As the white light finally began to fade from Ryujin's vision, shapes and shadows gradually returned. His eyesight adjusted, and what he saw startled him—not out of fear, but quiet curiosity.
The place resembled his apartment.
A simple, white queen-sized bed stood in the corner. A familiar couch faced a sleek television, and beside them, a compact kitchen seamlessly connected the layout. It looked almost exactly like the place he had lived in for over seven years and two months.
Except… it wasn't.
The dimensions were larger. The finishes more refined. The overall design felt more luxurious, more deliberate. It was like a higher-end replica of his home, recreated with better materials and a larger budget. But the curtains were shut, casting quiet darkness he was used to.
Ryujin stood silently in the middle of the room, his expression calm, emotionless—as if this sudden shift was nothing more than an odd dream.
"This isn't where I live," he murmured to himself, voice flat, like he was stating the weather.
He took a cautious step forward—but the moment he moved, he froze.
Something was tightly wrapped around his ankles.
The sensation was familiar, almost like fabric. He glanced down.
His pants and underwear—his soft aqua-colored pajama bottoms—were still pulled down to his legs, wrapped awkwardly around his feet like restraints. A slight frown touched his face.
But that wasn't all.
A sluggish, warm, sticky feeling clung to his skin. His brows furrowed as he looked lower.
That's when he saw it.
A large, brown, gooey mess was splattered across the floor and partially soaked into his fallen clothing. Brown streaks trailed from the mess to his feet, where a disgusting sludge now slowly dripped.
Ryujin's eyes narrowed—not in panic, not in horror, but in silent disbelief.
He stared at the mess for a long, quiet moment.
Then he let out a long, tired sigh.
"…Tch. Seriously?"
With no sign of frustration on his face, Ryujin crouched down and carefully pulled his feet out of his soiled pants and underwear. Holding the garments between two fingers like biohazard material, he glanced around the room.
"I hope this place has a washing machine," he muttered, "...some detergent... and maybe a mop."
Just as he began to walk toward the hallway—still barefoot—a glowing blue screen flashed into existence in front of his face.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
____________________________
[Welcome to Espers of the World, Ryujin Kage.
You have been successfully transported into your favorite game.
Please enjoy your stay in this new world. This will now be your permanent home… until death.
Also, thank you very much for your payment. ¥6,000 received.]
_____________________________
Ryujin blinked slowly.
So it wasn't a scam after all.
"…So you really just stole my money and warped me here mid-shit?" he said dryly, his tone flat.
He raised an eyebrow slightly, eyes still locked on the floating system interface. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, it was annoyance mixed with a quiet need for answers.
He opened his mouth to ask the one question that bothered him the most—why in the world someone would summon him mid-defecation—but before the thought could even form, another message appeared on-screen.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
____________________________
[No need to worry about your identity.
It has already been handled.
For more details, please check the laptop inside the nightstand beside the bed.
A reminder: this world is not a scripted game.
Everyone here has free will.
Even the "main cast" you may remember from the game will grow and change depending on their experiences.
Your knowledge of future events may become useless over time.]
_______________________________
Ryujin read the entire message without blinking.
"…So they're not NPCs," he muttered. "They're people now."
That was concerning—but not terrifying. At most, it meant the game he knew had become unpredictable. He tucked that thought away in the back of his mind.
What bothered him more was the way the system casually waved off the poop fiasco, like it was some irrelevant glitch in the process.
Ryujin stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by silence… and the smell of shame.
A faint glowing trail of digital particles lingered where the system screen had vanished. His expression remained unmoved. Blank-eyed. Mildly exhausted.
Right now he didn't bother asking the system any questions.
It wasn't because he didn't have any—he had a dozen questions crawling through his brain like ants on a corpse—but from his experience earlier, he already knew how these things worked. If he asked anything, it'd probably trigger a dozen more system prompts. And right now, the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a never-ending text box tutorial.
He just wanted to clean himself up.
As if reading his mind, another soft blue chime filled the air.
Ping.
Another screen appeared.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
___________________________
[Thank you once again for your kind generosity, Ryujin.
__________________________
Your payment has been most appreciated.]
Ryujin narrowed his eyes at the message. His voice was low and dry.
"I didn't even give you the damn—"
[SYSTEM NOTICE ]
______________________________
[Yes, we know.
We also realized that once you were transported here, all your money on Earth would be rendered useless.
So as a responsible businessman, we took the liberty of collecting the full amount remaining in your bank account.
In return, of course, you were granted more power than the usual transferee.
For more information about your unique abilities, please locate the phone inside the kitchen cabinet.
Have a pleasant life in your new world.]
______________________________
The text pulsed for a second before fading into specks of light, drifting into the dimly lit air like dying fireflies.
The room went quiet again.
Ryujin stared blankly into space.
"…I didn't even get to ask anything," he muttered.
He looked down at the mess still staining the floor, his legs, and the twisted heap of aqua-colored pajama pants at his feet. He was already getting a headache—and not from the teleportation.
This whole thing felt like some long, drawn-out joke with no punchline.
Right now, before anything else… he needed to clean up. The rest of the world—powers, systems, magic, explanations—could wait.
Ryujin carefully picked up the soggy, stained clothes between two fingers, letting out a quiet breath of resignation.
He stepped lightly across the polished wooden floor, tiptoeing with careful precision to avoid tracking filth. His eyes drifted toward the familiar white door next to the kitchen table.
Please be a bathroom.
Please be a washing machine.
He opened it slowly.
Relief flickered in his chest.
It was indeed the bathroom. Larger, brighter, and more luxurious than the one in his old apartment—but functionally the same.
White marble tiles. Soft LED lighting. A glass-enclosed shower, a separate bathtub, a wide sink counter… and yes—a white, boxy washing machine sat quietly in the corner like a holy artifact.
Ryujin stepped inside, unconcerned with the extravagant design. The architecture didn't matter. The only thing he cared about was the toilet—and the machine that would clean his dignity.
He made his way to the toilet first.
With practiced hands, he grabbed some tissue from the mounted roll and wiped himself down, face as expressionless as ever. He cleaned off the smeared mess from his legs, then bent over and wiped the larger stains off the pajama pants and underwear. He picked off the solid bits and dropped them into the bowl without a second thought.
Flush.
The sound echoed.
It was almost symbolic.
Ryujin tossed the dirty tissue in after it and flushed again. Watching the water swirl away the last of the morning disaster gave him a strange sense of closure.
Without ceremony, he moved to the washing machine.
He opened the lid, stuffed the pants and underwear in, then paused.
His hands were filthy.
He walked over to the sink, turned on the tap, and pumped several squirts of liquid soap onto his hands. The cool water ran down his arms as he scrubbed. In silence, he watched the suds carry away brown stains and tired thoughts.
Another sigh.
Another blank stare at the mirror above the sink.
He didn't even look like he'd been transported to another world. Same hair. Same messy dark bangs. Same expressionless eyes.
"I just woke up," he muttered. "Now I'm here, pantsless, broke, and covered in crap."
He dried his hands, reached up to the cabinet above the machine, and grabbed a full bottle of detergent. Without even measuring, he dumped a generous amount into the washer. Probably too much.
He closed the lid, pressed START, and listened to the mechanical hum come to life.
For a moment, he just stood there—watching the drum begin to spin, clothes slapping against the inner walls.
"…This better not be a dream," he said flatly. "Because if it is, and I have to relive this whole thing again..."
He leaned against the counter and rubbed his temple.
The absurdity hadn't hit him in waves like it might for someone else. No panic, no emotional outburst. Just a strange, exhausting heaviness—like someone threw him into a game world before he could caffeinate or finish his damn bathroom routine.
He glanced at the marble bathtub. For a second, he considered using it.
But a simple thought drifted through his half-awake mind:
If I use the tub right now… I'll fall asleep and end up soaking in poop water for an hour.
He wasn't wrong.
He turned his head to the right and locked eyes with the clean, glass-encased shower.
That was the better choice. Definitely.
Still sluggish, Ryujin reached for the hem of his aqua-colored pajama shirt and lazily pulled it over his head. The shirt plopped onto the bathroom floor without ceremony. He scratched at the back of his neck, then wandered barefoot toward the shower, dragging his feet like a zombie ready to collapse.
The tiled floor was cold under his soles.
He twisted the dial on the wall to activate the shower's heat mode. A low mechanical hum started, followed by the gentle splatter of water hitting the floor inside the glass.
The sound of running water was soothing—too soothing.
Ryujin's eyelids fluttered.
His thoughts wobbled like a tired satellite signal. His body begged to give in to the comfort, to let go and just collapse right there on the warm tile.
But Ryujin, being Ryujin, gritted through the rising drowsiness with his usual deadpan calm.
"Nope. Not yet."
He stepped forward and tested the temperature of the water with his hand. Once it was just right—hot, but not scalding—he stepped inside the glass enclosure.
The moment the water hit his skin, he sighed. Not dramatically. Just tiredly. Like someone clocking out from a very long, very unexpected shift.
He reached for a bottle of liquid soap and started scrubbing his legs first—furiously. Left leg, right leg, calves, thighs—he spared no mercy. Every trace of what had clung to his body from that undignified arrival was going to be erased.
Steam began to build, hugging the inside of the glass like a thick veil. The temperature rose, and the entire shower started to feel like a foggy bubble of warmth.
Ryujin kept going, grabbing shampoo next and squeezing more than necessary into his hand. He didn't even think about it—he lathered until his hair and body were covered in a storm of bubbles. Foam clung to his skin, dripped down the glass, and pooled around his feet.
He must have looked like a monster made entirely of soap.
Rinse. Lather. Rinse again.
The showerhead hissed, water falling over him in steady waves, dragging away the remnants of grime and exhaustion in equal measure. The soapy storm continued until even Ryujin, for a brief moment, felt like a functioning human being again.
Finally, he turned off the water.
The sound of the machine in the bathroom corner—his washing machine—was still raging on in the background, echoing in rhythm with the quiet pulse of his own fatigue.
Ryujin stepped out of the shower, grabbed a blue towel hanging from a wall hook, and wrapped it around his waist. Another matching towel he used to rub the moisture from his shoulders, neck, and hair.
As he walked, he bent down and picked up his discarded aqua pajama shirt from earlier. He tossed it into a laundry basket sitting near the wall.
His movements were slow. Calm. Mechanical.
Still drying off, he pushed open the bathroom door and stepped into the cooler air outside. His skin immediately registered the change in temperature, but he barely noticed it. He was running on instinct at this point.
Ryujin walked past the kitchen table—and was greeted by the poop stain still on the floor.
Right where he had landed.
"…Right. That's still there," Ryujin muttered with a sigh.
He scratched his damp hair and turned away. "I'll deal with that after I get dressed."
Ryujin made his way to the nearby closet. It opened with a smooth click, revealing neatly folded clothes—plain shirts, shorts, and a small drawer stocked with underwear. Everything was new. Clean. Default character outfits, probably auto-generated by whoever dumped him in this world.
He rummaged through and grabbed what looked most comfortable.
First, he pulled on a blue pair of underwear. Then a light gray T-shirt with a ridiculous graphic of a slice of pizza riding a skateboard. It wasn't stylish, but it was soft. Lastly, he chose a pair of plain green shorts that reached just below his knees.
Ryujin stretched his arms upward, spine cracking faintly as he took a slow breath.
"Alright… let's clean the floor," he mumbled.
Then, almost as an afterthought, added:
"And after that… I'm sleeping. I don't care if this world's on fire outside."
His eyes were heavy again. The warm shower had melted the last of his adrenaline, leaving only gravity and the desire to crash into a soft mattress.
But first—just one more task.
One last poop stain to erase before he could finally close his eyes.