Chapter 4 — Cultivation Method
Yuzuki Gen returned to his room, carrying the empty lunch boxes.
He washed them clean and put them neatly back in the cupboard.
The rented apartment wasn't large—same layout as Kiyono Miyuki's next door.
A small living room connected to a compact kitchenette, a single bedroom, and a combined bath and toilet. The space was used efficiently, typical of this country's practical traditions.
After all, when land is limited, every inch counts.
Still, even after living here for eighteen years, the differences between this world and the Japan he remembered were unmistakable.
This wasn't "returning" to his original world.
Even if he left the country and returned to his homeland, he doubted he'd find the people or things he once remembered.
So he accepted this place simply as a parallel world.
He didn't know how to leave—nor did he obsess over the future.
As for his life here…
He earned just enough to get by.
He had no ambition to become rich or famous.
He avoided chasing after hollow temptations.
In short: he was a minimalist. He'd already tapped out.
After tidying the already sparse room, he took off his shirt and stepped into the bathroom.
Beneath the loose fabric was a deceptively slim but toned body.
His musculature was defined, with abs like a sculpture—sharp and symmetrical.
He bathed in cold water, even though it was already June—not out of frugality, but preference.
He used cold water year-round.
Once everything was done, he didn't go out, watch TV, or play games.
Instead, he sat cross-legged on his bed and began to breathe deeply.
And as he exhaled one final time and closed his eyes—
the world around him didn't grow dimmer. It grew clearer.
He could sense the wild grass below the apartment swaying gently,
watch the distant moon slowly vanish behind a drifting veil of cloud.
The wind hummed like the world's gentle breathing.
A streetlamp flickered, drawing a lost moth in the dark.
This wasn't hallucination.
This was his nightly practice.
The greatest secret about Yuzuki Gen wasn't that he was a transmigrator—
it was that he possessed a cultivation technique known as Extreme Formless Art.
He meditated for about three hours.
His breath, now cool and fine like mist, quietly filled the room.
When he finally opened his eyes, a flash of dark-gold light flickered and vanished from his pupils.
"As I thought… this world's spiritual energy is just too thin.
Isn't there any other way to replenish it?"
Progress was slow.
Still, there was no shortcut. It would take consistency—drop by drop, stone wears away.
Fortunately, the second level of the Formless Art was enough to help him maintain the condition of Miyuki's legs and stop her muscles from atrophying.
"Sleep first."
He offered a goodnight to the world—
then woke to the dewdrop-filled light of morning.
He washed up, changed clothes, slipped on shoes, and left for his morning run.
Not that he needed the exercise—but it gave his improved physique a convenient excuse, just in case anyone ever asked.
On the way back, he picked up a breakfast for the "little hedgehog" next door.
"When I bring you breakfast, say good morning, and call you to get up—
just say 'Good morning' back.
Don't give me that 'Huh? How'd you get in here? You know breaking and entering is a crime' nonsense.
That's boring."
Kiyono Miyuki pulled on a dark hoodie, face flushed.
"You're not allowed to keep using that copy of my key—got it?"
Gen shrugged.
"You wouldn't wake up and open the door. What choice did I have? The food would've gone cold."
She finally wrapped herself in the hoodie. Though it was June, the morning chill still lingered.
She struggled to move toward her wheelchair.
In front of Gen, the act felt especially embarrassing—
she still wasn't used to exposing her brokenness.
But before she could reach it, Gen bent down and scooped her up effortlessly.
Cradled in his arms and gently placed in the chair,
her cheeks flushed crimson—red like a snake apple.
She hugged her hoodie closer, pretending the chill bothered her.
Brows furrowed in feigned annoyance—anything to hide how flustered she was by his warmth.
"No one wakes up this early... I didn't ask for your help. I would've eaten when I woke up."
"Sure, sure. I'm just being nosy, that's all.
But can the Princess kindly go brush her teeth first?"
He pushed her chair toward the bathroom.
Hearing his teasing tone, Miyuki huffed lightly.
"Do I look like one of those helpless girls who need sweet talk just to do basic things?"
Truly a little hedgehog. Always needed to put up a fight first.
But Gen was used to her thorns.
He left her alone in the bathroom to let her wash up in peace.
Miyuki wasn't always like this.
Before the accident, she was only a little proud.
Now, though, she constantly wore this mask—
pretending to need no one, pretending to be fine.
Because that was easier than admitting the truth:
that she no longer believed she deserved to reach for what she truly wanted.
When Kiyono Miyuki emerged from the bathroom, she found Yuzuki Gen sitting on the sofa with her laptop in one hand and his phone in the other, fiddling with something.
"What are you doing?"
Her tone wasn't friendly.
Gen calmly set the laptop back on the couch.
"I reconnected your internet. Also paid your phone bill."
"Why would you do that?"
Her beautiful eyes locked onto him. She no longer bothered with meaningless protests—because she knew, deep down, that when he decided to do something, she couldn't stop him.
The impossibly handsome boy replied with a casual smile,
"You could try doing something you enjoy. Maybe even make some money. That way, you won't feel like you need to rely on me for everything."
"Who said I rely on you?" she snapped. "And what could I possibly do in my condition?"
"I remember you used to enjoy drawing online. Or writing those short web novels. That's something."
"I can't believe you remember those." She gave a dry laugh. "I don't have any stories to write anymore."
Gen thought for a moment.
"I've got one you might like."
"Oh? What story?"
"It's about a handsome guy who gives up all of life's temptations, and dedicates himself fully—gently, patiently—to caring for his disabled neighbor. In the end, they live happily ever after."
"W-What kind of nonsense are you even talking about?!"
Her icy defense shattered again, completely undone.
Gen grinned, clearly enjoying himself, and set the breakfast he brought on the table before getting up.
"Doesn't matter what kind of story it is. Writing can be good for you. If you don't feel like talking to me about certain things, maybe writing can give you a place to let it out. You can't just bottle it up forever, right?"
"I don't… not want to talk to you."
"What? I didn't catch that."
Her voice was so soft it sounded like a mosquito buzz.
She awkwardly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—only to reveal the unmistakable blush glowing on her earlobe.
"Nothing," she muttered.
Gen stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
"I'm heading to school. Want me to bring anything back?"
Miyuki shook her head. "No."
"Alright, I'm off then."
"Mm."
It sounded like a final goodbye.
But just as he turned toward the door, Gen suddenly spun around and walked back toward her.
He knelt in front of her wheelchair, looked up at her, and held the armrest gently.
"W-What are you doing?"
The unexpected closeness, the unprepared eye contact—it made her heart skip wildly.
And then she saw it.
That bright, brilliant smile of his.
"I'm leaving. Aren't you going to say something before I go?"
"W-Why would I? Just go if you're going!"
Say something? Like what—'Have a good day at work, dear'?
What was she, his wife?
Her cheeks were burning. Her heart felt like it was about to combust.
But Gen didn't look away.
He kept smiling, patiently waiting.
As if, until she said something, he wouldn't let it go.
Her hands curled into fists. She bit her lip and, blushing furiously, said:
"…Be careful on your way. Hope school goes well."
"Good girl."
"Y-You jerk!"
Miyuki fumed, but she was the kind of girl who couldn't even stomp her foot in anger.
Gen stood again. Just before leaving, he paused and said quietly:
"Oh, right. If those people come by again—make sure to lock the door and wait for me."
"Wait… you mean those people? But that's not something you can just—"
"Be good."
"…Okay."
When his hand gently patted her head, Miyuki froze.
It was like someone had hit her off-switch. She didn't even think to argue.
Only after he finally left the apartment did her mind catch up—and her cheeks turned even redder.
"Did… did he just pat me like I'm a puppy…?"
She huffed and reached up to touch her head.
But her eyes had already started to shine with unshed tears,
and a smile played unconsciously at the corners of her lips.
The breakfast on the table was her favorite, of course.
Warmth bloomed in her chest.
But alongside it came a dull ache—like this happiness wasn't real, or maybe wasn't meant for her.
If one day, he meets a girl truly worthy of him—
if he disappears from her world to be with someone who fits him better…
Could she handle that?
Why had someone like him appeared in her life at all?
He was like a temple blooming in her barren soil.
A god who didn't belong in her cruel, broken world.
Meanwhile, outside the door, Gen wasn't thinking about any of that.
He just wanted life to be simpler.
To do what he loved.
To live with peace of mind—not twisting himself for wealth or power.
To spend time with the person he cared about.
That was enough.
He looked at the harsh red words scrawled on the hallway wall.
Ugly, hateful graffiti. Painfully fresh.
He simply raised his hand and gently wiped across the markings, frowning slightly.
A breeze brushed past his face, ruffling his short hair.
And when he turned away—completely walking off the corridor—
the words vanished.
Even the blood-red paint,
was gone without a trace.