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Chapter 1 - Transmigration
🕑 Added 2025-09-13 03:14:42 +0000 UTC“Hiss—” My head hurts…
Takuya Nakayama struggled to open his eyes and found himself lying on a soft tatami mat. Soft light filtered in, warm and gentle, streaming through a paper-covered sliding door. It wasn’t harsh, and it felt rather pleasant.
Where am I?
He propped himself up on the tatami, his body aching as if he’d just run a marathon. Looking around, the room was simply furnished. A calligraphy scroll hung on the wall, bearing the words “Self-Discipline and Propriety” in bold, vigorous strokes. In the corner sat a low table with a delicate tea set on it.
“Did I… transmigrate?” Takuya Nakayama muttered, his voice trembling slightly. Memories flooded in like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm him.
He clearly remembered being a hardcore gamer in 2025. That night, after watching Nintendo’s Switch 2 Direct, he’d grumbled, “What’s with these launch titles? Just paid upgrades for the NS and a bunch of ports? And what’s with this ‘Japanese tax’? Why do all game companies do this? They ride the wave of success and then drop something mediocre. The NS is like this, the PS4 was like this, and the Xbox 360 was the same.” Then, after chugging a possibly expired beer, he passed out.
He never expected to wake up with his soul transmigrated to Japan.
Glancing at the calendar on the table, the red numbers stood out starkly: March 23, 1985. The 60th year of the Showa era!
Wait… Takuya Nakayama? As waves of throbbing pain hit him, he slowly merged with the original owner’s memories. After sweating profusely, he finally understood the identity of this body. This Takuya Nakayama was none other than the youngest son of Hayao Nakayama, the president of Sega!
The original owner had just graduated from Tokyo Institute of Technology, a proper academic prodigy. At his graduation party, egged on by some mischievous friends, he’d drunkenly challenged others to a drinking contest, only to “drink himself to death.” That’s when his soul took over.
“Sega… 1985… So just because I ranted about game companies, I get reborn as Sega’s prince? Does the transmigration agency also play the ‘you can do better’ card?” Takuya Nakayama’s eyes gradually brightened, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Fine, Nintendo. This time, I’ll lead Sega to crush you.”
“But first things first…” Takuya Nakayama scratched the back of his head, frowning slightly as he tried to calm himself. “I need to figure out the situation and what this ‘young master of the Nakayama family’ is like. I can’t afford to blow my cover.”
He didn’t want to be mistaken for someone with a split personality right after arriving.
Takuya Nakayama began frantically piecing together the original owner’s fragmented memories, like assembling a puzzle, trying to reconstruct a complete picture of “Takuya Nakayama.”
Just as he’d roughly gone through the original owner’s memories, a gentle voice came from outside, laced with concern.
“Young Master Takuya, are you awake?”
“Ah… I’m awake,” Takuya Nakayama replied, his throat still dry and tight.
The sliding door opened silently, and a middle-aged woman in a simple kimono stepped in. Her face was kind—she was Keiko Nakayama, the Nakayama family’s maid. Seeing Takuya Nakayama sitting up, albeit weakly, she hurried over, knelt beside him, and examined his face with concern. “Young Master Takuya, are you feeling better? You still look pale. Why don’t you rest a bit more?”
Takuya Nakayama waved his hand lightly, managing a natural-looking smile. “I’m fine, Aunt Keiko. I feel much better after sleeping. Just… drank too much yesterday.” He rubbed his temples, feigning a hangover.
“Sigh, it’s great that you had fun with your friends, but you need to take care of yourself,” Keiko said with a reproachful glance, though her tone was filled with affection. “Go freshen up. I’ll prepare breakfast—your favorite udon, right?”
“Yes, thank you, Aunt Keiko,” Takuya Nakayama replied as he rummaged through the wardrobe for a change of clothes. Casually, he asked, “By the way, where’s Father?”
“The master is at home today, having tea in the backyard. He said to see him once you’re awake,” Keiko answered.
“Tea? This early…” Takuya Nakayama muttered to himself. This new father of his had some old-fashioned hobbies, but it was a good opportunity to gauge the situation. “Got it,” he said, nodding calmly while inwardly relieved that his responses hadn’t raised any suspicions.
Keiko left, thoughtfully closing the sliding door. Takuya Nakayama slipped into the washroom, splashing cold water on his face, which cleared his foggy mind. The mirror reflected a young, slightly boyish face—belonging to both the original owner and now him.
“Not a bad look, and decent height too. Not bad,” he remarked, assessing his new body before taking a quick shower.
Dressed in simple home attire, he returned to the main room, where a steaming bowl of miso udon awaited on the low table. Golden fried tofu skin soaked up the broth, topped with a perfectly cooked onsen egg—just as the original owner liked it. The aroma stirred his appetite. This authentic 1980s Japanese breakfast was leagues better than the takeout junk from his time.
Takuya Nakayama sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and slurped the chewy noodles. The rich broth and creamy egg yolk warmed his stomach. Delicious. He polished off the meal quickly, wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood up, adjusted his clothes, and headed toward the backyard.
Passing through several corridors, he reached a traditional Japanese garden. It was March, and cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their pink and white petals drifting like snowflakes in the breeze, landing on stone paths and a babbling stream. The air carried a faint floral scent mixed with the freshness of damp earth.
Deep in the garden, under a cherry blossom tree, Hayao Nakayama sat with his back to him at a low table. Dressed in a deep blue kimono, his upright posture exuded calm authority even from behind. A rustic purple clay tea set on the table released wisps of steam.
“Father,” Takuya Nakayama said, stopping a few steps away and bowing slightly.
Hayao Nakayama didn’t turn immediately. He lifted his teacup, took a slow sip, then turned to face him. His gaze settled on Takuya Nakayama, calm but scrutinizing. “Hm, Takuya, you’re awake.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Sit,” Hayao Nakayama gestured to the cushion opposite him.
Takuya Nakayama knelt on the cushion, mimicking the original owner’s posture, keeping his back straight to appear proper. Facing the legendary head of Sega, he felt a twinge of nervousness.
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