The answer was simple: Eizo’s apology was like the smile he wore. Superficial. Flippant. Fake. A performance to save his own skin and prevent any repercussions.

  Eventually, the dumbass would realize his parcel was missing. The contents, which read like the early seeds of Baka Nori’s work, must be important to him. Ran was in no hurry to return them. The prideful brat would have to come to him and grovel at his feet before Ran would even consider giving it back. From the delivery slip to the contents of the notes, he had questions for Eizo. Far too many. The advantage fell back in his favor. Kamada Eizo didn’t know it yet, but he would soon enough.

  For the time being, he needed to get up to speed with the project. He made himself comfortable on the sofa, with a pot of luxurious tea on the coffee table. On a weekend when summer gave way to fall, he opened the LitRPG web serial on his tablet.

  Weekly Ranking: #2

  The Reluctant Wizard; or

  I Wake Up One Day with A Baseball Bat, and Now I Have to Save the World

  Length: 280 chapters

  Status: Ongoing

  Last updated: September 22, 2025

  Ran read from morning to night, covering 110 chapters in one go. He stopped at the arc before the halfway point, where the twist was. At first, he’d planned to read fifty pages, enough to confirm Eizo’s quality of work and whether he was indeed worthy of Kisuke’s glowing compliments. It took him a few chapters to switch off his editorial brain and kill off the impulse to export the file as a PDF, where he could mark out areas for improvement with a stylus.

  Once Ran overcame the initial clumsiness of the information dump—typical signs of a beginner—he flew through the pages, far beyond what he needed to gauge Eizo’s ability. The chapters were long, but the dialogue was snappy, the backstory scattered across the pages like pieces of a puzzle as the writer grew in confidence. He ended up purchasing tokens to unlock more chapters after he had finished the free ones, a secret he would bring with him to his grave.

  As Ran sipped his tea between chapters, he came to root for the unnamed wizard, addressed as ‘The Great One’ by the story characters.

  The titular wizard lacked magic—never wielded any since the day he was born. As luck would have it, he woke up with a baseball bat one day. He had never seen one before, much less realized it was meant to hit balls. He didn’t care for the object, but holding it gave his fingers a concrete surface to wrap around so no one would see him fidget when he sat still for a long time. So, he brought it everywhere with him. He pretended the item was magical, thinking that it was only a matter of time before the townsfolk realized his utter lack of worth as a person and kicked him out of their land. The lie soon got out of hand, and he became talked about as a person he was not.

  Halfway through the story, Ran burst out laughing. Not a chuckle, nor a snigger placed between lines meant to tickle, but a rip-roaring guttural laugh that very few in his life had witnessed. His mood grew even heartier as he brewed another pot of tea, the floral aroma immersing him in a garden-like atmosphere framed by young, downy leaves, where he drank a golden liqueur tasting of hazelnut and muscatel.

  Bouts of silliness ensued when the wizard tried to hide the fact that he lacked magic. But once he possessed the baseball bat, he wielded it in the exact way one’d use a bat—swinging it so hard and fast that he could hit everything flying his way. It made him look powerful. He realized his mistake and started to miss on purpose. He went out swinging—and missing—at each attempt to convince them he did, in fact, lack magic. Yet the more he did, the more they praised his humility.

  “It’s a piece of wood,” the wizard told everyone, who marveled at the weapon loosely held in his hands. They had never seen anything like that before.

  “A sledgehammer,” cried a voice in the crowd. “A hammer sent from the heavens!”

  “Who is fit to wield it?” cried another voice.

  “Don’t look at me,” said the wizard. “I have no powers.”

  “The Great One has spoken,” someone shouted. “The Great One has spoken!”

  There were moments when Ran couldn’t tell if he was reading a slapstick comedy or a blatant dig at the LitRPG genre. The wizard passed tasks of increasing difficulty simply by adjusting his swing and was instantly lauded as the coming of their savior. It wasn’t clear what he needed to save them from, or if their land even needed saving. There was a tower in the far-off distance. The most powerful wizard in the land must reach his destination—where else but the tower with a belfry—and fight a dragon with the mystical ability to suck the air out of the atmosphere. According to the lore, it had been asleep for a thousand years.

  “You must defeat the beast that threatens our lives. It has not yet awakened, but one day it will, and it will consume our world with a vengeance,” the common folk cried in unison. They tried to stop the wizard when he offered to drain his blood to prove that he possessed not a drop of magic.

  “You must not hurt yourself for our sakes. You have nothing to prove to us. You have already done plenty. The last thing you can do for us is slay the sleeping beast in the tower using your powerful sledgehammer.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said the wizard for the thousandth time since he had arrived at the village. “I have no powers.”

  Their cries urged the wizard to continue his journey in their land, the only known continent in the world. A place where wizards and magic folk thrived, but he had seen no one else capable of the feats he seemed to pull out of the blue. As the wizard became a reluctant traveler, he pondered the existence of the tower and the beast, which had yet to cause any damage. Perhaps their presence was necessary for the world to function, a visual reminder that their lives could end at any time, a call to those who could act and slay the threat before it woke.

  Ran couldn’t remember the last time a book had engaged him this much.

  Baka Nori’s control of storytelling grew from strength to strength, immersing the reader in a world that seemed bland and indistinguishable from reality at first, before it slowly unraveled into one that oozed magic and wonder everywhere you looked. At his finest, he freely applied dramatic irony, like how the wizard gained mastery over the baseball bat, advancing the plot and simultaneously poking fun at the genre’s established tropes. The wizard was a mousy guy with a squeaky voice. In narration, his tone was distant, almost bored. He held firm in apparent danger, panicking only when the townsfolk repeatedly misunderstood him. It made the story funnier.

  Every week, Goro emailed the reader analysis report to Kisuke, him, and the team. With the web serial at its climax, where the wizard and his companions were two stops from reaching the tower, readership was soaring to an all-time high. Everyone was curious—was the wizard telling the truth all along, or was he lying even to the reader?

  Perhaps what Kisuke had said was right—Baka Nori possessed an exceptional quality. While the prose and execution could benefit from more editing, his work was undeniably polished for a first-time author. Ran could even argue that it’d sit right in the middle of light novels of a similar genre.

  Kamada Eizo might have a lousy personality, but his talent as a writer was irrefutable. He possessed an astounding imagination and a grasp of scene-building that few could claim at the early stages of their careers. When used for nefarious purposes, which Ran won’t mention, it was tedious to manage, but when written on the page meant to entertain, he shone.

  The depth of the concept Eizo had shared at their meeting surprised Ran. Though plagued by common pitfalls that a writer new to traditional publication typically faced—such as an obsession with world-building that had no apparent connection to the story’s driving force—Eizo’s premise presented many avenues for tension, conflict, and ultimately, heartbreak. All of that spelled potential for a cracking story. Still, the motivation remained vague, the proposed execution middling, as though the author were peering through a dense fog, putting out his hands to feel for obstacles that might trip him, rather than seeking a way out of the mist.

  Ran set his tablet aside and eyed the unclaimed parcel in his entryway. He had the feeling Kamada Eizo would visit him very soon.

  20

  If someone ever asked Eizo why he had picked Oakwood, he would share two reasons. The first was his cover: a safe, publicly acceptable version, easy to understand and requiring no explanation. The second version was for him to know, because once the reason behind his actions faded, it was time to pack up and go.

  First, its name: Kichijoji. 吉祥寺。The Temple of Auspiciousness.

  He liked that its name had two homophones, chi and ji. Chi on its own meant nothing, while ji meant ‘temple’. He took great joy whenever he said it, not that he got to say it often, but when he had the opportunity, he’d pronounce it with a lilt reminiscent of the Kyushu dialect. There were a few ways to say ‘寺’, and ji so far was his favorite.

  The other truth, which he’d told no one, not even Hayato, was that he liked how muted Kichijoji looked.

  A strange reason, for sure. The popular neighborhood west of downtown Tokyo resembled any other suburb in the metropolis. Depending on where you looked, Kichijoji could appear expensive, with shopping malls attached to the east of the station. At the other end of the Musashino district was Inokashira Park. Further west was Mitaka, where ceaseless crowds swarmed the Ghibli Museum.

  He saw with startling clarity the spectrum of neutral colors blanketing the neighborhood. The colors of skin, of dust particles lit under sunbeams, of earth, of the ground at his feet. Beige, brown, gray, and the occasional pale yellow blended into a painter’s palette, drawn for the people who passed through the streets every day and lived as they had meant. He didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know him. What they didn’t know about him made it easier for him to breathe.

  Other than Mrs. Yasuda and Hayato, no one else knew he’d moved to Kichijoji. Everyone he’d grown up with enjoyed the convenience of downtown Tokyo too much to let it go. Azabudai was at the center of everything. All that you could ever want in a home was within arm’s reach. Take a few paces, and you’ll reach a museum or gallery exhibiting the latest artwork by international artists. Backtrack another couple of steps, and you’d run into a smattering of trendy cafes. If you went down an alley, you’d find shops and eateries featured in bestselling magazines, with throngs of people queuing in anticipation. And you’d most certainly run into people you knew. You’d have to make small talk, which then led to making plans to catch up over a meal—arrangements proposed for the sake of courtesy and never to come to fruition until the next time you run into the same person.

  The thought of it tired him, so he’d made it a point to avoid being seen outside of classes, cram school, and baseball practice. He’d often hide in cafes or libraries, hoodie pulled over his head as he typed away on the laptop. When those were closed for the day, he’d rent a bicycle and head out west to Tokyo Bay. He would pedal as fast as he could, up and down narrow alleyways between quiet residential blocks, weaving between pedestrians on sidewalks along commercial streets, moving against the flow of traffic, feeling the wind in his face. When you lived in a place that did not resemble you, hearing your name chained you to their world. The wind couldn’t speak, so it couldn’t call his name.

  In a city where the tower loomed overhead everywhere he turned, that was all he had.

  * * *

  For the first time in a long while, Kamada Kiko’s messages to Eizo weren’t about his studies or career.

  I have something for you. Third shelf from my desk, second drawer. You know the PIN. Contact Yasuda if you can’t find it. We’ll talk when I’m back.

  Eizo tried all means to avoid Ran after he had hooked the remaining of his savings on his neighbor’s door. He knew Ran would return home around nine p.m., so he packed a sandwich and took off before they could run into each other. With his backpack in tow, he could go anywhere he wanted. He boarded the first bus that arrived, not bothering to check its destination. The further the better, he thought. He just didn’t want to return to Azabudai right away. After switching buses at various terminals, he ended up at Tokyo Bay.

  Eizo alighted before the Rainbow Bridge. Back in high school, he’d often crossed the bridge connecting mainland Tokyo to Odaiba, taking the pedestrian walkway on the north side, then reversed to his starting point on the south side. The walkway was a mile long, and at each end were benches and vending machines.

  He’d chanced upon this route after his high school baseball coach had him run six miles every day, in addition to his regular training. Just speed and agility weren’t enough. As a starting member of the team that made Koshien every summer, Eizo needed to last for twelve innings without collapsing by the seventh.

  During the holidays, he stepped it up to twelve miles. The Azabu area to Daiba Park, situated east of the Rainbow Bridge, was approximately six miles. A simple route with the first two miles uphill until he passed Tamachi. When the hilly path evened out to flat ground, he slowed to a jog, barely breaking a sweat as he crossed the bridge into Odaiba. Running in the evening was the perfect excuse to avoid being home for dinner. After all, it had been just him and his mother, if she were even in Tokyo and had left the office by then.

  On Christmas and holidays, the bridge glittered with shades of the rainbow. A popular spectacle for families and tourists alike, yet Eizo found the lights jarring—how they screamed for attention, like the garish red of Tokyo Tower he could see from the penthouse.

  He bought a can of coffee from the vending machine and sat on the bench, watching ships cross the Tokyo Bay. Sometimes a horn would blare, breaking the quiet roar of the sea. He closed his eyes and imagined himself as seaweed. How nice it must feel to sway in tandem with the currents. Unlike land, time was boundless at sea.

  In another week, it would be October. Tokyo would soon transform into a sea of red and gold. Would the colors of Kichijoji change when he returned the next day?

  Eizo had collected his keys to Oakwood at the end of June, two weeks before his birthday. As he’d signed the lease agreement and parted with the money he’d made from Wizard, he thought he’d feel a sense of triumph—that he had, for the first time in his life, held the power to build a home of his own. Instead, he felt something else—a feeling bubbling under his skin that he couldn’t quite place.

  He rose from the bench and walked to the railing. It hit below his chest. If he lost his balance, he could tip into the dark waves below.

  If you can’t find what you lost, it means the sea has taken it. The sea swallows everything.

  The wind blew his ponytail loose, strands of hair whipping his face, stinging his eyes. He made no effort to brush them away.

  Eizo recalled that ray of jubilation that he might have what it took to tear down this facade of a life at last. He had known that tomorrow would come, but the second he’d breathed those thoughts, he’d wanted to channel them into reality. He needed to seize it and make something happen before the euphoria evaporated, like sea spray escaping the waves. He wanted someone other than himself to bear witness to his triumph, someone who didn’t know him. Someone who could hold up a letter as proof in court—Your Honor, as you can see here, Kamada Eizo had on the date written, June 28, 2025, signed a one-year lease agreement with Oakwood Apartments. A letter that permitted him to begin a life that didn’t belong to Kamada Kiko.

  He didn’t need permission to live his life the way he wanted. But what was the life he wanted to live?

  Eizo bent down and rested his head on the railing. The weather-worn surface was icy and wet, smelling like a nauseating blend of corrugated metal, salt, and oxidized paint.

  Why did he stop at the western edge of Tokyo when he could have gone further west to Nagoya or down south to Kanagawa? He could even go as far as Yakushima, off the tip of southern Kyushu, where travel by shinkansen, followed by a ferry transfer, could take up to a day. In contrast, Kichijoji was a mere thirty-minute train ride from central Tokyo.

  What even was the point of his moving out when he was running back home all the time? Even if he lacked money, he had family wealth to fall back on. Like all members of the Kamada family, he had an inheritance in his name, ready to be cashed out once he turned thirty-five. He must, of course, follow the path his mother prepared for him.

  The townsmen cried out to the wizard as they crowded him. “Into the box you go, Great One! Make haste, for the night is coming. The box will keep you safe!” They chanted as the wizard was forced into the carriage. “The box will keep you safe!”

  * * *

  The wizard had to contort himself into a bizarre position to fit inside the carriage. He stuck his head out of the window and, in the loudest voice anyone had ever heard him use, belted with the full swell of his chest. “This isn’t for me. It’s for someone smaller, someone half my size.”

  * * *

  “There is no one but you, Great One.”

  * * *

  The wizard protested again, this time dropping to his usual mousy voice. “I am only the replacement.”

  * * *

  In unison, the townsfolk looked left, then looked right. They looked up, prayed for a second, and looked down, pitchforks at the ready. They looked at one another, and a smile lit up their faces. “Shrink yourself, Great One. Transform! You hold power. We need your power!” The crowd rounded out the send-off with a chorus. “The box will keep you safe!”