The universe smelled like a failed project.

That was the first actionable data Kenji Tanaka’s mind processed after the forced reboot of his existence. It wasn’t the calculated aroma of incense and single-origin coffee from his 88th-floor office, an environment optimized for maximum executive performance. No. This was a sensory assault, a nauseating mix of decaying fish, damp spices, and the unmistakable stench of substandard sanitation.

Preliminary environmental analysis: Logistical chaos. Waste management: nonexistent. Air quality: unacceptable.

The memory of his first encounter in this world, with that corrupt and lazy alley guard, had already provided him with a representative sample of the local “corporate culture”: one based on low-level extortion and zero efficiency. The public sector was therefore discarded as a viable employment path.

Now, standing in a crowded square, he prepared to conduct a more formal asset audit. His new, deplorable corporeal vessel was a disaster. An adolescent chassis, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, painfully thin. The clothes, a set of patched-up rags, had a net worth of zero. He ran a quick internal inventory: no capital, no connections, no known special skills for this new market. It was like waking up as the CEO of a failed startup, one that had already burned through all its seed funding and was now left with nothing but debt and a defective product.

Panic was a luxury his operating system no longer processed. Panic was for the competition. He didn’t panic; he pivoted. And the first pivot in any corporate crisis was clear: secure a revenue stream to avoid total liquidation. He needed a job.

With an upright posture that was an insult to his emaciated appearance, he delved into the vibrant chaos of the city, initiating his market prospecting. Every stall, every workshop, was not a simple trade; it was a small business with a business model to analyze.

The first opportunity presented itself in the form of a bakery. The smell of fresh bread was an aggressive marketing campaign aimed directly at his empty stomach. He watched the baker, a burly man whose sweat could have seasoned the dough, pull loaves from a stone oven.

Kenji didn’t see a simple artisan. He saw a workflow disaster.

The oven has an obvious heat leak at the upper left joint—a noticeable energy loss. The flour is three meters from the kneading table: a waste of motion and time. He doesn’t use a batch processing system for the ingredients. With a simple five-minute consultation, I could increase his output by a quarter. A mismanaged asset.

He approached, waiting for the precise moment between one batch and the next. “Excuse me,” his voice came out as a croak, a low-performance vocal tool. “I’m looking for a job opportunity. I possess a high capacity for assimilating new protocols. I am a fast learner.”

The baker turned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a hairy arm. His gaze scanned Kenji from head to toe and he let out a dry laugh, a sound as harsh as burnt bread. “Protocols? Kid, you look like a pretentious scarecrow. The only thing you’ll be assimilating here is a fainting spell from hunger. I need someone who can haul fifty-kilo sacks, not some ghost-in-training who’ll pass out before noon. Get lost!”

Rejection due to deficiency in physical assets. Predictable. Myopic hiring logic. The baker is investing in short-term muscle, not long-term intelligence. His company is doomed to mediocrity.

He continued on his way. The unskilled labor sector was, for now, a bear market for him. He needed a niche that valued a different asset. His eyes fell on the workshop of a craftsman carving intricate wooden figures. The old man had undeniable skill, but his business model was a catastrophe.

One-man production. Slow. Not scalable, Kenji’s mind decreed. If I broke down the process and created an assembly line, I could flood the market with low-cost products. He’s treating a potential business like a hobby. What a waste.

He approached with a new strategy. He would offer not efficiency, but submission. “Master,” he said in a respectful tone he had calibrated by observing other passersby. “Your art is sublime. I wish to be your apprentice. I will work for only food and a roof over my head.”

The old man looked up. His eyes, clouded by cataracts but sharp with experience, studied Kenji’s hands. They were thin, uncalloused. He offered him a knife and a piece of wood. “Carve a bird.”

Kenji tried. His mind visualized the process, the cutting angles, the removal of excess material. But his hands, trembling and weak, betrayed the perfection of his plan. The result was not a bird. It was a splinter with delusions of grandeur.

The old man sighed, a sound of ancient disappointment. “The spirit is willing, but the hands are empty. The art of carving is born from strength in the fingers, a strength that comes only from years of work and bowls of hot rice. Come back when your hands have a story to tell.”

Another failure in talent acquisition. He’s relying on prior experience, not learning potential. Inefficient.

Kenji returned the tools with a nod. There was no frustration in him, only a growing irritation at the crushing lack of vision in this world. It was like being surrounded by CEOs who refused to read a market report.

As he walked, he felt a void. An abyss. The same feeling he had when he completed Project Odyssey and realized he was no longer needed. In this world of chaos and stupidity, his mind, his greatest asset, was completely useless. No one here valued efficiency. No one understood the language of systems. He was a genius in a world of idiots, and he was starving.

It was then, at the lowest point of his market analysis, that the opportunity presented itself. Not as a celestial angel or a Blue Screen of Death, but in the most mundane and wonderful way possible: on a piece of cheap parchment nailed to a post.

SERVANTS WANTED The Silver Cloud Clan, an honorable cultivation sect, seeks hardworking and discreet individuals for duties at their residence. Sustenance, lodging, and a modest stipend offered…

Kenji read the text three times. His brain, which had been on the verge of entering low-power mode, surged, processing the information at the speed of light.

Investment Opportunity Analysis:

• • Entity: “Silver Cloud Clan.” A dominant player in the local market. Established brand.

• • Position: Servant. Entry-level. Low physical barrier to entry.

• • Compensation: Sustenance, lodging, stipend. Covers basic operational needs. This is the seed capital injection I need to stabilize this deplorable physical asset.

• • Strategic ROI (The real deal): Infiltration. Access to a high-level organization. The opportunity to observe its structure, its power flows, its vulnerabilities… from the inside. It’s an unpaid internship at the heart of this world’s power structure.

The risk was unknown, but the risk of inaction was total liquidation by starvation. It was the first, the only, logical value proposition he had encountered all day.

It wasn’t the CEO position a man of his caliber deserves. It was the janitor’s position. But even the janitor has a master key.

An icy determination, the same he felt before a hostile takeover, replaced the hunger and cold. The sun was setting, painting the sky a shade of orange and purple that his mind refused to register as beautiful, but rather as the end of the workday and the beginning of nocturnal planning.

He looked at the notice one last time, memorizing every word, every stroke. His objective: the Silver Cloud Clan. His strategy: a hostile takeover, executed from the lowest, most forgotten department.