Chapter 1: 001, Who Says Youth Never Returns?

October 1980, Tokyo.

There was no sign of autumn at all. The annoying "Indian summer" was still in full force, and the 9:00 AM sun was no less intense than at high noon.

A nurse with beads of sweat on her forehead walked briskly to the front of the hospital room. Through the small window on the door, she could see the thin young man inside packing his belongings.

She pushed the door open. "Naoki-san, you're already packing? Have you finished the discharge procedures?"

"Hai, the paperwork is all done. Thank you so much for your care!" The reply was in perfectly fluent Japanese. Turning around, the pale-faced Naoki Nagayama picked up his small bag and bowed slightly to the nurse.

"There are only a few things left to take back; I've already packed them."

The entire process felt like a program etched into his body, completed naturally and instinctively.

"Take care of yourself, and don't give up, Naoki-san!" the nurse urged.

"Hai, I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you."

Stepping out of the hospital, Naoki Nagayama stood dazed for a moment, looking at the street bathed in the brilliant sunlight. The street was filled with Japanese signs, directional markers, and traditional architecture, weaving together the atmosphere of a foreign land.

He had been in the hospital for three days, yet he still couldn't adapt to the fact that he was now in Tokyo during the Showa era.

In his previous life, he was a post-90s kid. Orphaned, he had managed to graduate from university thanks to the support of kind strangers. After graduation, he became a programmer at a certain company, starting a "007" life of grinding away his health, with the goal of earning enough money to last a lifetime before being laid off at 35.

Then, he planned to settle down by Erhai Lake in Dali and live a life of poetry and distant horizons.

It was a pity that just as he was about to reach his goal, after a bout of heart palpitations in the early hours of the morning, he opened his eyes to find he had become Naoki Nagayama and had arrived in the Showa era.

Walking along the street to the station, after a wobbly ride for a few stops, Naoki Nagayama returned to Nakano Ward. Following the path in his memories, he took several turns into a narrow alley in an old neighborhood. At the very end stood an old, Western-style two-story building—this was where Naoki Nagayama lived.

The Makino residence.

The small building had two floors. The first floor was the landlady's living quarters and kitchen. She was a widowed old lady whose children seemed to be attending university abroad; she rented out the four rooms on the second floor to relieve the financial pressure. If one paid a little extra, they could also use the kitchen on the first floor.

When Naoki Nagayama entered, the landlady was busy in the kitchen. She looked up.

"Ah, Nagayama-san, you're back."

"Hai, Makino-san, I'm home!" The conversations between the dull Naoki Nagayama in his memories and Mrs. Makino always ended this simply. However, this time, the landlady didn't seem to want to stop there. She continued

"Nagayama-san, is your health alright now?"

"Hai, the doctor said it's okay. I just need to stick to a light diet. Thank you for your concern."

"Nagayama-san, you must take care of your health. You can't give up on life just because an idol got married. Momoe Yamaguchi-san certainly wouldn't want her fans to give up on their lives!" The landlady's tone was uncharacteristically serious.

*I'm not the one who tried to commit suicide because an idol got married,* Naoki Nagayama thought, unable to stop himself from retorting internally.

"Hai, I will definitely live seriously from now on. I'm sorry for causing you trouble!" He replied earnestly while bowing halfway in apology. Everything was still so fluid; it seemed bowing had truly become a muscle memory.

After apologizing, he walked up to the second floor, took out his key, and opened the door. A sour smell of beer hit him in the face.

The room was small, as was the entryway. To the right of the door was a kitchenette; a frying pan sat tilted in a simple sink, and a kettle sat on the gas stove next to it. To the left of the entryway was a tiny bathroom.

After changing his shoes and stepping further in, he found a studio space that served as a dining room, living room, and bedroom. The bedding was stored in a closet, making the room feel not too crowded. In the corner was an old-fashioned television and a fan. A few beer cans were scattered near the coffee table in the middle of the room, along with some remnants of vomit. *Ugh, I found the source of the smell.*

Naoki Nagayama immediately opened the window to ventilate. Sunlight shone into the room, stirring up faint dust. He tidied up a bit, packed the trash, swept, and mopped the floor. His body, which hadn't fully recovered, actually broke into a cold sweat from just this.

Thinking of this, he suddenly remembered he hadn't bathed in three days. He felt an itch all over his body, so he grabbed a change of clothes and went into the bathroom.

After showering, Naoki Nagayama looked at the young man—no, the boy—in the mirror.

Beneath fluffy hair was a pale, youthful face. His forehead was full and broad, his brow ridges prominent but not excessively so. Beneath a pair of sword-like eyebrows were, surprisingly, peach-blossom eyes. With a straight nose and a well-defined jawline... well, he was quite handsome, except for the weak look in his eyes.

He was about 175cm tall, thin, and lacking muscle. Wearing a loose shirt, he looked like a clothes hanger. It was obvious at a glance that he was malnourished and hadn't exercised in a long time.

However, feeling the vitality in this young body, Naoki Nagayama couldn't help but laugh. *My 30-something-year-old lumbar muscle strain, protruding discs, nearsightedness, potbelly, and cervical spondylosis—everyone, thank you for your company in the past. Sayonara!*

*Do not waste the days of your youth, for it will not come again.*

*I suppose this counts as... returning to my youth! Hahahaha!*

After washing his clothes, he took the kettle to fill it with water and lit the gas stove to boil it.

Then he sat down, not knowing what he should do.

Looking around, there were posters of Momoe Yamaguchi on the walls, her records next to the TV, and reports of her retirement on the coffee table. This was one of the triggers that led the original owner to drink beer and swallow sleeping pills a few days ago: on October 5th, at a concert held at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo, Momoe Yamaguchi had announced her marriage and retirement from show business.

*The original owner really was an extreme die-hard fan of Momoe Yamaguchi.*

But the current Naoki Nagayama didn't have much feeling for Momoe Yamaguchi. All the memories of the original owner were like a movie he had watched; when he encountered something familiar, he would make the connection, but the detachment of an observer always remained between his heart and reality.

The Showa era, huh? China should be in the 80s now, the beginning of the Reform and Opening-up, *Journey to the West*, Hong Kong, Leslie Cheung, Anita Mui, Teresa Teng...

What else? There was a generation gap; please forgive a post-90s kid for not knowing much.

Can I go back?

The original owner was a genuine Japanese person, and his family seemed to have some connection to the Yakuza. He was a bottom-tier worker who had only finished high school, a poor guy—it wouldn't be easy for him to go abroad.

What did Japan in the Showa era have?

The impending bubble era? The Yamaguchi-gumi running rampant in Japan? And the "Showa goddesses" that were all over Bilibili? Seiko Matsuda, Akina Nakamori, Shizuka Kudo...

No matter how you summarize it, this era must be one full of "opportunities." It seems that if you work a little harder, you can get rich!

Thinking of his previous life, working diligently 007, not even being able to afford a house in a big city, and having to go to Dali after being laid off.

Living again, he decided: first, get rich, then live a life of poetry and distant horizons!

(End of chapter)