, puffing out her cheeks in irritation at his lack of engagement, but stayed by his side nonetheless.

Their destination loomed ahead—a restaurant with a garish sign: "Chinese Cuisine—The Excitement of the Celestial Empire! The Best Cuisine!"

The kind of name neither Chinese nor Japanese people could take seriously. A place catering to foreigners who couldn't tell authentic Chinese food from a cheap imitation. Much like how there were no "Mr. Li's Beef Noodles" in California, yet clueless tourists flocked to such places, convinced they were experiencing real Chinese culture. And more often than not, these places thrived.

He turned into a back alley, his movements practiced. Pulling out his phone, he fitted the key into the lock and pushed open the staff entrance. His dark eyes flicked to the screen—8:28 AM. Just in time.

Breathless, he pressed his fingerprint against the clock-in machine.

Beep!

The screen flashed: "Jin Kasuga, clocked in successfully."

Relief flooded him. The restaurant opened at 10 AM, and staff were required to arrive by 8:30 for prep work. He had made it.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A message lit up the screen:

"The world is about to fall into chaos. If you need the power to change it, click the link below."

Jin Kasuga stared at it for a second.

"Fuck off!"

Without hesitation, he unleashed his frustration by replying with a stream of insults before shoving the phone back into his pocket. He turned toward his locker, pulling out his uniform. A small mirror hung inside, reflecting his face.

And two more.

"Hey! Chinaman, late again today?"

Two Japanese men loomed behind him, arms slung around his shoulders. One had bleached blond hair and earrings, the other a thin mustache. The acrid stench of tobacco clung to them, making Jin's nose wrinkle.

"I'm not late," he muttered.

"If I say you're late, you're late!" The blond man sneered, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. "Next time, come an hour early! Learn some discipline!"

Behind them, Kasumi giggled. "Hit him! Swish! Use Chinese-gong-fu!"

Jin rolled his eyes. "If you weren't the manager's son, I'd have beaten you to a pulp by now."

The mustached thug blinked, confused. "Brother Nakano, what did he say? He's speaking in foreign gibberish!"

"I said: I understand." Jin deadpanned.

Before the blond man could retort, a voice barked from the doorway. "What are you idiots doing back here?!"

A burly man in a chef's uniform glared at them—Jin's boss. The blond man flinched before quickly turning the blame elsewhere.

"Dad! I was teaching the new guy a lesson! He's always late! Right, Chinaman? Don't be late next time!"

The boss's glare shifted to Jiang Tianwei. "You lazy brat! Your salary's docked 2,000 yen! Now get to work!"

Jiang Tianwei clenched his fists, anger simmering. Before he could lash out, Kasumi's small hands pressed against his shoulders, her voice whispering comfort.

"They're not worth it," she said softly. "Just low-class thugs. Don't waste your energy."

Oddly enough, despite her clear involvement earlier—mocking the bullies, riling up Jiang Tianwei—neither the manager nor the two men acknowledged her presence.

It wasn't because she had a low presence. It wasn't because she had any special powers.

It was because...

Kasumi wasn't there.

Her tiny fist, which had playfully aimed at the three men's faces, had passed through them like mist. As though she was nothing more than a poorly rendered 3D model, a cutscene gone wrong.

Because Kasumi...

She was a ghost.

The main business hours of a restaurant are collectively referred to as [meal times]. Because breakfast is too early, some restaurants focus on lunch and dinner, adjusting their hours accordingly.

The so-called Chinese restaurant where Jin Kasuga works feels exactly like that.

Like all [foreign restaurants], the food is not only bad but also overpriced, feeding into stereotypes about different cultures.

Let me tell you a secret. Why did this restaurant hire Jin? Because a Chinese restaurant with a Chinese waiter looks more authentic. It's the same logic as opening a Japanese restaurant in China—you have to hire a few Japanese staff to enhance credibility.

In Japan, if hiring cute girls is an option, they'll do it—playing into the cultural obsession with the "second dimension." So why didn't this restaurant hire a Chinese girl? Because most Chinese students in Japan don't see cheongsams and steamed buns as symbols of their culture. As a result, the boss ended up with a set of women's uniforms that were completely useless.

From the moment the restaurant opens at ten, there's a lull before the rush begins around eleven and lasts until about two in the afternoon. During downtime, staff take turns resting in the back.

The boss had tried to pressure Jin into skipping his breaks and working overtime. He always refused, politely but firmly.

What a joke. Who would willingly give up their break? Rest time is precious! If the boss wanted him to work through it, he'd have to pay extra. But the stingy man wouldn't part with a single yen more, so he had no choice but to let Jiang rest.

Legally, discrimination is "prohibited," at least on paper. The boss knew better than to push too hard—he feared that one day, Jin might push back in a way that could cause real trouble for him.

By the time Jin finally got to the staff lounge, it was already past two. Yawning, he slumped into the uncomfortable chair and stretched lazily. He could almost hear the creaking of his overworked body.

"Finally, a break. I'm so bored."

Kasumi hovered in front of him, half her body sinking into the table. At first glance, she looked like a bizarre anime character from some cult classic.

Jin sighed and shrugged. He wanted to reply, but the moment he opened his mouth, exhaustion took over, and his words turned into another yawn. Seeing this, Kasumi pouted and playfully stuck her hand into his mouth. He didn't react. They couldn't physically interact anyway, so he let her be.

It was really a coincidence how they met.

Like any other teenage boy, Jin used to daydream about having supernatural powers. But as he grew older, reality crushed that fantasy. He was just an ordinary person. Or so he thought.

A few years ago, his father took a job in Japan, and Jin and his mother followed. It was supposed to be a new beginning. He had fantasized about living in Japan—unlimited access to games, movies, and anime without worrying about them suddenly disappearing from the internet.

But reality slapped him in the face.

At first, things went well for his father. But one year later, tragedy struck. While driving, his father suddenly lost consciousness. The car crashed through a guardrail and sank into the sea. His mother and he survived. His father did not. He would sleep forever beneath the blue sky of a foreign land.

Grief consumed his mother. Eventually, she remarried.

From that moment, Jin became an unwanted burden. His mother still sent him living expenses—at first, every month. Then every few months. Now? He couldn't even remember the last time he received anything.

Teenage pride kept him from accepting money from his stepfather. He refused to rely on people who didn't truly care. So he started working—delivering newspapers in the morning, waiting tables at the Chinese restaurant during the day, and assisting with aerobic boxing at the gym at night. He chose these jobs for one reason alone: the hourly pay.

That's why he put up with the discrimination at the restaurant. The money was decent.

But deep down, he had a dream—a stubborn, youthful dream. To save up, transfer to a game design program, and one day work for his favorite game company, creating the kind of games that had once filled his world with excitement.

Yet life was all about compromise. He could reject his stepfather's support, but when it came to money and survival, he had to bow his head and endure.

Then, just a day after he started juggling three jobs, he met her.

A girl. Wandering the streets of Shibuya. Lost.

At the time, she was staring hungrily at a display case filled with crepes, her eyes brimming with longing. On a whim—maybe out of kindness, maybe because she was adorable—he approached her.

And that was it. She never left him alone after that.

In Chinese, they call it being haunted.

It wasn't until then that Jin realized—he could see ghosts.

Was this the legendary Yin-Yang Eye?

He should have been scared. But Kasumi wasn't a horror-movie ghost. She didn't make creepy noises. She wasn't grotesque. In fact, she looked like she had stepped out of an ancient Chinese tale—one of those beautiful ghostly women who fell hopelessly in love with scholars.

Maybe he had watched too many adaptations of "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio," but part of him felt like he had struck gold.

Kasumi, for her part, remembered almost nothing. Not her past, not her death—only her name. She had nowhere to go, no one to talk to. And now, someone could finally see her.

She wasn't about to let that go.

Jin didn't know how to exorcise ghosts. So, a strange companionship began.

Lying back in his chair, exhaustion overtook him. His eyelids twitched. Sleep pulled him under.

And then—

He dreamed.

A weightless space, floating endlessly. He knew he was dreaming. A lucid dream.

In the void, a figure appeared.

A man in a red suit. Sitting in a wheelchair. Speaking, though his words were lost in the emptiness.

The more Jin looked, the harder it was to see the man's face. Was he young or old? A man or a woman? The features blurred, shifting like ripples in a pond.

And then...

Darkness swallowed everything.

Jin's consciousness sank into oblivion.