The silence of the luxury bedroom suddenly felt heavy—stifling in a way that had nothing to do with the locked door or the six angry women on the other side.
Agung reached out with a trembling, slightly chubby hand and picked up the silver-framed photo. In it, the "other" Agung looked vibrant, his smile reaching his eyes as he balanced a toddler with Maki's fiery red hair on one shoulder and a little girl with Umi's deep blue pigtails on the other. He looked like the hero of his own story.
"That other 'me'..." Agung whispered, his voice cracking. "He had it all. He had the dream, the girls... and he still walked away?"
He traced the glass over the children's faces. The realization hit him harder than Truck-kun ever could. Back in Pekalongan, Agung had spent years trying to outrun the shadow of his own upbringing—the ghost of a father who had been a master of disappearing acts. He had promised himself he'd be different. He'd buried himself in 24 years of stories, anime, and games to escape a reality where "dad" was just a word for someone who wasn't there.
"He became deadbeat and irresponsible... just like my father, huh?"
A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped his throat. He looked at his reflection in the mirror—35, a bit soft around the middle, clutching a magical black card that could buy the world but couldn't buy back three years of missed birthdays.
"The Operator didn't just mess up the date," Agung realized, his eyes stinging. "He dropped me into my own worst nightmare. He gave me the power of a god, but the reputation of a coward."
Suddenly, the "Creation Magic" sparking at his fingertips felt cold. What was the point of being able to create anything if he was just filling a hole left by a man who didn't care?
He stood up, his resolve shifting. If he was stuck in this 2026 timeline, he wasn't going to be the "Agung" they remembered. He couldn't fix the last three years with a spell, but he had a quadrillion dollars and the ability to manifest reality.
"I'm not going to let those kids grow up wondering why their dad didn't want them," he muttered, his jaw tightening.
He sat down at the mahogany desk in the corner. He didn't create a key. He didn't create a weapon. Instead, he closed his eyes and channeled his mana.
Poof.
A stack of high-quality parchment and a fountain pen appeared. He didn't start the "apology letter" Maki demanded. Instead, he began to draw—using his 24 years of otaku knowledge to sketch the one thing he knew best: a story. A story about a man who got lost in the stars and fought his way back across dimensions just to see his family again.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the wives arguing in the hallway continued, but inside the room, the "Deadbeat" was starting to work.