January 1989.
Tokyo.
The final days of the Showa era.
News of the Emperor’s grave illness had draped the entire archipelago in a somber, oppressive atmosphere.
Variety shows on television were being pulled off the air one after another.
The neon lights on the streets had dimmed noticeably.
Jimbocho.
The old used-bookstore district.
This seemed to be the only corner of Tokyo that the restless bubble economy hadn’t yet touched.
The air was thick with the smell of old paper and mildew.
Time felt frozen here.
Shin wore a thick dark coat and a scarf, a bag of oranges in one hand.
He moved slowly between the towering shelves of books.
He wasn’t here to browse for fun.
In one week it would be the audition day for NHK’s taiga drama Kasuga no Tsubone.
Even though he had the “recommendation letter” from Producer Ishida, that didn’t mean everything was settled.
Casting for taiga dramas had always been brutal.
Especially for a newcomer with zero experience in period pieces, whether he could capture the true “flavor” of that era would decide everything.
The role he was testing for was Inaba Masasada.
He was the biological son of the female lead, Kasuga no Tsubone — a tragic figure who appeared in the history books with only a few sparse lines.
He had lived his entire life under the shadow of his powerful mother.
In the end, for the sake of family interests, he became a sacrificial pawn in political games.
“There’s almost nothing written about Inaba Masasada…” Shin had already hit dead ends in several bookstores.
Most popular history books focused heavily on Kasuga no Tsubone’s political maneuvering and glossed over this quiet, reserved son in a single sentence.
He stepped into an old bookstore called Koyado.
The shop was dim.
The owner, an old man wearing reading glasses, sat hunched behind the counter listening to the radio broadcast about the Emperor’s condition.
Shin walked to the back corner labeled “Edo Historical Materials.” His fingers trailed across rows of dusty thread-bound books and old journals.
Just as he was about to pull his hand back, a faint tingling sensation ran through his fingertips.
That was the system’s prompt.
Shin stopped.
His gaze fell on a cardboard box at the very bottom of the shelf.
Inside were several old notebooks without covers, looking like someone had casually thrown them away as scrap paper.
He crouched down and picked one up.
The notebook’s cover was yellowed and brittle.
When he opened it, the pages were filled with dense, handwritten notes.
The handwriting was messy and hurried, as if the writer had been in a state of extreme anger or bleak despair.
A faint blue light bloomed across his vision.
[Equippable Item Discovered (Gray)] [Item Name: The Down-and-Out Historian’s Annotated Notebook] [Original Owner: An old scholar who spent his life studying early Edo family politics but was sidelined and embittered after offending the academic clique] [Slot: Accessory / Book] [Status: Worn, Full of Resentment] [Base Attribute: After reading, +15% empathy toward the “loyalty and suppression” experienced by late Sengoku / early Edo samurai] [Special Entry: Silent Scream (Passive)] Note: In the notebook he wrote, “What they call loyalty is nothing more than the powerful slowly torturing human nature to death.
Inaba Masasada did not die by the sword.
He died under the weight of his mother’s heavy love and control.” Once equipped, you will understand more deeply that suffocating feeling of “wanting to escape but being unable to.” “Loyalty and suppression…” Shin gently traced the words that had pressed deep into the paper.
This was exactly what he had been missing.
What was hardest about playing a period role for a modern person wasn’t the etiquette.
It was the eyes.
Modern eyes were too alive, too full of personal desire and self-expression.
But the samurai of that era — their eyes were “dead.” Still water locked layer by layer by rules, family, and loyalty.
“Boss, how much for this notebook?” Shin carried it to the counter.
The old man lifted his eyelids for a glance.
“That came in with a load of scrap paper.
If you want it, two hundred yen and it’s yours.” Shin placed two coins on the counter.
When he stepped out of the bookstore, the sky outside had turned heavy and dark, as if it were about to collapse.
People on the street hurried past, every face carrying uncertainty about the future.
The Showa era was ending.
The Heisei era was about to begin.
This turbulent feeling of old giving way to new somehow strangely overlapped with the era described in the notebook — the transition from the chaos of the Sengoku period into the ordered peace of Edo.
… Back at his new apartment in Nakano.
Shin made himself a cup of hot tea and sat at the desk by the window.
He opened the notebook and activated the equip effect.
In an instant, the originally obscure text seemed to transform into flowing scenes that flooded into his mind.
He saw a young samurai kneeling on the gravel of a courtyard.
Sharp stones cut into his knees until they bled, yet he didn’t dare move even an inch.
He saw that all-powerful mother, her cold fingers stroking her son’s topknot while her mouth issued the order that would send him to his death.
He felt that suffocation.
The despair of being a “son” yet living like a “tool.” “So that’s how it is…” Shin murmured to himself.
This feeling… wasn’t it exactly the same as the “corporate slaves” of modern society?
Bound by the company (family), controlled by the boss (parents), sacrificing the self for so-called “future prospects” (loyalty), wanting to escape but trapped by mortgages and responsibilities.
He had found it.
This was the resonance point that connected the ancient world to the present.
Shin closed the notebook and shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, the clear, sharp light in his eyes had receded.
In its place was a bottomless stillness, and a trace of pain deeply suppressed at the very back of his gaze.
He didn’t need to imitate any ancient postures or mannerisms.
All he needed to do was perform that suppressed feeling of “wanting to live but being unable to be himself.” That would be the truest Inaba Masasada.
Outside the window, the first snowflake drifted down.
Shin picked up the silver Zippo and slowly rubbed his thumb across its surface.
“NHK?” he said quietly.
“I’m ready.”