4 p.m.
After a long, exhausting day at school, Yin Ze returned to his little bachelor cave, clutching a microwaved chicken bento from the convenience store downstairs.
Yanking off his student ID like a tired office worker loosening his tie, he sighed—but unlike that fantasy, there was no lovely lady waiting to draw him a bath or massage his shoulders.
The Dean had already called the principal, who was away on an exchange program, and truthfully reported the day's drama. Surprisingly, the principal took it seriously and promised a generous "first-clear" reward—special items called Fukuzawa Yukichi's Blessing.
It was only after some polite probing that Yin Ze learned the truth: the principal, his father, and even his grandfather had all failed in their attempts to get into Tokyo University. The man had carried three generations of hopes into his own college entrance exams, only to fall short once again. Heartbroken, he ended up enrolling at Waseda, tears and all.
The school itself had a long history and had produced some legendary students over the years, but never once had anyone made it into Todai. That failure had clearly become the principal's lifelong regret.
Every now and then, the Dean would catch sight of the principal staring out of his office window, gaze fixed toward the direction of the nation's top university.
Most men, it seems, have a dream like that.
After hearing all this, Yin Ze could only sigh and shake his head.
He remembered being six or seven—just a clueless kid—when he too dreamed of getting into a top-tier school.
But children don't really understand their own abilities, especially when they're caught up in pretending to be cool or spending real money on virtual gacha games.
Even now, he never truly believed he could pass the hellish exams that crushed so many elite high schoolers.
Having a photographic memory just meant he had a slight advantage in open-book tests. And it's not like he hadn't copied from books before… But sometimes, no textbook could save you.
Still, the Dean seemed oddly confident.
"The teachers in the honors prep class have seen it all. I've already drafted your study plan—'Free Swim in the Sea of Exam Problems!' Custom-tailored for your talents, lifetime support guaranteed. Hey, if you don't make it this year, there's always next year!"
After thinking it over, Yin Ze agreed. The college entrance exams were just under three months away anyway.
Might as well take the shot. If he passed, he'd help fulfill the school's dream and walk away with a big fat bonus. If not, he'd still graduate and join the working world without issue.
And so… the time had come to actually start studying.
Yin Ze peeled back the plastic cover from the steaming bento and dug in with disposable chopsticks. Honestly, the convenience store meals here weren't bad at all.
In the quiet apartment, the only sound was his own eating.
Takizawa probably came home at this time too—eating alone like him.
When you live by yourself, you have to learn to embrace the silence. Coming back to a cold apartment after the lively chaos of school takes some adjusting.
Living alone had its perks: no interruptions, no nagging, no one rushing you, no awkward social obligations. You could do whatever you wanted—stay up late, drink yourself stupid, game till dawn.
But when a funny video popped up and you laughed out loud, only to look up and see no one else in the room…
It made you feel just a little dumb.
There's no one to share the laughs with. And no one to vent to when life goes sideways.
Night fell. Street vendors packed up, stores shut their doors, and the city's buzz slowly drifted into sleep. Light pollution dulled the sky—stars still hung overhead, unseen. The streetlights flickered in and out like tired sentinels in the shadows.
Yin Ze, still eating, habitually reached for his phone, wanting to check his feed and see what his buddies were up to.
Instead, he found himself holding Takizawa's old-school flip phone.
His chopsticks paused.
Chewing slowly, he looked up.
He flipped the phone open and scrolled through the contacts.
Not a single familiar name.
After a beat of silence, he pressed in a number he'd memorized long ago.
Speaker on, the dial tone crackled with static, the signal seemingly lost in the city—wandering past rooftops, carried by wind, cloaked in night.
Searching, aimless.
No one picked up.
Eventually, a prerecorded voice cut in, polite and distant: "The number you've dialed is not in service."
Yin Ze let out a quiet sigh and tossed the phone aside. Then he bowed his head and finished the last few bites of his meal.
When he was full, he rested his chin on his palm and stared at the artwork paused on his laptop.
Every man has a dream. He was no different.
Takizawa had written about his own dream in his journal—bold, ambitious, maybe even naive.
He'd gone to a technical college. Called himself "a man above men," but truth was, options were limited.
He could don a uniform and deliver food for the people. Or wear a snappy suit, slick his hair back, and sell apartments. Or become a loan shark hero on social media, arms crossed in a clean shirt and tie.
When it came time to choose, he went with the impractical option.
He hoped that the work he did—the things he experienced—would make his future self happy.
That was all.
He didn't want to wake up in his fifties or sixties with thinning hair and stiff joints, with a life reduced to groceries and utility bills.
He didn't want the wife's complaints, the parents' funerals, the worries about the next generation to become the entire rhythm of his life.
That's ordinary life, sure.
But if he could, during rare moments of rest, he wanted to do something besides dancing in the local plaza with old folks.
At the very least, when he got old, he wanted to keep drawing.
Put something of himself into those lines.
He'd won second place in a crayon contest back in fourth grade. A tiny spark of talent.
Humanity has chased beauty for millennia. The pursuit of art has never stopped.
Art is the kind of thing you can never practice enough. There's no final level. Only history and civilization itself can truly master it.
But greatness, when filtered through the lives of small people, often becomes meaningless.
Some give up on comics after years of doubt. Some never leave their comfort zones. Some get into business, only to become what they once hated.
Most… simply give up.
"To have been that foolish once—that alone makes me grateful. Because it means, even here, my dream followed me."
Not all the time, no.
But when he gritted his teeth through sleepless nights and dreary mornings just to survive on skill alone—it was the dream that kept him going.
Yin Ze picked up the stylus.
"You're the only thing here that still feels like home."
He took a deep breath.
Memories spun like a carousel. His mental library rumbled. Exercises, lessons, techniques—everything came soaring off the shelves, swirling around him.
Suddenly, everything was vivid.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of drawings arranged themselves into a vast formation. From sketch to polish, repeating again and again.
Mastery begins with understanding, then action, then muscle memory.
He wasn't a genius. Not really.
He was just someone who kept copying the good stuff and hoped it stuck. He didn't have the insight or intuition of the true pros.
But looking back—sifting through the struggles, the doubts, and the growing pains—he found something he hadn't expected.
Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
Yin Ze opened his eyes.
He was drenched in sweat, like he'd just climbed out of a pool. His shirt clung to him, his stomach growled again despite the meal.
He looked down at the pen in his hand.
For the first time in a long while, he felt like the dream was real—solid, tangible.
He wasn't just imitating anymore.
He was understanding.
He stood, intending to wash off the sweat. But halfway to the bathroom, he paused.
He looked around the room with fresh eyes.
Takizawa had worked hard here too.
Chasing his own goal. Remembering happier times with his father.
That thought made Yin Ze smile.