Yokohama Literary Master Dazai, at Your Service

My name is Tsushima Fumifusa, and I'm the useless one in the Tsushima family.

One day, the System suddenly summoned me, saying I had to go to another world where the literary scene was in decline and play the role of my great-granduncle, Dazai Osamu, to restore the glory of great writers.

I said there was no way I could do that, and showed it the Japanese test I had taken just two days earlier, on which I scored 13 points. I wanted to make it clear that I couldn't restore the glory of great writers, or even get through the theme song.

But the System was heartless and insisted I go.

So I could only use my elementary-school writing skills and rack my brains, going out of my mind every day while remaining in excellent mental health.

Just as I was suffering terribly and about to be punished by the System, a flash of Chuuya Nakahara's unmistakable orange hair crossed my vision.

Then, without a word, I sat back down.

Half a month later, my elementary-school essay came out. It was a mishmash of Chuuya Nakahara's real-life anecdotes and his fictional life, and I shamelessly put one of his old names on it before selling it all over Yokohama.

The System let me off the hook.

It let me see a glimmer of hope for survival.

I started churning out elementary-school essays at full tilt. Even after I had run through the entire Japanese literary scene, with every new work coming out of Yokohama written in my childish style, and even after I was too guilty to go out for three months, the System was still unsatisfied.

Fine. At last, I turned my evil clutches toward foreign writers.

A Biography of Dostoevsky, dedicated to the Russian writer I was about to ruin.

Then a kind Russian man took me away. He didn't hit or scold me. Instead, he treated me to delicious food and drink, then pressed me down in front of a writing desk and gazed at me with a faint smile, his eyes full of expectation and encouragement.

Me: ?

Him, smiling gently: Dazai-kun, use your penetrating insight into the human heart to help me change this world.

Me: Slowly types a question mark.jpg

Penetrating insight into the human heart?

Huh?

Who are you talking about?

1. The protagonist isn't capable of copying the original works. All he remembers are the broad strokes of the great writers' lives from school lessons, so he writes a