Ch. 2 - ReverseWorld Game

[ReverseWorld Game Activated]

Hoshikawa Harutaki: ?

A moment later, some half-baked, scammy-looking game interface popped up right in front of him—

[Items], [Equipment], [Status], [Wishes], [Settings], [Help], [Load].

Not just half-baked; this was a trashy, lazy machine translation of a menu screen!

[Items] was completely empty. [Equipment] was the same, nothing at all. Only [Status] seemed remotely useful, converting his abilities into numbers on display.

[Strength: 4.50]

《Skills》

(TL: Yes, it’s masturbation at lv max)

So aside from studying, he was completely useless…

Harutaki ignored that last maxed-out skill. Staring at his stats, the new life he’d only just started already felt like it had a dark cloud hanging over it.

Still, nothing too fatal. Everything could be fixed—if he just refrained.

The next option, [Wishes], was absurdly barebones. Its sole function was basically a gacha roll, but there were no explanations at all about probabilities, the pool, or how to earn pulls.

And the three options after that—[Settings], [Help], [Load]—were all greyed out, unusable.

So far, this “system’s” only real function seemed to be giving him a neat overview of his physical condition.

For now, Harutaki shoved the useless thing aside, took a deep breath, and looked at the nameplate reading [Class 2-3]. With nerves prickling in his chest, he stepped into the classroom.

…

Turned out all that tension he’d felt earlier was laughable—

Who was going to care about some nobody bottom-feeder like him?

Sure, he’d taken extra care with his hair today, but that wasn’t nearly enough to make him stand out.

With no social circle to speak of, standing in a room full of strangers, even if someone noticed him, they weren’t going to walk up to him and start a conversation.

This was the second year of high school. Everyone already had their own cliques. No one was about to pull a newcomer into their group without knowing them first.

Nichiya High, being a prep school, even had a policy: when splitting students into liberal arts and science classes, they tried to keep existing circles together as much as possible.

It was supposed to minimize the stress of adjusting to new social environments and cut down on bullying or ostracism that was born from that stress.

But there’s no such thing as a perfect system.

The downside of that policy was obvious; some students had to be sacrificed, shuffled around, or “adjusted” into completely unfamiliar classes.

And Harutaki was one of those sacrifices.

There were limits to how far the class lists could be adjusted. Out of the five classes, the “excess” students, those who couldn’t be grouped with their old friends, always ended up being lumped together.

Calling them “excess” might sound harsh, but from what he remembered, the class he’d been placed in was usually nicknamed the “Weed Patch.” If you wanted to be polite, you could call it the “Special Class.”

Harutaki found a seat, set his bag down, and began pulling out the textbooks he’d been issued before the break one by one. That’s when, from across the narrow aisle, a student who could barely qualify as his desk-mate suddenly spoke up.

“Um, excuse me… are you Harutaki?”

Called by name. A friend of the old Harutaki?

Harutaki turned toward the voice and studied the boy.

Greasy black hair stuck flat to his head. Behind thick-rimmed glasses was a plump, round face. His slightly overweight frame stretched his wrinkled uniform shirt flat, the belt buckle looking painfully tight against his bulging stomach.

No doubt about it—this was another bottom-feeder like him. The lowest caste in the rigid social pyramid of East Country schools.

“Uh… good morning?”

Unable to recall his name right away, Harutaki offered a hesitant but polite smile and returned the greeting.

“I knew it—you’re really Harutaki!”

The boy’s voice shot up in surprise, instantly drawing the attention of the student in front of him. That student turned back with an irritated look and hissed, “Tazaki, could you keep it down?” Only then did the boy realize his blunder. He bowed his head so fast it nearly smacked the desk.

“Tazaki-san…?”

“What do you mean, Tazaki-san?!”

Now keeping his voice low, the boy leaned closer with a pout. “It’s only been one spring break, Harutaki, and you’re already this cold? You always called me Akihisa before.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re betraying us otaku class solidarity, you traitor.”

Akihisa glanced at Harutaki’s freshly washed face, then jabbed a finger at his gel-styled hair, like he was making some grave accusation.

“Looking clean just feels better.”

Harutaki brushed off his teasing. If anything, he’d wanted to take advantage of this new class, where everyone was still strangers, to clean up his image. It wasn’t just about leaving his old life behind; it was about separating himself from the old him.

He’d keep the cute little sisters, sure. But that greasy, sloppy version of himself? Good riddance.

“Besides, it’d be pathetic to get through high school without even one romance. You only get this one shot at youth.”

That old, terrifying chain of promises still rang in his memory—

Elementary school: “Once you get into a good middle school, we won’t force you to study anymore.”

Middle school: “Once you get into a good high school, you can relax and join all the clubs you want.”

High school: “Once you get into college, nobody will control you anymore.”

College: “Once you enter society, you’ll be free.”

And after finding a job: “Once you retire, you can do whatever you want.”

Given a second chance, there was no way he’d let his youth slip by unused.

And besides—

Trying to date a JK after graduation would just make him a creep.

Sure, dating a JC in middle school was just called “puppy love” and got you scolded by teachers or parents. But dating a JC once you were an adult? Society would brand you a monster.

Every age had its own fleeting joys. Miss the moment, and it was gone forever.

“Romance, huh…”

Akihisa fell quiet, then suddenly grabbed Harutaki’s shoulders and shook him, his voice trembling with outrage. “Damn it, I knew it! You’ve got your eye on ‘Princess-sama,’ don’t you?! We promised that none of us was going to confess to her! You’re trying to swoop in with that pretty-boy face, aren’t you?!”

Princess-sama?

Harutaki sifted through his memories until it clicked—

The girl they called “Princess-sama” was their age, and the only girl in their little otaku circle.

In other words, the so-called “Otaku Princess.”

Black twin-tails with blunt bangs, always showing up to meetups in Lolita or cosplay. Her family was perfectly ordinary; her looks nothing special, but when it came to dealing with boys, she naturally put on an air of superiority…

“Relax. I’m not competing with you guys.”

Harutaki waved him off, exasperated, his casual dismissal easing Akihisa’s suspicion.

“Still, you reminded me… If I don’t confess to Shiori-chan soon, someone else might beat me to it…”

Seeing the eager look on Akihisa’s face, Harutaki knew trying to dissuade him was pointless. He just patted his otaku friend’s shoulder. “If she rejects you flat-out, don’t come crying to me.”

But just as he was about to ask Akihisa more about the school, the classroom door slid open with a loud clatter.

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