Tokyo, Chiyoda Ward. The penthouse of a luxury apartment complex.
In a country where land is scarce and the terrain limits livable space to the coast, owning property in Tokyo is already a rare privilege—owning one in Chiyoda Ward? Practically a miracle.
Every inch of land here bleeds value. This is the heart of Japan—where the Emperor resides, where Parliament debates, where the Supreme Court passes judgment. Where ministries operate, and where Akihabara, world-famous for its subculture, pulses like neon veins. Chiyoda isn't just central; it is the center—of power, economy, identity.
The apartment stretches close to 200 square meters. The floors gleam with special ceramic tiles. A crystal chandelier above rains down dreamlike light, its soft sparkle echoing off elegantly understated European décor.
And there he stood—dressed in a bathrobe, lost in thought in front of a vintage-style mirror.
Water still clung to his cropped hair, droplets trailing down a youthful yet sharp face. He'd just showered, clearly—but the steam hadn't quite reached his mind. His features were refined, slightly delicate, with a touch of scholarly softness. But beneath that, his tall frame and well-toned muscles told a different story—one of hidden strength, of potential charisma. You could call him commanding, in a quiet kind of way.
He was, simply put, handsome. The kind who looked good in anything—slim in clothes, fit out of them.
"So... I'm really a textbook rich and tall pretty boy now, huh?"
He blinked at his reflection, a dazed whisper on his lips.
He'd become everything people dream of. A second-generation rich kid—not just wealthy, but obscenely so. And yet, standing there now, he felt nothing real. No thrill. Only emptiness.
It was like training your whole life to reach a summit, only to find someone waiting at the top saying, You didn't need to climb. This was yours all along.
No triumph. No catharsis. Just a hollow void, sucking down every ounce of effort he'd once called his own.
His name now was Jinguu You. Outwardly, a Japanese-Chinese mixed blood. Inwardly? A soul from the Heavenly Empire—China. Not reborn, not transmigrated from birth—no, this was soul transfer. Recent. Sudden.
The body's original owner? Overdosed—pushed it too far, and paid the price.
So now, he was here. In this body. In this life.
Curiously enough, this body had a Chinese name too: Wang Yao. That brought a flicker of warmth to his heart—it had been his name, too, in his original world.
And for a nerd like him, that name held pride. In the world of Hetalia, Wang Yao stood for China itself. Every time his otaku friends teased him with it, he'd smile.
"But… I guess no one's going to call me that anymore."
Bitterness curled on his lips. His chest felt tight.
He truly admired those "predecessors" of the transmigration genre—especially the ones who'd jumped midlife, like he had. You had to throw away your past, your routines, your moral compass. New surroundings, new relationships, even new blood ties. It shattered everything. It made you question whether you were the dreamer or the dream.
For an ordinary person, a shift like this would've broken the mind. At best, depression. At worst… madness.
But Wang Yao was no ordinary person.
He'd devoured webnovels—countless of them. So, despite the shock, he adapted fast. The itch of unfamiliarity lingered, yes—but it didn't break him. He managed. He endured.
Because Chinese webnovel veterans? They're built different. They've "lived" a thousand lifetimes through text. To them, nothing is too strange.
"When in Rome… right? I'm in Japan now. Might as well get used to being Jinguu You. People here use given names often… If someone calls me 'You-kun'—"
"Honestly, doesn't sound half bad."
He gave himself a light slap on the cheeks, whispering the mantra out loud.
But the moment he thought of his real parents… the ones from his past life… his heart clenched.
He was born into a modest working-class family. His parents poured everything into his future. Every penny they saved was meant for his marriage, his home. He'd been 25 when he crossed over—no longer fresh to society. His early idealism had long burned out in the face of bureaucratic roadblocks and a system that demanded connections.
He'd been a freelance illustrator. Not a star painter. Just a guy at a game company, designing character art.
His style was decent. He even drew a few doujins that got sold at cons. Tiring work, but it paid the bills. On top of that, he wrote—badly, maybe, but enough for monthly royalties. Together, he carved out a small but fulfilling life.
He loved ACG culture, but unlike the extreme shut-ins, he lived normally. Had friends. Dated twice. A rare "normie" in the eyes of hardcore otaku—a sinner the FFF brigade would gladly burn.
He'd whined too—why wasn't I born rich? Why couldn't I win from the start line? Why doesn't my family have millions?
He envied the sports cars, the designer suits, the powerful elites.
He'd been… ordinary. A young Chinese man with common dreams.
And now—he had everything.
He could cruise through Shibuya in a sports car, pick up gyaru girls, fake smiles at high-society banquets. But all it did was make him long for something real.
Not the struggle.
Not the poverty.
Just… the two people who raised him with everything they had.
Twenty-five years of life. One night's sleep. And he was someone else.
What would happen to his real parents now? Were they still grieving? Was his original self dead?
His father had a heart condition. His mother's back was weak. Without him, how would they live?
"Maybe… maybe, like in those xianxia novels, I split into two versions. Maybe he's still there, watching over them.
…God, I'm unfilial."
His eyes turned red. A breath caught in his throat.
He wasn't some clueless kid. Not a student shielded by ivory towers. He'd tasted life. The grind. The grindstone. He knew what love meant when it was paid in coin and aching limbs.
You want to be a good child… but your parents don't wait forever.
He'd read that line in books.
Now, it was his reality.
"Whatever. It's done. No going back. I'm Jinguu You now. A trust-fund brat, rich enough to slap cash on a girl's face and say, 'Hop in the car—let's play, baby.'"
He raised his chin. Half joking. Half proud.
Because money… money changes people.
Money corrupts.
Anyone who says "money isn't everything" is either too broke to dream, or so rich they treat cash as air.
There are people above that. Enlightened souls. But he, Jinguu You, wasn't one of them. Not even close.
In just days, he'd been seduced. Ensnared. This glamorous rot—this capitalist sugar trap—it tasted so damn good.
He looked up at the decadent chandelier.
Just one of those could've emptied his old life's savings.
Now? He lived here. In a place like this. And he had more. Dozens of homes, worldwide.
"This corrupt… degenerate… people's-blood-sucking lifestyle—God damn, I f*cking love it!"
"You were crying?"
A voice. Sweet. Clear. Soft like a nightingale, slicing into his thoughts.
Jinguu You froze.
He turned—slowly, mechanically—toward the mirror.
And in its reflection… he saw her.
She lay on the bed behind him, wrapped in white velvet sheets. A girl with ink-black hair and skin pale as porcelain. An arm slid from beneath the covers, graceful as a swan's neck. She propped herself gently against the pillows, slender fingers smoothing out their creases. Her bare shoulders peeked out from the blanket, flushed with pink.
The air was quiet, thick with the after of something.
Her face—flawless. Noble. Like a lady stepped from an ink painting. Delicate. Steeled.
But those eyes—those dark eyes should've sparkled like stars. Now, they were dim. Empty.
She looked at him…
But it was like she wasn't seeing anyone at all.
A wound-up doll, saying the right things in the right place, too fragile to be real.
She was breathtaking.
And utterly untouchable.
A woman far beyond anything he'd ever known.
Yes, Japanese women often looked beautiful.
But that was makeup—illusion.
This one… even without it, not a single flaw.
Too perfect to believe.
And yet—beneath that perfection, something cold. Something dead. A beauty ruined by despair.
"You'd look even prettier if you smiled."
He tried, awkwardly. The words felt clumsy in his mouth.
Being a rich playboy wasn't easy—not all girls worshipped money. And charm? That still mattered.
He'd had girlfriends before, but he was no Casanova. Not even close.
Now, even with wealth, his old awkwardness clung to him like a shadow.
"Do you think a smile will erase what happened?"
Her lips curled. Mocking. Beautiful. Bitter.
His breath hitched.
He dropped his head, shame stabbing his chest like needles.
Their first meeting after his transmigration… he didn't know what had come over him. But he'd forced her.
And the bloodstain on those sheets proved it.
Her first time.
She was eighteen.
"If I weren't your fiancée…"
"You'd be in jail right now."