Chapter 5: The First Unlucky Soul
Murakami Iori was engrossed in the script, her eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. Across from her, Chihara Rinto gradually relaxed—though not entirely. He had been worried that she might not understand the script or, worse, find it uninteresting.
Scripts and novels were two entirely different beasts. Novels, aside from certain works of magical realism, typically followed a clear timeline that aligned with human reading habits. But what he'd handed over was a scene-based script, completely unconcerned with chronology.
In such scripts, one moment lovers could be exchanging sweet words, and the next they might be hurling insults and drawing knives on each other—all without any indication that ten years had passed between those scenes. Events occurring in the same location were often grouped together for convenience, aiding actors and directors in transforming the material into shot breakdowns.
Moreover, scripts were notoriously dry. There were no character analyses, no psychological insights, and minimal background descriptions. They focused almost exclusively on dialogue, with sparse action and setting descriptions written in plain, straightforward language. For someone with weaker imagination, reading a script could feel painfully dull. Interpreting the story was the director's job; enriching the emotions of the characters fell to the actors—not the screenwriter.
To put it simply, the same story that might captivate readers as a novel would likely leave nine out of ten people utterly confused or frustrated when presented as a scene-based script. Such scripts were so utilitarian that some joked they weren't even fit to wipe one's behind for fear of lead poisoning—unless, of course, it was a literary-style script meant for outsiders like investors. If a producer couldn't even grasp a scene-based script, Rinto doubted she'd be the right person for his plans.
Fortunately, Murakami Iori appeared to be an industry insider. That raised another question: did she find this particular script worth producing? Not every interesting story translated into box office success. Countless TV dramas once hailed as surefire hits had been axed midway through production—a testament to that reality.
From her current reaction, though, she seemed genuinely intrigued. Rinto's primary concern was whether audiences in the 1990s would accept a multi-layered twist drama. On the flip side, since twist endings were still relatively novel in this era, anyone who could stomach them would likely find them fascinating.
After all, this wasn't 2019, where plot twists and mind-bending narratives saturated the market. Here, it was innovation.
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Indeed, Chihara Rinto had come from 2019—a self-proclaimed "first unlucky soul" of that year.
His real name was Lu Zhishou, a film and television directing student at a prestigious university. During summer break, he'd been diligently working on his thesis paper in his dorm room. This was crucial—it would determine whether he pursued a career as a director or screenwriter after his junior year.
But fate intervened cruelly. His city was notorious for frequent lightning storms, and each year, among millions of residents, one or two unfortunate souls inevitably fell victim to stray bolts. In 2019, Lu Zhishou became one of those unlucky few.
Late one night, deeply absorbed in his writing, oblivious to the storm raging outside, a bolt of lightning struck somewhere near his dormitory. The surge traveled through the wiring and electrocuted him instantly. It was a tragic irony—the building had modern safety measures like circuit breakers, yet they failed him.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself in Tokyo, Japan, at the end of 1994. Worse still, he was now inhabiting the body of Chihara Rinto, a dispirited young man unable to find work and teetering on the brink of despair.
What shocked him further was the realization that this was a parallel world. As he familiarized himself with his surroundings, he confirmed that major historical events mirrored those of his original world, albeit with minor temporal differences. Cultural customs were largely similar too, but the people—and their creations—were entirely different. For instance, during a visit to a bookstore, he failed to find works by renowned authors like Yasunari Kawabata, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Natsume Soseki, Yukio Mishima, or Haruki Murakami.
Presumably, changes in individuals led to changes in their works. While the bookstore shelves held many excellent pieces comparable to classics from his own world, none of them rang a bell. He didn't recognize a single author. Even the Nobel Prize in Literature had been replaced by something called the Seibade Literary Award.
It seemed that within the randomness of history lay an underlying inevitability—or perhaps destiny itself shaped these parallels. Two worlds that were eerily alike yet fundamentally distinct.
It was a tantalizing mystery, but one he couldn't afford to dwell on. Survival came first.
The original Chihara Rinto had spent over two years holed up at home, living off dwindling savings. Aside from a few personal belongings, he left behind virtually nothing. Before the bubble economy burst, his family had enjoyed considerable wealth, owning a modest-sized manufacturing company. Riding the wave of Japan's economic boom and China's reform-era market expansion, the business thrived far beyond the means of typical middle-class families.
However, greed proved their undoing. Seeing how lucrative real estate investments were compared to running a factory, they mortgaged the company to secure loans and jumped into the property market. When the bubble burst, they couldn't even cover the interest payments, forcing them to file for bankruptcy protection.
Unable to bear the shame of losing generations of hard work, facing shareholder wrath, and burdened by guilt over poor decisions, Chihara Rinto's parents took their lives via charcoal poisoning.
Overnight, the young Rinto went from privilege to destitution. Their assets were seized to repay debts, leaving him unable to afford tuition fees. Attempts to secure student loans failed, and he dropped out of university. Renting a tiny apartment, he subsisted on the meager funds remaining in his personal account.
He tried finding employment but lacked both academic credentials and technical skills. Unable to land legitimate jobs, he resorted to odd jobs that left him feeling humiliated and degraded. Eventually, he gave up entirely, retreating into a cheap, cramped apartment to wallow in resentment. Writing became his outlet—an endless stream of grievances railing against life's injustices.
When Lu Zhishou arrived, inheriting this shell of a man, he sifted through these writings and discovered them to be disjointed, nonsensical ramblings devoid of artistic merit. Without hesitation, he sold them for scrap paper.
Becoming the new Chihara Rinto was surprisingly easy. The original had no living parents, distant relatives rarely contacted him, and his social circle had dwindled to nothing over the past two years. After absorbing fragmented memories of language and basic knowledge, Lu Zhishou seamlessly assumed the identity of Chihara Rinto.
Now, survival loomed large. Returning to his homeland wasn't feasible—he couldn't explain his sudden reappearance, and Chinese citizenship was notoriously difficult to obtain. For all intents and purposes, he was stuck here, forced to navigate Japan's ongoing economic depression.
As for the usual perks granted to transmigrators, he hadn't received much.
Before being struck by lightning, Lu Zhishou had been using his laptop to write his thesis on the history, characteristics, and future predictions of Japan's film and television industry. His hard drive contained countless Japanese dramas, variety shows, films, reference materials, literature, and a smattering of romantic-action movies.
In this parallel world, however, those works existed without owners—they were now his. A pragmatic man with clear goals, he quickly assessed his situation and decided within three minutes to aim for a position in a broadcasting network's production department. Anything beat scraping by on odd jobs!
What else could he do? A dropout with no capital or connections starting from scratch? First things first: staying alive. Next year's rent was already looking uncertain.
One problem remained, though. These digital files and textual references were fragmented, some incomplete. Piecing them back together would require significant effort, akin to assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Some gaps might need filling based on memory alone, meaning fidelity to the originals was impossible.
But there was no rush. Progress came step by step.
He sold nearly all of the original Chihara Rinto's personal belongings, using the modest proceeds to gather intelligence about broadcasting networks. Through conversations with security guards at Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB), he learned about Murakami Iori and deemed her the perfect candidate. Now seated before her, waiting patiently as she read the script, he awaited her verdict on whether she'd push forward with its production.
Set a goal, assess reality, devise a plan, execute meticulously, and finally, calmly await the outcome.