Prologue

The day Katou Hayasugi was isekai’d was the happiest day of his life. He was a normal Japanese high-school student. He spent his days studying, playing games, and studying some more (during which he occasionally played with his phone, but I digress).

It was not a bad life. But it was not a good one. It was just, as many others would have said, ‘a life’. A simple, unimpressive thing with quite a lot of room for improvement.

“Ahh, Musashi-kun, you’re so good!”

—And improve it did.

Inside his bedchamber, Katou Hayasugi (now known as Musashi in this new world) was, as the kids would say, ‘doing it’. As a product of his isekai, he had acquired the ‘#&! God System’, a rather arbitrary thing that enabled him to become a high-school boy's impression of what a ‘#&! God’ might be.

“One thrust!” He cried. “100 exp!” Another thrust. “Another 100 exp!”

Since arriving, every woman had told him of his brilliance in bed. His utter impeccability with his sword. And his general attitude as an unassuming black-haired male who demonstrated unimaginable testosterone.

“BEHOLD, EXCALIBUR!!!”

At the end of ten thrusts, Musashi had accomplished his mission. With a mighty exhale, he collapsed onto his bed, breath wheezing all the while. He was rather handsome, and in his naked appearance, seemed a monolith of steaming, shirtless muscle.

But his skin was pale, delicate even, and the mop black on his forehead betrayed him as a foreigner to anyone looking.

Musashi reached for his forehead and wiped away a sheen of sweat. A menu lingered above him, outlined in a bright, gaudy, blue.

‘+1 Level’ it read, with an increase to his stats all around. He let it set in for a few brief movements, then with a swipe of his hand, sent it away.

“That was good.” Musashi pulled himself upright.

He reached for his desk and took a drag of his cigarette. The smoke trailed into the air, forming a slight wisp. It was an idiosyncratic thing in this room. The modern cigarette, filter and all, against a backdrop of a straw-stuffed mattress, cracked stone walls, and the flicker of a tallow candle.

Such things were not for the common folk. But Musashi Honda was hardly that.

He was one of the richest men in his world. As a so-called ‘protagonist’, he acquired the privilege so few had. The privilege to breach one’s narrative and travel to another world.

Unlike other characters—NPCs and sides (as they were so insultingly called), protagonists were considered at the top of their hierarchy, and had privileges along with it. Those included the right to represent their people in the Senate Commentum, the unequivocal right to dominate lessers in their world, and, amongst other things, the ability to be treated as someone better.

Someone worthwhile.

Someone whose story matters.

The bell in his establishment rang, signalling a potential customer. Musashi put the cigarette out on the woman next to him. It burned a black circle. One among many. As he rose from his bed, Musashi put on his robe and slippers, exiting the room in one piece.

A guard of his stood centre in the hallway. He was dressed in a flak jacket and cargo pants. The sign of imported goods. The sign of wealth. Then again, for the Protagonist, who stood amongst the wealthiest, this was hardly anything.

His world, Enkerie (or more so, the Kingdom of Enkerie, given the utter lack of worldbuilding), was considered a mid to lower tier one, and had spawned from a H-game known as ‘Tentacling Nightmare: How I Went to Another World and Brainwashed The Kingdom!’ It was mediocre in sales and mediocre in quality, with a lack of accomplishment on both fronts.

Moreover, the worlds of H-Games were often considered seedy or dangerous, with danger aplenty, and attacks on one’s character lurking around every corner.

Still—Enkerie, and by extension, a few other H-Game worlds, had avoided this fate.

By a chance encounter, it had caught the attention of the Senate Commentum. The Inter-World Senate, which overlooked and managed the affairs of all things fiction. In their efforts to drive tourism to lesser-seen worlds, they had designated and advertised Enkerie as a hotspot.

And by the lapse of a week, Musashi had become rich beyond imagining.

In combination with his Tentacling powers, which allowed him to control and dominate the mind of anyone he did the deed with, and access to foreign trade routes, Musashi was nigh unstoppable.

Before long, Musashi had established himself as a representative of Enkerie, took control of all merchant guilds, and rerouted the profits where he saw best—

—His wallet (that and a few cafes for dogs, since canines had always been a pastime of his, but a villain liking dogs is hardly conducive to his vile image and therefore will no longer be elaborated upon).

“Boss,” the guard said. “There’s a customer.”

“Hah. Yeah, yeah, I got that.”

He walked ahead and hummed a little song. There was enthusiasm in his movements. And as Musashi left the hall for the lobby, he made no attempt to hide it, choosing instead to sing even louder.

For a while, he stood at the bronze door in-laid with gold, making guesswork of his new visitor’s identity. But by a few seconds, his curiosity had taken the better of him, and Musashi stirred to motion, perhaps sensing the right time at last.

“Hm.”

Standing there was a woman in a red overcoat, collared shirt, and a waist cinched by a wide leather belt. She was tall, almost imposingly so, and had messy grey hair to match. A piece of metal was strapped to her face, and reached from ear to jaw. It was a strange aesthetic and echoed some loose military inspiration. Perhaps it was the culture of some kingdom he had not yet explored. Or perhaps an NPC had come across imported goods. Musashi did not know. But in his unknowing, there was interest.

Interest—and concern.

Musashi watched the woman stare at his selection of wares—figures in line formation, wearing the same blank gaze. There was choice aplenty here. Humans. Elves. Males and females. All available. All ready to serve.

It was a skill of every shopkeep to gauge the value of a customer. Looking at her, Musashi figured the woman for a ‘tourist’. Someone who came to watch and stare. To judge and impose. There was not much value here.

And whatever there was, he thought, would take too much to extract.

“Her smile is something else, isn’t it?” As Musashi spoke, he looked to the ware the woman was assessing. It was one of his old favourites. A peasant girl who clamoured to him as the hero of his world—and offered her own, body and all.

She was dressed now in a lewd interpretation of a kimono, falling at the breast, and tight around the curves. Red too. As the colour of passion should be.

Once, she would have opposed such a choice, decrying it as lewd and said ‘Kyaa, that’s for after our marriage, baka!’

Now, she was indifferent, with a thin line for a mouth, and wide, empty beads for eyes.

The other wares were no different, demonstrating in equal extravagance their choice of attire, and equal apathy their expressions.

“...” The woman said nothing, but made an incomprehensible noise. After a long pause, she spoke. “The ‘#&! God System’, was it?”

Musashi could not come up with an answer. “Yes.”

“Do you often take the fun out of things?”

“The chase, you mean.” Musashi corrected. “The fun is still there.”

“No,” said the woman. “Did your true love confession grip her heart? Did you carry her away from a high tower, and speak of the untold passions of an unrequited love?”

“There are many passions, but none of them unrequited.”

“Oh,” she said absent-mindedly. “Oh, I see. That’s worse than a dating sim, yeah. At least in those, you can mess up and level the wrong stats. Not here, though. Not in this trite of a world.”

“A dating sim,” he replied, ignoring the rest of her words. “You know of such a term?”

“‘Course. We’re birds of a feather, you see.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded. “Yep. I might be from one side, and you the other, but we both came from the same damn planet.”

Musashi relaxed a smidgen. That explained her fluency in the language. She must’ve been like him. Isekai’d with the unexplainable power to understand the native tongue.

“You’ve made a good choice coming here, then.” He said.

“Naturally. A good character endures hardship to achieve their goals. No cheap gimmicks. And this little trip set me back a lot of Credits, I'll tell you that.”

Musashi was annoyed now. “A cheap gimmick? Is that what you call it?”

“That and bad writing.”

“What?” he blurted. His annoyance was felt. And stronger.

A tear fell from her eye. “You know, I’ve made many mistakes in my life. Betting on shit stocks. Drinking one beer too many. Ordering max spice mapo tofu when I knew I would’ve been dying on the shitter thirty minutes later. But seeing all this really has strengthened my resolve.”

She bent her knees ever so slightly, and with a hand, wiped at the ware’s face. There was an unspoken tenderness in it. And for some reason, Musashi feared what it entailed.

“Beautiful, ugly, NPC. How does it feel to have your dignity be violated by bad writing? Your world, dominated by such a cardboard cutout of a protagonist?”

Musashi was worried now. He had been unnerved for the better half of a minute, but now felt adrenaline creep into his heart. He made a small gesture to two of his guards, a subtle half-nod that approached a quarter-turn of the chin.

“Leave,” he said, with a tone of finality.

Her metal accessory switched on, mechanical plates connecting across her face. A mask of red steel was all you could see of it now, and as it finished adjusting, light flashed from its visor.

It was a cold blue. And in this small, damp room, illuminated by the mid-winter rays of square windows, it was ominous.

Very much so.

A demon stood before them, and her voice came like thunder.

“Oh, I’ll be leaving alright,” she replied, taking a stance, “with your pretty head, that is!”

The left-most guard drew his gun. It was an FN M1900 pistol. A semi-automatic compact with nigh-perfect function and concealability. Imported from the world with a WW2 setting, which sold them en masse after peacetime.

The guard clicked to fire. He was fast. But his enemy was faster. With an in-step, the woman kicked the gun upwards. The bullet left with a softened bang, travelling through chin and brain in a blast of red.

A burst of fear erupted in Musashi’s mind, surrendering him to the prospect of combat.

“Ero-start!”

He called upon his power as an ero-game protagonist, and three tentacles emerged from his wrist. There was a sonic crack as they shot forth, splitting the sound barrier in an emulsion of flesh and wetness.

Dust leapt from the ground. Pressure rolled in a ripple of pain, jolting muscle and bone. When he felt the pain reach his body, Musashi was all but certain of victory. This was the testament to his power—writ in truth and tentacle!

Then the woman dodged. Rolled to the side like some wild monkey and grabbed the rightmost guard by his neck, making it all seem rather anticlimactic.

“Just die, won't you?!”

He raised another arm, preparing a series of tentacles. But the woman was faster. And coming Musashi’s way was a flying guard. A screaming, squirming guard.

The projectile splattered. The residue seeped into Musashi’s eyes. A piece of bone, a piece of flesh, a piece of everything in between.

“You're a disgrace to peak fiction—Katou Hayasugi.”

As he opened his eyes, Musashi bore witness to the woman's fist. It was a bright, assuming thing, and glowed with a primordial red. It was the colour of blood. The colour of ingrained violence.

Of absolute savagery.

A thousand drums beat in Musashi’s ears.

It was coming. Faster now. Faster still as time slowed to a halt. Faster more now that all his senses worked at heightened capacity but failed nonetheless due to not being able to process it in time leaving a sense of ultimate despair that that—

—It was dangerous. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Sixth Reversion—Philistine Regression.”

Her left fist slammed into his jaw. The taste came first. A bit of iron, a bit of copper in the gums. Then the pain. Spreading outwards in a dull, throbbing ache. And finally—the feeling of movement. A strange sensation of upward mobility. Like the ground was yanked from under him.

He tried to understand what was happening. But the wind screamed into his ears, and the vast blue sky suddenly seemed so very frightening.

Wide-eyed and tense, Musashi looked below.

His establishment was there.

The quiet, oak square, nestled in a corner street of taverns and market stalls. The blocks of people outside, now more like smears of red, black and green.

He understood now.

He was above them! Yes. He had been launched through the ceiling and now found himself fifty metres high. What a mighty blow. What a savage strike, indeed.

But what difference did that make?

Savagery was the mark of beasts, and man had surpassed those long ago. The coming of technology. The presence of magic. Those factors had brought beast to heel, and Musashi would use them all.

That’s right.

His impending fall, although dizzying, did little but arouse his laughter.

It didn’t matter!

No, not at all. To the man who defeated the demon lord and made the world his proverbial bitch, what was a measly fifty metres? He had survived flames that would scorch the surface of the sun. Wind that sliced past steel. Blades, yes blades, that far surpassed the speed of sound, and whirred into a thousand thrusts at once!

He was the hero! He was Musashi! He who had tentacled and claimed the Kingdom of Enkerie for his own!

“True, but you aren't that man anymore, are you?”

The words sank in.

It was a strange statement, really. Had she read his mind? Made an educated guess?

He did not know. But for a reason beyond him, he started to contemplate their meaning. Certainly, Musashi was very much the same. His arms were still there, his legs were too. His face was rotund and puffy as usual, with acne all over. His muscle definition expressed in an utter lack of biceps, but who cared about biceps anyway since that was a bodybuilder's muscle and all that really mattered were the triceps which he so held in abundance and oh my goodness he had lost it all!

In one last exercise of free will, Musashi—No Katou Hayasugi, called upon his tentacles. And slowly but surely, he realised they did not come.

By then, he understood what had happened: the woman had changed him back to his old self.

“See ya, Katou, save a room in hell for the rest of you fucks.”