Takuto Kimura sat hunched over at the small wooden desk, clutching his pencil like a stockbroker holding on to a volatile asset. He stared at the grid paper in front of him, the blank spaces mocking him, much like a financial report riddled with discrepancies. He had to complete his homework, and the prompt was simple enough:
"An Unforgettable Day"
Takuto sighed dramatically, his mind buzzing like a failing business trying to make ends meet. He was a grown man trapped in a three-year-old's body, fighting a daily battle with diapers, baby food, and temper tantrums. He had already been through a lot, and the very thought of writing something "funny" made his soul ache. How was he supposed to write about something funny when his entire existence was a slapstick tragedy?
After a long pause, he decided to channel his frustration into something profound.
"The Impact of Rebirth on the Modern Education System," he wrote, the words flowing onto the page like a well-oiled machine.
The essay opened with a quote from The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith, followed by an exhaustive analysis on the role of reincarnation in influencing educational policies.
In the middle, he included a SWOT analysis—Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, and Threats—highlighting his advantages as an "overaged child," which he felt was a highly valuable competitive edge.
The conclusion suggested that the Ministry of Education introduce an MBA-level preschool course, because why not? If he had to spend his days learning how to color within the lines, he might as well do it while studying profit margins.
The next day, Takuto's heart sank as his homework was returned, with bold red comments splashed across the paper:
"Please write about real events, not plagiarized sci-fi. PS: Where did you copy this from? I'd like to read it too."
Takuto stared at the comments in disbelief. He had poured his soul into this, using every ounce of his reincarnated wisdom, and this was the response he got? He tossed the paper onto the floor in frustration. His mom, ever the supportive parent, picked it up and, with a gleam in her eye, shared it in the parent group chat. Takuto didn't know whether to feel humiliated or proud. The message was clear—Kimura Industries 1.0 had failed to impress.
But his day wasn't over yet.
Later that afternoon, Takuto opened his math homework. His blood pressure spiked immediately as he read the first problem:
"A water tank is filled through a pipe that adds 5 tons of water per hour, and drained through another that removes 3 tons per hour. How long will it take to fill the tank?"
Takuto blinked. "What kind of idiotic tank design is this?" he muttered, practically tearing the paper in half. "Who fills and drains a tank at the same time? This is an environmental disaster!" His inner business tycoon kicked into high gear.
Slamming his fist on the desk, he scribbled his solution in the notebook:
Fire the tank designer.
Acquire a water company.
Install smart water meters to eliminate waste.
When Takuto handed in the assignment, he was feeling smug—until he saw his teacher's response.
"Wrong answer. Please use math to solve the problem, not business plans."
Takuto fumed. It wasn't his fault that the problem was poorly designed. Surely someone at the Ministry of Waterworks should've thought about the environmental impact of having a tank that both filled and emptied simultaneously. Where was the logic?
To make matters worse, his tutor, Matsumoto, posted the question on his social media, proudly displaying Takuto's "merger and acquisition strategy" in full force. "Taught a brilliant kid today—tried to solve a math problem using mergers and acquisitions strategy," the caption read. The post included a picture of Takuto, looking like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. It quickly garnered over a hundred likes.
But the humiliation didn't stop there. The teacher assigned a project where students were tasked with building an "eco-friendly robot" from recycled materials. Takuto, ever the visionary, came up with a plan that he believed would revolutionize both the world of robotics and the future of education.
His robot would have a body made of a soda can—engraved with the "Kimura Industries 1.0" logo—and arms constructed from straws, because straws were versatile, and every CEO needed a signature pen to sign important documents. The core function? The robot would automatically do Takuto's homework. The solution? Simply glue a pencil to a fan.
The day of the presentation arrived, and Takuto proudly displayed his creation in front of the class. However, things did not go according to plan.
As he flicked the switch to activate the robot, it went rogue. The fan started spinning violently, shredding his homework to bits. The straw arms detached and flew across the room, one of them hitting the teacher's coffee cup, sending it crashing to the floor. Meanwhile, his little brother Kenta, who had somehow managed to sneak into the classroom, mistook the robot's head for a snack and ate it.
The teacher, eyes wide with disbelief, scribbled a comment on the assignment:
"Most Destructive Invention – Suggested for military research."
Takuto's shoulders slumped. He had truly thought he was onto something. His "robot" might have been a failure, but at least it had passion. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the math homework, which was still stuck in a loop of mergers and acquisitions.
And then came physical education.
For his winter break homework, Takuto was tasked with jumping rope 100 times a day. To put it mildly, Takuto's coordination was less "athlete" and more "penguin on roller skates." Every time he tried to jump, the rope got stuck somewhere between his legs, tangling with his feet, buttocks, and occasionally his dignity. He didn't even know how it happened—it just... did. It was as if the rope had a vendetta against him. His jumping form resembled someone having a seizure during a high-speed chase.
Matsumoto, ever the problem solver, suggested a radical idea. "Why don't you change it to 'Acquire one company per day'? You're much better at that."
Takuto seethed. Matsumoto was not wrong, but it didn't help the situation.
In a fit of frustration, Takuto invented the "Rope-Free Jumping Method"—essentially just bouncing wildly on his bed without a rope. His mom, ever the opportunist, filmed him and posted the video on TikTok with the caption:
"My little one's original jumping rope method—doesn't he look like The Wolf of Wall Street?"
The video went viral.
Within hours, Takuto's name became synonymous with both chaotic energy and questionable business practices. The comments flooded in:
"This kid will either be the richest man alive or a total psychopath."
The day before school started, Takuto looked at the wreckage of his holiday homework:
His essay had been rejected as science fiction.
His math homework was filled with acquisition plans.
His handmade robot had one leg left (which Kenta had eaten).
The viral video had turned him into a meme.
In a moment of sheer desperation, Takuto activated his "Homework Crisis PR Plan."
Step 1: Bribe Kenta with cookies to be his ghostwriter. The handwriting looked like ants moving in a straight line.
Step 2: Scan his cousin's homework and Photoshop it (the name was changed to "Takuto Dogman" for reasons Takuto still didn't fully understand).
Step 3: Hand in the "handmade" project—a "postmodern sculpture" made from diapers.
At the school opening ceremony, the principal stood in front of the class, holding up Takuto's homework for all to see.
"This student... is your dream to... become a dog?" the principal asked, looking perplexed.
Takuto sank in his chair, wishing for a way to disappear. Maybe he could use his "merger and acquisition strategy" to acquire a better fate.
At least next year, he'd be ready to pitch an even better plan—perhaps a robot that could clean up the mess he had made of his school life.