Tokyo, 2009 — Just another ordinary day.
Han stared at the junior high school girl standing in front of him. She had the same skin tone as him, but it was obvious at a glance—she wasn't from his part of the world.
No… technically, she was the local. He was the outsider now.
Years of obsessively watching movies and anime had sharpened his instincts—he could tell right away: this was a Japanese junior high school girl. Otherwise, how else would he have seen a JK dressed like that in real life?
Back in my country, the so-called "tradition keepers" would never allow female students to wear skirts that short. They were so strict, you'd think they wanted to wrap girls up until not even their toes showed.
"Did I actually… transmigrate?!"
Smack!
He punched himself in the face. It hurt like hell. Definitely not a dream.
Just yesterday, he'd been an average white-collar worker—another cog in the corporate machine. After years of loyal service, he was finally in line for a promotion. And then, out of nowhere, a trainee showed up and stole his position. The guy had only been there two and a half years and didn't even know the basics.
Han had been stunned. How could this guy outrank him?
Only later did he find out—the trainee's uncle was the company's marketing director.
That was when Han truly understood how the world worked.
Hard work? Useless.
Backstabbing? Still useless.
What really mattered was your connections—your background, and your power.
As the saying goes: "No background? You've already lost."
Every time something unfair happened, Han couldn't help but wonder—did other people feel the same rage he did? That the world was rigged against those without powerful backgrounds?
It wasn't just in the workplace.
Even in sports, things were no different.
Just look at the national football team. You want to play? Sure—just cough up a few million.
No money?
Then forget it. You might as well kick a rock.
Having a rich or well-connected father changes everything.
Take Bronny James, for example. He might not be the most talented player, but he's the son of LeBron James—the GOAT or at least one of the top contenders. That alone gets him MVP chants and jersey sales worth $50 million.
And he's not alone.
Michael Jordan's son, Jeffery Jordan, played 59 games in college and barely managed 58 points in total.
Did it matter?
Not really. His last name was Jordan. That was enough to keep the spotlight on him, to make people believe—maybe someday he'll awaken and dominate the court like his father did.
But on the basketball court—at least there—it's a bit fairer than real life.
Bronny? Jeffrey? Please.
No matter how legendary their fathers are, that talent doesn't automatically transfer. Skill can't be inherited through DNA.
"Still," Han sighed, "they've got it made. No worries about food, money, or anything really. They've got women, luxury cars, and a lifetime supply of fame…"
You might laugh at Jeffrey for averaging just one point per game. But Jeffrey? He's laughing at you for never stepping foot in Beverly Hills.
Oh, and Jordan's other son, Marcus? Even wilder. He ended up dating the ex-wife of Jordan's former teammate. Some even say they've been involved in some... serious stuff.
You have to wonder: what do Jordan and Pippen even say to each other when they meet now?
Drama, man. Pure drama.
Han scratched his head. "What about me? Where's my golden ticket?" Just as he complained, a crisp—
Ding!
—rang out.
No, seriously. Ding!
Han had a lot to say but no idea where to start.
"What's the deal? What system is this?" he muttered.
"Welcome, Host, to the Popular Character System..."
"Wait, hold up."
Popular Character?
Han hadn't read many web novels recently, but he had a sinking feeling he knew what this was.
"Don't tell me… Everything I do here gets broadcast to a higher dimension as a movie or TV show?"
"Anime!"
Figures. Not even live-action? So I'm just a two-dimensional pretty boy now?
He groaned. The idea of living in a real-life Truman Show didn't exactly excite him.
"My life is not some voyeuristic fantasy for others to watch!"
"We can make you a millionaire!"
"Come on. I've already transmigrated—becoming a millionaire isn't even that hard anymore."
Han brushed aside his bangs and caught a glimpse of his reflection.
His hair was fluffy and silver-white, and his eyes... sky blue.
"What the hell kind of unlucky face is this?"
He looked like an anime character—no, scratch that—he looked like Gojo Satoru in a high school uniform.
"God forbid I get sliced into 2.5 Satorus," he muttered.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two girls whispering and sneaking glances at him.
It wasn't the "he's a weirdo" kind of look. No, this was that sparkly-eyed, slow-motion, fluttery background kind of gaze girls reserved for dreamy protagonists.
Han walked up, calm as ever. "Hey, can I borrow your phone for a second?"
"Uh-huh!" one girl replied, handing it over eagerly.
He wasn't surprised. When the system had activated a day ago, it gave him a skill—Fluency in All World Languages.
That meant zero communication barriers. Full linguistic mastery. Social cheat code unlocked.
Han pulled up the browser and checked the date.
2009.
"In 2009, the Lakers won the championship. After Shaq left, Kobe finally proved himself," he muttered.
"Still, let's make sure history hasn't changed…"
2008—Boston Celtics.
2007—San Antonio Spurs.
2006—Miami Heat.
Perfect match.
He moved on to the World Cup winners:
2006—Italy.
2002—Brazil.
2010—coming up next year… Spain.
"Yes!" he grinned. "That means next year…"
"I'm gonna make bank!"
Han threw his head back and let out a victorious howl.
The two girls stepped back, a little stunned.
'He's so gorgeous but… is he okay in the head?'
Usagi: "......"
Popular character? Forget that.
Han had a new goal now:
Become a billionaire.
Starting today, he'd work his way up—until he earned a hundred million by next year.
After returning the phone, Han gave a low whistle and strolled away, leaving the two girls staring at the screen, slightly disappointed.
They scrolled through the contacts—nothing.
No number.
Just a ghost in the wind.
One of them sighed. "He didn't even leave his number…"
The other pouted. "Even if he's a bit crazy, cute fools are easier to approach."
Meanwhile, Usagi—the system—sounded exasperated.
"Is that really all you're aiming for?"
Han responded without breaking stride, speaking to the air like he was having a casual argument with the wind. "You heard me. A billionaire. That's the goal. Got a problem with that?"
"Don't you want something grander? A more spectacular life?"
Han rolled his eyes. "I got hit by a truck while walking on the sidewalk and woke up in another world. That's already spectacular enough for me."
Then he paused, brows furrowing in mock contemplation.
"You know, I've always wanted to ask—why is it always a fuckin truck? If you're gonna send me to another world, can't you be a little more creative than just slamming me with an ice cream truck of all things?"