Chapter 2

There is a Chinese saying: "What you think about during the day, you will dream about at night."

If that were true, Jin Kasuga really needed to rethink his daytime thoughts—because why on earth was he dreaming of a man in a red suit sitting in a wheelchair?

More importantly, he felt like he had seen this person before. There was something familiar about him... A wheelchair, a suit, a man…

Jin bolted upright from his nap, his voice echoing through the break room as he rubbed his groggy eyes.

The slightly chilly air conditioning sent a shiver down his spine, his sweaty back prickling as the cold air hit him. His muscles twitched involuntarily.

"You scared me to death—hey, even though I already died ages ago! What's wrong with you?"

Agnes teasing voice rang out beside him. It seemed that even as a ghost, she still enjoyed making jokes, even about her own death.

(If she can be so lighthearted about dying, then what's stopping her from moving on? What is she still holding onto?)

Jin pondered this for a moment before sighing and recounting his strange dream to her. As he spoke, he lazily pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. There was a new message in the notification bar:

"The world is about to end. Humanity needs the power to change fate. Click the link below…"

Something about this message felt eerier than the usual scam texts.

Agnes leaned in curiously, but as she stared at the phone, her brows furrowed in confusion. Although she recognized most of the Chinese characters, their meaning escaped her entirely.

"What's this?"

Just as Jin was about to explain, the break room door was suddenly kicked open with a loud bang. The boss's son strutted in, his bleached blonde hair and earrings gleaming under the fluorescent light. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, his arrogant expression that of someone who thought himself superior.

"Break time's over. Get back to work!"

Jin glanced at his phone again—there were still ten minutes left before his shift started. But seeing the other man puff out a cloud of smoke, Jin, who loathed the smell of tobacco, simply sighed in resignation. He threw on his uniform and left without a word.

There were too many people like this in the world. If he wasted energy getting angry at every single one of them, he'd be dead from exhaustion by now.

When you're alone in a foreign country, the most important thing you can learn is how to endure. Discrimination exists everywhere, in every nation, in every race. It's an unspoken reality.

"Those who are not of my kind must have different hearts."

People cling to the hierarchy of contempt, comforting themselves by looking down on those even worse off than they are. That's just human nature.

And Jin Kasuga? His priority was survival. If he fought back now, if he let his temper get the better of him, he'd lose this job. He could even end up with a criminal record, making it even harder to find work in the future.

So he endured.

That was all he could do.

His shift at the restaurant dragged on with forced smiles and mindless repetition. When it was finally over, he clocked out as fast as possible, muttered a half-hearted farewell, and left.

After stopping by a convenience store for a sandwich, he headed to his second job at the gym. Thanks to the boxing lessons he'd taken as a kid at the Children's Palace, he had managed to land a part-time job as an assistant instructor for aerobic boxing. The work was exhausting, but at least there was no blatant workplace bullying. That alone made it more bearable than the restaurant.

By the time he trudged home to his cramped two-story apartment, it was already past eleven at night.

Only one kind of person lived in a place this cheap: people with no money. Most of his neighbors were either already asleep or still out working overtime. Every person in this building had their own unfortunate story to tell.

As he climbed the rusted metal staircase, the sound of his own footsteps echoed hollowly in the quiet night. On the second floor, only the unit next to his was still lit. A thin strip of warm light seeped through the crack beneath the door, cutting through the darkness like a dividing line between two worlds.

From inside came the off-key wailing of an old tape recorder playing a famous Peking opera:

"Think of me, Xiang Yu, with my strength to pull up mountains and my courage to conquer the world! The times are not favorable, and my horse will not move! What can I do if my horse will not move! Yu Xi, Yu Xi, what can I do!"

The familiar melody carried a nostalgic sorrow that struck Jin Kasuga's heart. For a fleeting moment, he felt as if he were back home.

But the next step he took reminded him of the truth—the heavy weight in his limbs, the aching exhaustion, the creaking stairs beneath his feet. The harsh reality of his life in this foreign land.

Xiang Yu, a once-great hero, had fallen at the hands of mere mortals.

And what was he?

Just another nobody scraping by.

"Well…" he exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples.

"[Xiaotian, you're back?]"

The sudden voice startled him. Turning, he saw a short, chubby old man standing in the doorway, a warm smile on his wrinkled face.

Dressed in a loose vest and shorts, he lazily waved a large cattail leaf fan to swat away the spring mosquitoes. Everything about him—from his posture to his expression—radiated a familiar warmth.

"[Xiaotian, have you eaten yet? Come in and have a bite! Today I made shredded pork with fish sauce, Kung Pao chicken, and a fried egg with chili. Ah, it smells so good! Come, eat with me!]"

Every time Jiang Tianwei heard this invitation, he felt a lump rise in his throat, his emotions tangled in a mix of gratitude and sorrow.

Mr. Liu Shunqing, his next-door neighbor, had a story much like his own. He had come to Japan with his son, only to find himself living alone as his child grew busier and busier. A famous chef back in China, Mr. Liu had once dreamed of making a name for himself in this foreign land. But not knowing a word of Japanese had made things impossible. He had talent, but no opportunity.

Cooking was his way of coping with loneliness.

The day they met, he had listened to Jin's story with a dark expression, cursing his mother's remarriage as if it were a personal betrayal. That night, the old man had invited him into his home, cooking an elaborate feast of eight dishes—four cold, four hot—with a steaming pot of rice and a hearty mutton meatball soup.

"Boy, just eat as much as you want. From now on, we are father and son! If the Chinese don't stand by the Chinese, then who will?!"

Mr. Liu wasn't eloquent, but his simple, wholehearted kindness had left a deep mark on Jin's heart. He hadn't shed a single tear at his father's funeral. He hadn't cried when his mother remarried.

But that night, in the home of a man who had once been a stranger, he had cried for the first time.

Tears didn't make a person weak. That night, he had learned they could also make a person stronger.

Jin swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding firmly as he followed Mr. Liu inside.

Mr. Liu's craftsmanship was beyond reproach.

The apartments here were cheap, so naturally, there was no chance of fancy decor. The simple furnishings bore the marks of time, their wear and tear a testament to the many tenants who had passed through. The wooden tables had peeling paint, the tablecloths had faded beyond recognition, the walls were yellowed, and the windows seemed permanently clouded no matter how much one tried to clean them.

Yet, within this humble space, the aroma of Liu's cooking breathed life into the room. The food was unmistakably Chinese—rich in flavor, steeped in nostalgia. It carried the essence of home, a warmth that no lavish restaurant could replicate. Unfortunately, in a foreign land, authenticity often took a backseat to perception. More than taste, what mattered was conforming to the expectations of what foreigners thought Chinese food should be.

A perfect example was the infamous Chinese takeout box in America—a red, square container holding noodles that, in reality, did not exist in China. And yet, to everyone except the Chinese, it was a defining symbol of their cuisine. This was democracy, Western capitalism's beloved principle: the collective deciding reality, even if the truth stood otherwise.

Listening to Chinese opera, eating familiar dishes, and chatting in his native tongue, Jin Kasuga felt the exhaustion of the day melt away. The simple joy of this meal, shared with a fellow countryman, filled a void that no amount of money could bridge.

The dinner stretched close to an hour, as conversation was an integral part of dining culture. If not for his frequent yawns, Master Liu might never have let him leave.

Returning to his apartment, Jin didn't even bother turning on the lights. He collapsed onto his bed, still in his clothes, kicked off his shoes, and wrapped himself in a quilt, drifting off almost instantly.

In his half-conscious state, he vaguely heard his phone buzz, but fatigue was an impenetrable weight on his eyelids. Fang Zexia, ever-curious, floated over to investigate. Her ghostly presence illuminated the dim room as she hovered over the phone. The first message was in Chinese characters, the square strokes forming an ominous decree:

"The end is approaching. I hereby grant you the power to fight back. The software has been automatically installed..."

Before the message would be comprehended, another notification replaced it.

From: Sadayo Kawakami

Content: Mr. Jin, please come to the school to sign the documents related to your suspension...

Nothing unusual happened that night. Jin awoke early, his body sore and sluggish from inadequate sleep. Every muscle felt dull and heavy, his energy drained before the day had even begun.

In contrast, Agnes was as lively as ever. The ghost girl hovered before him, grinning mischievously, clearly waiting for him to ask.

"Why are you laughing?" he muttered groggily.

"Hmm~ Tell me a Chinese joke, or I won't tell you~" she teased, her face lit with amusement.

"Once upon a time, there was a mountain. In the mountain, there was a temple..."

"I want to hear Chinese jokes!"

"There is a mountain in China, and in that mountain, there is a temple..."

"Aren't you being too insincere?"

"[There is a mountain in China, and there is a temple in the mountain...]"

"I don't understand Chinese anymore!"

This ridiculous back-and-forth had become their morning ritual. Ghosts didn't sleep, and for Agnes, the long night was nothing but an eternity of boredom. The moment Jinwoke up, she would unleash all her pent-up energy, filling the air with playful antics.

Once satisfied, she puffed out her chest and announced with a knowing smirk, "I heard... your homeroom teacher wants you to come to school!"

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, suddenly alert.

When a ghost told you they had "heard" something, it was never a good sign. A chill crept down his spine, and he instinctively glanced around his room, half-expecting a shadowy figure to emerge from the darkness.

"I saw it on your phone!" she chirped.

"So you peeked at my messages?" he retorted, laughing despite himself.

She giggled in return. Of course, as a ghost, she couldn't physically touch his phone. The notification must have appeared when the screen lit up, catching her attention.

His homeroom teacher...

The name Kawakami stirred a faint sense of guilt. He must have caused her quite a bit of trouble. A student like him could only be considered a problem child, and surely, she had worried about him more times than he deserved.

Shujin Academy was a well-known institution. It boasted famous alumni, including a former Olympic volleyball champion, Suguru Kamoshida, now a coach at the school. The principal, eager for prestige, was relentless in his efforts to elevate the academy's reputation. Rumor had it that he had recently recruited a promising rhythmic gymnast and had even accepted a male student with a violent criminal record.

Strangely enough, despite the excitement surrounding the gymnast, her identity remained a mystery. However, the other student's name had already spread like wildfire—Amamiya Ren.

It was an oddly gentle name for someone with a violent past.

Jin only knew about all this from the school's group chat, where his classmates eagerly speculated. Teenagers thrived on gossip, and their imaginations ran wild. Some assumed the rhythmic gymnast was a stunning beauty, others believed the principal was making a statement about diversity and second chances. The most absurd theories suggested Amamiya Ren was a mafia leader, involved in state secrets, or even part of a U.S. conspiracy to infiltrate Japan.

Teenagers and their wild fantasies...

Jin skimmed through the messages, unimpressed. It was just another example of youthful ignorance.

Dragging himself to his closet, he opened the neglected space, and a musty smell greeted him. From the farthest corner, he pulled out his Shujin Academy uniform.

A standard Western-style school uniform—black suit jacket and red-and-black plaid trousers. The school was lax about regulations; as long as students wore these two pieces, they were considered in uniform. Some layered colorful hoodies underneath, others draped the jacket around their waists. It was freedom within limits.

Many students, especially fashion-conscious girls, had enrolled purely for this reason.

Slipping into his uniform, Jin finally felt the weight of reality settle on him. Ah... so I really am a high school student.

"Oh! So you're a high school student!" Agnes echoed dramatically, mimicking his internal monologue. He shot her an unimpressed glance but didn't argue.

Dusting off his neglected school bag, he stuffed a few textbooks inside. He doubted he'd be staying long, but it was best to keep up appearances.

Right. He quickly messaged his workplace to inform them of his absence. In Japan, communication and etiquette were everything.

"Are you going to school?" Jin's eyes sparkled. "How exciting! So youthful!"

"Yeah, yeah... and you're coming with me, aren't you?" he sighed, already resigned to her company.

Exiting his apartment, he headed towards a small coffee shop tucked in the alley—Leblanc. It was his usual breakfast spot. Normally, at this hour, it would be empty, but today, someone else was here.

A boy with messy black curls and glasses sat quietly at the counter, his uniform crisp, his presence unassuming. He ate his curry in silence, as if lost in thought.

Jin Kasuga had a feeling this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.