Transmigration

"Hiss—" My head hurts...

Nakayama Takuya struggled to open his eyes, finding himself lying on a soft tatami mat. A gentle, warm light filtered through the paper-paned sliding doors, soft and comfortable rather than blinding.

Where is this?

He braced himself against the tatami to sit up, but his body felt weak and sore, as if he had just run a marathon. Looking around, the room was furnished quite simply. A piece of calligraphy hung on the wall, inscribed with the words "Subdue one's self and return to propriety," the brushstrokes bold and vigorous. In the corner sat a small low table with a delicate tea set.

"Did I... transmigrate?" Nakayama Takuya muttered to himself, his voice trembling. Memories surged in like a broken dam, nearly drowning him.

He clearly remembered being a veteran gamer in 2025. That night, after watching the Nintendo Switch 2 showcase, he had cursed, "What's with these launch titles? They're either paid upgrades for the NS or a pile of ports. And what's the deal with this 'Japan tax'? Why are all game companies like this? Once they're riding high, they drop the ball. The NS is like this, the PS4 is like this, and the Xbox 360 was the same." Then, he had downed a beer—he wasn't sure if it had expired—and fallen asleep.

He never expected that upon waking, his soul would have traveled to Japan.

Looking at the calendar on the table, the red numbers clearly indicated: March 23, 1985. The 60th year of Showa!

Wait... Nakayama Takuya? With a wave of pounding headaches, he began to integrate the original owner's memories bit by bit. After breaking into a cold sweat, he finally understood the identity of this body. This Nakayama Takuya was actually the youngest son of Nakayama Hayao, the president of Sega!

The original owner had just graduated from the Tokyo Institute of Technology—a bona fide genius. At his graduation party, he had been goaded by a few bad friends into a drinking contest, only to drink himself to "death," allowing him to take over the body.

"Sega... 1985... I just complained about a bunch of game companies, and now I'm reborn as the Sega prince. Does the 'Rebirth Bureau' also like this 'you can you up' routine?" Nakayama Takuya's eyes gradually brightened, and the corners of his mouth curled up involuntarily. "Isn't it just Nintendo? This time, let me lead Sega to crush you."

"However, the most urgent thing right now is..." Nakayama Takuya scratched the back of his head, brow furrowed, trying to calm himself down. "I need to figure out the current situation, and... what kind of person was this 'young master of the Nakayama family'? I can't let my cover be blown."

He didn't want to be exposed as soon as he arrived and be treated as a schizophrenic.

Nakayama Takuya began frantically searching through the fragments of the original owner's memories in his mind, piecing them together like a jigsaw puzzle, trying to restore a complete image of "Nakayama Takuya."

Just as he finished reviewing the original owner's memories, a gentle voice came from outside the door, carrying a hint of concern.

"Young Master Takuya, are you awake?"

"Ah... I'm awake." Nakayama Takuya replied, his throat still feeling dry and tight.

The sliding door opened silently, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple, elegant kimono walked in. Her face was gentle; it was Nakayama Keiko, the Nakayama family's maid. Seeing that Nakayama Takuya had managed to sit up, she hurried over, knelt down, and looked at his complexion with concern: "Young Master Takuya, are you feeling better? You still look a bit pale. Should you lie down for a while longer?"

Nakayama Takuya waved his hand gently, pulling off a reasonably natural smile: "I'm fine, Aunt Keiko. I feel much better after that sleep, it's just... I drank too much yesterday." He raised a hand to press his temple, feigning the lingering effects of a hangover.

"Sigh, it's good that you were happy with your friends, but you must take care of your health." Keiko gave him a reproachful look, though her tone was filled with obvious affection. "You should freshen up first. I'll go prepare breakfast. Would you like your favorite udon?"

"Yes, thank you for the trouble, Aunt Keiko." Nakayama Takuya replied, starting to rummage through the wardrobe for a change of clothes, then asked casually, "By the way, where is Father?"

"The Master is home today and is drinking tea in the backyard. He instructed that you should go see him once you woke up," Keiko answered.

"Drinking tea? First thing in the morning..." Nakayama Takuya muttered to himself. This cheap father of his really had retro hobbies, but this was a good opportunity to test the waters. "Alright, I understand." He nodded calmly, secretly letting out a sigh of relief; his response hadn't revealed any flaws.

Keiko stood up and left, thoughtfully closing the sliding door behind her. Nakayama Takuya ducked into the washroom, splashing cold water on his face to clear his muddled head. The mirror reflected a young, slightly boyish face—it belonged to the original owner, and now, it belonged to him.

"This skin is pretty good, and the height isn't bad either. Not bad at all." He gave a simple assessment of the body before taking a quick shower.

After changing into simple loungewear and returning to the main room, a bowl of steaming miso udon was already waiting on the low table. The golden fried tofu skin was soaked in broth, topped with a perfectly cooked soft-boiled egg—exactly the flavor the original owner loved most. The aroma was intoxicating, stirring his appetite. This was an authentic 1980s Japanese breakfast, far better than the takeout fast food of his era.

Nakayama Takuya sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and slurped the noodles into his mouth. The chewy noodles, the rich broth, and the mellow, half-cooked yolk warmed his stomach. Mmm, it tasted great. After finishing breakfast in a few quick bites, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood up, straightened his clothes, and headed toward the backyard.

Passing through several corridors, a traditional Japanese garden appeared before him. It was March, and several cherry blossom trees were in full bloom. A gentle breeze blew, and pinkish-white petals drifted down like fine snow, landing on the bluestone path and the babbling creek. The air was filled with a faint floral fragrance and the scent of damp earth.

Deep in the garden, under a cherry tree, Nakayama Hayao sat with his back to him, perched before a low table. He wore a dark blue kimono, his posture upright; even from behind, he exuded a steady, imposing aura. On the low table sat a set of rustic purple clay tea ware, wisps of steam rising from it.

"Father." Nakayama Takuya stepped forward, stopped a few paces away, and bowed slightly.

Nakayama Hayao didn't turn around immediately. He simply picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, and then turned around. His gaze landed on Nakayama Takuya, calm and scrutinizing: "Hmm, Takuya, you're awake."

"Yes, Father."

"Sit." Nakayama Hayao gestured toward the cushion opposite him.

Nakayama Takuya knelt on the cushion, following the posture from his memories, keeping his back straight and trying to look as disciplined as possible. Facing this legendary head of Sega, his heart was still pounding a little.