Armed with a mop in one hand and a sky-blue plastic bucket in the other, Ryujin stood solemnly in front of what could only be described as ground zero.
The crime scene.
The floor still bore the evidence of his unceremonious arrival to this new world—dark, scattered stains smeared across the polished wood like the aftermath of a biological disaster.
Ryujin stared at it in silence for a long moment.
"This is the last thing I do today," he muttered. "After this, I sleep."
He meant it.
He walked back into the bathroom, filled the bucket with warm water from the sink, and squeezed in a healthy amount of liquid detergent. A soft, lemony scent began to rise from the mixture. Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of toilet paper he'd taken earlier—his first line of defense.
Returning to the battlefield, Ryujin crouched near the stains.
Methodically, he began scraping the thicker mess with the toilet paper, wrapping it up with practiced disgust and carefully carrying each bundle back to the bathroom. In and out, back and forth, flushing the used wads down the toilet each time.
He worked like a janitor in a haunted house.
There was a rhythm to it. Scrape. Fold. Flush. Repeat.
Not once did Ryujin complain. Not once did he flinch. His face was unmoved, just slightly furrowed in silent annoyance. Not at the mess—at the situation. Teleported mid-defecation. No warnings. No prep. And now he was here, cleaning a floor that looked like a dog had lost a fight with a blender.
Once the bulk of the damage was gone, he dipped the mop into the soapy water, wrung it out, and began the final phase of the operation.
The mop glided over the floor in precise strokes, slow and deliberate. He cleaned corner to corner, dragging the foam across the wooden surface. Every spot. Every streak. He didn't allow even the faintest smear to survive. If there was any dignity left in the day, it would be in how well he erased this moment from the apartment's memory.
When the job was finally done, Ryujin let the mop rest in the bathroom corner.
He lifted the bucket, now filled with cloudy brown water, and poured it into the toilet bowl.
Flush.
The filth vanished.
Ryujin placed the empty bucket beside the mop and walked to the sink. He pumped three generous squirts of soap onto his palms and scrubbed every inch of his fingers and wrists under the warm water.
The lemon scent returned.
As he dried his hands, he spotted more toilet paper. He grabbed a large amount and walked back to the now-damp living room floor.
Kneeling, he wiped away the remaining moisture, pressing the paper down with focused care. He didn't want detergent drying on the wood—and certainly not the smell of his earlier incident lingering in the air.
Once done, Ryujin slowly tore the now-wet toilet paper into smaller chunks.
"Don't want to clog the pipes," he muttered, more to himself than anything.
He stood, walked back to the bathroom, and flushed the paper in batches. The sound of rushing water became background music to his silence.
As the last pieces disappeared down the porcelain vortex, Ryujin leaned on the counter and sighed.
"I'm gonna regret seeing the water bill," he muttered.
But after a second, he straightened up and gave a tired nod.
"Worth it."
He washed his hands one more time with soap, rinsing thoroughly. Then, satisfied that everything was as clean as it could be, he turned off the faucet and left the bathroom.
His bare feet padded across the cool floor.
The blue towels he'd used after showering were still lying on the floor near the closet. He picked them up on his way past, using them to pat his hands dry. As he walked, he glanced at the still-spinning washing machine—the clothes inside thudding rhythmically like a tired heartbeat.
"Still not done, huh…"
He dropped the towels into the laundry basket where his aqua shirt already lay crumpled.
"I'll wash that tomorrow," he said to himself.
He stretched.
Arms up. Back arching. Shoulders rolling.
Then legs. Knees. Toes. Fingers.
Bones cracked in quiet release. A soft groan slipped past his lips as tension drained from his limbs.
"Finally… time to sleep."
But as Ryujin turned to head toward the bed—passing the TV, couch, and the now-clean floor—something shifted.
A faint tremor ran through the building.
It was small. Subtle. Barely there. The kind of tremor an ordinary person might not even notice.
But Ryujin wasn't ordinary anymore.
Not now.
The moment the floor buzzed beneath his feet, his body reacted instinctively. Not with fear—but with awareness. He froze, eyes narrowing slightly.
"What was that?"
His tone was calm, but not dismissive.
He wasn't panicking—just observing. Curious.
The tremor had passed as quickly as it came, leaving no sound, no shaking furniture, no falling picture frames.
It was the kind of presence only someone attuned to more than the physical world might detect.
Ryujin stood still, staring at nothing in particular.
"…An earthquake?" he said to himself. "No… not normal."
The thought passed through him like smoke—uncertain, but not urgent.
He turned his head toward the windows.
The thick, dark curtains still covered them. Still shut tight.
Without another word, he slowly walked toward them, one hand reaching up to grab the fabric, fingers brushed the edge of the thick curtain.
And without urgency, he pulled it aside, the heavy fabric gliding along the rail with a soft swish.
A quiet breath left his lips.
The world outside… was night.
Stars dotted the indigo sky like distant silver dust, scattered elegantly across a deep, eternal canvas. A full moon hung in the heavens—massive, glowing white-blue, its presence calming but surreal. The light it cast filtered down in gentle layers, bathing the cityscape below in a soft, dreamlike radiance.
He blinked.
"…Huh."
Directly ahead, across the skyline, stood towering buildings—tall, sleek silhouettes framed against the night. Their windows glowed faintly with warm yellow light, creating a scattered mosaic across the city's surface. It was like someone had taken stars from the sky and placed them into the walls of the buildings themselves.
The whole view looked almost… peaceful. Serene.
Too serene, Ryujin thought.
His gaze shifted downward.
From his apartment window, he could see a mix of smaller buildings—some short, others just a few stories tall. Many had their own lights on inside. Others were dark, sleeping. A handful of cars rolled down the streets below, headlights cutting clean lines through the night like glowing insects. Delivery trucks trundled quietly, their wheels humming over asphalt. A few pedestrians strolled the sidewalks, some chatting, others glued to their phones.
It wasn't busy. But it was alive.
"Guess I'm pretty high up," Ryujin muttered, narrowing his eyes slightly as he gauged the distance from the ground.
He counted mentally.
Judging by the angle, how small the cars looked, and the way the horizon sloped below his eye level…
"Ninth floor. Maybe tenth."
A quiet sigh slipped from his mouth. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass.
This wasn't the world he'd known.
It looked like Earth. Felt like Earth. Sounded like Earth.
But it wasn't.
Ryujin stared out at the sleeping city, and his mind finally registered the truth. He wasn't in Tokyo anymore. He wasn't even in his old reality.
This was Espers of the World.
A game.
A world of chaos, factions, powers—and, worst of all, villains who saw cities like this as playgrounds.
"…Right," he murmured, "middle of a city."
He leaned an elbow against the window frame, resting his chin in his palm. His half-lidded eyes drifted between the peaceful rooftops and glowing streets.
"In the game… most of the villains cause chaos in urban areas," he said to no one in particular. "So much for peace and quiet."
A deep, tired sigh rose from his chest and escaped into the room.
"I swear… if some maniac crashes through my wall to steal my stuff, I'm suing the system."
Of course, he couldn't sue the system. But saying it out loud helped.
Just as Ryujin let go of the curtain and turned his body to head back toward the bed, a red flash exploded in the corner of his vision.
His head turned instinctively, calm but alert.
To the right, across the skyline, the city stretched into a river valley. A series of short bridges connected two parts of the urban sprawl, arching across the dark, slow-moving river. On the far side—just past the bridges—stood a slightly wider but low-profile building, now engulfed in flames.
A pillar of smoke spiraled upward into the night.
The fire danced violently, licking at the air in angry tongues of orange and crimson. And above it—hovering like mechanical vultures—were multiple news helicopters, their lights sweeping across the chaos, recording every second of it.
"A mall?" Ryujin guessed, based on the shape and width of the structure.
The fire wasn't the only thing catching attention.
Down near the base of the burning building, he could barely make out panicked movement—figures running, distant emergency lights flickering against the building walls, small vehicles approaching from the distance.
Ryujin's gaze remained steady.
"Let me guess," he said, dragging a hand down his tired face. "Some villain going wild."
He let his hand fall to his side and shook his head slowly.
First thing he does in this world is appear mid-poop in a strange apartment, pants down, system messages flying in his face…
And now?
Now, there's a burning mall outside his window.
Ryujin stared at the flaming building a moment longer, then pouted slightly and sighed—physically and mentally.
"Of course. Just my luck."
He reached up and gently pulled the curtain closed again.
The stars disappeared. The burning mall vanished. The serene city lights faded into darkness.
Once more, his apartment was quiet and dim.
He turned his head toward the white bed by the wall.
It looked tempting. Soft. Fresh.
But he didn't move toward it.
Not yet.
Instead, Ryujin's eyes drifted to the couch.
It looked plain—modern, blocky, and without frills. But after sitting on a stiff, secondhand couch back on Earth for years, even the sight of something normal felt luxurious.
He walked over and dropped onto it with a heavy exhale.
The moment his back hit the cushion, he knew—this couch was leagues better than the old one.
It hugged his weight just enough, without swallowing him whole. The fabric was soft, smooth to the touch, and the subtle give beneath him was perfect. Not too stiff. Not too plush.
He sank into it with a sleepy grunt, eyes already drooping.
But he pulled himself together.
He couldn't fall asleep just yet.
A small glass coffee table stood in front of the couch. Resting neatly on top was a remote control—black, simple, familiar. Ryujin leaned forward and grabbed it lazily.
He pressed the red power button—always a gamble, always the universal guess for "on."
A soft click came from the TV across from him.