One unique aspect of the University of Tokyo's undergraduate program is its undecided majors for the first two years. Students begin with general education before choosing a specific field.
That means a heartbroken law student could rediscover meaning in philosophy, or a student burnt out on classical literature might pivot toward building mecha in engineering.
In theory, even the prestigious Faculty of Medicine doesn't strictly require passing the cutthroat Type III science track... though the actual acceptance rate through other paths hovers somewhere below 1%. Practically nonexistent. Still, there's always a group of bold overachievers determined to defy the odds.
Meanwhile, Yin Ze had decided to coast to graduation by racking up credits quietly. Competing intellectually with alien-level prodigies? Not happening. He figured his best shot was hanging out in humanities or literature classes, idly playing cards and daydreaming.
Talking world history with professors, reminiscing about Chinese literary figures like Mr. Zhu's back view or Mr. Hu's mahjong addiction—there were credits to be earned there. Wasn't that a smarter way to survive?
As for graduate school? Ha. He wasn't trying to make life harder than it already was.
Freshman year had just started. Campus was buzzing. Upperclassmen circled like hungry wolves, eyes locked on fresh new faces.
Fresh off the train, Yin Ze ducked out of the orientation fair, dodging the swarm of club recruiters. No connections, no stakes—he ghosted instantly.
In honor of Kentarou-san from the International Space Research Institute winning a Nobel Prize, the cafeteria announced a celebratory 10% discount on pork cutlet bowls, with complimentary iced lemon water.
Delighted, Yin Ze went to eat alone, settling into a quiet corner. Apparently, that made him look like a lonely misfit, and the passing dean—bless his heart—took pity on him.
The elderly academic sat down for a chat, encouraged him warmly, and launched into tales of his student activist days. He said the confusion of youth was a treasure trove, something to be opened slowly and with care.
They ended up chatting about the evolution of primates and the rise of civilizations. The dean was amazed at how easily Yin Ze quoted from all 28 volumes of a historical encyclopedia like he had them memorized. Impressed, the dean personally invited him to join a volunteer outreach event that afternoon.
Once a star class monitor and moral model student, Yin Ze naturally agreed.
They took a chartered bus to an elementary school to help with career guidance. Yin Ze was floored to learn sixth graders here were already expected to plan their futures.
Breaking into a cold sweat at the country's intense academic pressure, he tried to give a responsible, age-appropriate explanation of the corporate world. But even with the gory parts—like groveling and shoe-licking—toned down, the harsh truth made one kid cry.
He managed to calm them down just in time for the parents to arrive, by doing an impression of Cheese Power Man from an anime.
Back at campus, he ate dinner alone again. A senior from the photography club snapped a candid shot of him.
Moonlight and warm cafeteria lighting filtered through the window, painting a soft glow on Yin Ze's pensive profile as he stared at his pork cutlet.
*What a perfect shot for the campus photo contest,* she thought.
*Wow, this pork cutlet really is juicy and flavorful,* Yin Ze thought.
After some negotiation, Yin Ze opted for a portrait fee over exchanging contact info.
Later that evening, he wandered around the dorms, nostalgia washing over him as he remembered being a big shot back at vocational college. Even the cleaning lady at the local internet café knew the name of the student who fell asleep on his keyboard.
He had considered staying in the dorms to relive the good ol' days. After all, skipping lectures at a top university had its own flavor of rebellion.
Then he saw the second floor—men dressed in drag plotting a cross-dressing house party. Third floor—med students smeared in fake blood practicing anatomical dissection. Sixth floor—an international roundtable, each student speaking a different language, including someone signing at lightning speed like a ninja casting spells.
He also passed someone carrying a homemade Kamen Rider suit, and saw a Joker-costumed student admiring the night view.
Yin Ze left the dorms in silence.
Took the train back to his rental and collapsed into bed.
What's it like being a student at Tokyo University? Those who know don't need to ask. Those who don't—no amount of explanation will help. Online posts only show what people want you to see. The truth? That's locked within the circle.
He pulled out his class schedule.
Between classes and part-time work, his 24 hours were already overbooked. So much running around. He really needed his own ride.
Maybe a car someday. For now? Maybe... a scooter? Or a llama?
The next morning, Yin Ze dropped by a bookstore and picked up a guide to the moped license exam. He skimmed it while munching on buns and soy milk, then headed straight to the licensing office.
Passed the physical.
The written test had 50 multiple choice questions. Yin Ze's pen flew like lightning—swish, swish, swish—done before others even sat down.
Perfect score. He paid the fee, filled out the forms, took the class… and walked out with a brand-new 50cc moped license.
He handed the still-crisp textbook to a woman who had just failed and needed a retake.
Now licensed—it was time to shop.
Who said only women loved shopping? Men, too, are powerless against the thrill of gear acquisition. Especially if it can be upgraded.
He spent hours browsing secondhand markets before settling on a lightly-used Honda scooter. Pink paint job, wide cushion seat, chunky build, and a red charm from a local shrine still tied to the handlebars.
The seller said it belonged to a female college student who had once worked as a shrine maiden.
Yin Ze pondered… then bought it on the spot.
Excellent. His first steed in this parallel world. He named her: Pink Lady.
He gave her an appreciative nod.
Riding through alleys and boulevards, wind in his face, Yin Ze watched the world go by—school kids in yellow hats and red backpacks, trains rumbling by, commuters crammed so tight their faces warped.
For once, he felt... peace.
Still, a 50cc engine was a bit too gentle. There were speed limits. No passengers allowed.
He patted Pink Lady's headlight tenderly. Barely an hour together and already he was thinking about upgrading.
New ride, new dreams—just needed money.
And wouldn't you know it—his agent called right then.
Ah, capitalism. Always one step ahead.
"Hello?"
"Takizawa-kun! The radio show's getting great feedback! You really nailed it!" barked his agent, Ippei Kashiwai.
"Oh."
"I've got a few more audition spots lined up. Get over here. I'll reimburse your travel!"
The man knew exactly how to get Yin Ze moving.
"Is that okay?" Yin Ze said modestly.
"Quit pretending. I said I'm covering it. Move it!"
"Alright. When I get there, just hand over the 40,000 yen."
"Forty thousand?! What, did you fall into the ocean?!"
"Just bought a moped. You said you'd cover the travel. You're *way* too generous."
Click.
Kashiwai hung up.
Didn't even give him a chance to weasel in more nonsense.
Seems the agent had finally cracked the code on how to handle him.