(A Plate of Melon and a Borrowed Laptop)
After laying out Shinomiya's training plan and goals, Kuroha Akira needed to begin his own work in earnest.
He retrieved a plate of chilled watermelon from the refrigerator and headed to the second floor, stopping before Hijikata Isamu's door.
"Hijikata-san! Hijikata-san! It's evening! Time to get up!"
Kuroha Akira knocked loudly and unceremoniously. Experience had taught him that gentler methods were useless against Hijikata Isamu, who slept with the profound inertia of a hibernating bear.
As a former corporate slave, Kuroha Akira understood that feeling all too well—the desperate struggle upon closing your eyes, hovering at the edge of sudden death, never knowing when the final kick might come. He was genuinely concerned about Hijikata-san's health… To get a second chance at life through transmigration, only to work oneself to death again? What a tragic punchline.
He didn't know how Hijikata-san had died in his previous life. If it was from overwork, just like him… the irony would be too bitter.
After a sustained assault of knocks, a loud thud followed by a goose-like squawk of pain echoed from within. Kuroha Akira ceased his knocking. From the sound, Hijikata-san was likely awake, but his brain was still booting up, and he'd probably smashed his knee or stubbed his toe on the bedside.
Several seconds later, Hijikata Isamu, sporting panda-like dark circles, opened the door. Hunched over, he asked in a voice dripping with the undead, "Oh… Akira-kun… What time is it…?"
"It's already nine in the evening, Hijikata-san. A bit later than your usual rise and shine."
"Damn it all!"
After unleashing a classic expletive, Mr. Hijikata scratched his bird's-nest hair, his previously relaxed face instantly contorting with panic. "Just wanted a quick nap… how is it already nine?! Damn it, I'm going to miss the delivery deadline!"
Though desperate to dive back into his computer, Hijikata Isamu still managed a courteous nod of thanks. If Kuroha Akira hadn't come to rouse him, he'd likely be facing a hellish, non-stop seventy-two-hour coding marathon.
"Thank god you woke me up, or I'd be screwed today. So, what's up, Akira-kun?"
Kuroha Akira offered the plate of watermelon he was holding. "Have some melon."
"Where'd this come from…?"
"Grandmother Kobayashi bought it. Told me to bring some up for you and Toshiro-san."
Looking at the plate of glistening red fruit, Hijikata Isamu's face softened with emotion. Tears welled in the middle-aged man's eyes, which he quickly wiped away with the back of his hand. "Ah, Granny Kobayashi… She's a living bodhisattva."
"It's because of Grandpa Kobayashi's final wishes that she looks after us 'otherworld drifters' so well."
"I know, but even so… what she does is incredible. We're not related… Sigh. If not for her, I'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere."
Who among us wouldn't be?
Though Kuroha Akira called her "old lady," it wasn't a term of disrespect but of fond familiarity, just as she called him 'Shirako.' In his heart, he was profoundly grateful for Grandmother Kobayashi's unconditional kindness.
However, her relationship with her own son seemed strained. In nearly half a year at the Kobayashi residence, Kuroha Akira had never once seen her son visit. Yet, since she could still borrow her granddaughter's old gym uniform, a complete estrangement seemed unlikely.
Still, if things continued this way, Kuroha Akira thought he might just have to step up and fulfill the role of a caring son in her twilight years. For an elderly person, companionship was likely far more precious than money.
After handing over the melon, Kuroha Akira casually added, "Hijikata-san, mind if I borrow your laptop?"
This wasn't his first time borrowing the computer. To gather information about this world, aside from library books, he often used it for online searches. As a veteran netizen who'd been surfing since second grade in his past life—with over two decades of internet experience—Kuroha Akira knew that consuming news from only one side led to cognitive bias and made one a pawn for manipulative media.
Though this world's internet wasn't yet the echo-chambered, algorithm-driven beast of his past, his ingrained habit was to rigorously cross-reference information. Never trust a single source; compare perspectives, then analyze dialectically. It was the dialectical materialist approach to understanding the world.
Hijikata Isamu typically used a desktop for work. The laptop was a backup for multitasking or… ahem… slacking off.
Hijikata stepped aside, gesturing into his room. "Sure, come on in."
"No need, I'll just take the laptop."
"Huh? But the only ethernet port in the house is in my room—Granny Kobayashi had it installed specially for me. Wi-Fi isn't exactly widespread yet…"
"I don't need internet. I just need to use some office software."
"Oh, right. Hang on a sec."
Hijikata Isamu turned and navigated the chaotic landscape of his room, retrieving the laptop and its charging cable from the desk clutter. He handed them to Kuroha Akira. "Just… don't delete my backup work files. Though, I probably don't need to tell you that."
The two exchanged a knowing smile—the unspoken understanding between fellow 'old men.' Despite the age difference, there was no generational gap between them. Many memes and references from their shared past life were now secrets only they understood. The woman, the other transmigrator, rarely used the internet in her past life and seldom joined their conversations.
"Thanks, Hijikata-san. When I make some money, I'll treat you to a proper feast."
"Hah, I'll hold you to that. I've turned out pretty useless in this world… don't end up like me."
Hijikata Isamu chuckled self-deprecatingly, then yawned and rubbed his face, steeling himself to return to his digital grind.
Kuroha Akira knew Hijikata was struggling, mainly with debt. But being broke himself, he couldn't offer tangible help. Moreover, he was clueless about programming and had no plans to enter that field. Programmers were like cultivators—bald by thirty—and Hijikata-san's hairline was in full retreat.
Not every transmigrator gets a cheat-code, wish-fulfillment life.
Does transmigration mean escaping suffering? No. It just means diving into a different sea of hardship.
At the very least, the three transmigrators under Kobayashi's roof each bore their own burdens.
But since they'd been reborn, they absolutely could not repeat past mistakes. This time, we must live relaxed, easygoing lives!
Transmigrators who've already died once fear no hardship!
With the laptop secured, Kuroha Akira returned to the living room. Shinomiya was diligently practicing Little Blue's lines, her imitation already quite convincing. He didn't disturb her, simply settling at a nearby table, plugging in the laptop, and powering it on.
The familiar, yet charmingly retro, Windows 7 boot screen appeared—though in this world, it was the cutting-edge OS.
Kuroha Akira hadn't borrowed the laptop for games. He needed Office.
In his past life as a scriptwriter and copywriter, his existence had been defined by keyboards and WPS. Writing novels in the library was merely practice and recollection. For the real deal, he needed proper tools.
So then… let the creation begin!
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the blank document waiting. Across the room, Shinomiya's focused murmur blended with the soft hum of the laptop fan. In the quiet Kobayashi living room, two parallel journeys of creation were quietly underway. The duel with Shirai Shiori, the training of a future star, the weight of debts and past lives—all of it condensed into this moment of determined, shared silence. The night was young, and the words were about to flow.