The cold of the stone pavement seeped through his back. That was the first sensation he felt. Next came the realization that his head was oddly cool. A thin breeze caressed his scalp directly, like autumn wind brushing against bare skin. *Did I leave the window open while sleeping?* he thought for a moment, before the fact of the stone pavement jolted his brain back to reality. He wasn't sleeping on a bed. He was lying on stone. Slowly, he opened his eyes. What greeted him was an unfamiliar sky. A pale blue sky—similar to Earth's in some ways, yet subtly different in hue. *...Ah, did I die?* His name in his previous life was Yahata Koiso. Twenty-eight years old, unemployed. A man who had lived in a six-mat room in a corner of Tokyo, befriended only by empty energy drink cans stacked before a screen, a controller, and his parents' nagging. Fragmented memories returned—a dimly lit room. That suffocating air. An endless cycle of late nights and daytime naps, neither of which had a clear beginning or end. His parents had yelled at him: "Get your act together." And while they yelled, he'd kept hunting enemies on screen. Then he'd woken up here. He didn't even remember a dramatic death scene. He'd simply lost consciousness and found himself in this place. An isekai reincarnation, then. If so, he needed to assess the situation first—a habit cultivated through gaming kicked in before panic could take hold. He pushed himself up. His arms moved. His legs moved. His organs felt intact. Full HP, he judged. Then he reached a hand to his head. His fingers touched nothing. He touched again, slowly. His fingers slid across smooth skin. "...I'm bald." He said it aloud. His voice echoed foolishly through the quiet alley. He was bald. At twenty-eight, he was bald. In an isekai reincarnation, the first thing he lost was his hair. This tutorial was a scam. He ran both hands across his entire head. Not a single strand remained. Not even peach fuzz. Complete baldness. The realm of nothingness. A gleaming wasteland. He stood up slowly. The ground beneath him was stone pavement, and gray stone buildings lined the surroundings. A medieval European streetscape, the kind he'd only seen in history books. The air was crisp, carrying the mixed scents of horses and freshly baked bread from somewhere. *Reincarnation or summoning—which is it?* He'd just begun to think seriously about it when— A middle-aged merchant appeared at the entrance of the back alley, and their eyes met. The man wore a thick overcoat and carried a wooden crate. His light brown hair fell to his shoulders—he had the bearing of a middle manager. His gaze froze on Yahata's head. The wooden crate clattered to the stone pavement. The next moment, the man's knees buckled. Both hands pressed to the ground. His forehead descended in a straight line toward the pavement. "Mirror Crown, sir...! In a place like this...!" The trembling voice echoed through the alley. Hearing it, faces appeared from nearby windows. The moment they confirmed Yahata's head, everyone's movements stopped in sequence. One person dropped to one knee. Another bowed. Goods from a street stall scattered to the ground. A child clinging to her mother's waist. Two guards walking the street stood rigid in salute, spears in hand. *...Let me organize the situation.* Yahata's gaming brain activated quietly. My head is smooth. Everyone around me is prostrating. They're saying "Mirror Crown." So in this world, baldness equals authority? Meaning I'm completely bald equals strongest position? Wait, wait. Is this one of those early-game overpowered isekai scenarios? *The tutorial bonus is way too hot.* While smiling inwardly, he raised his chin slightly. A line he'd heard in historical dramas slipped from his mouth. "Hmm, no need to suffer. Raise your faces." The people in the alley lifted their heads in unison. A few had tears glistening in their eyes. *No way. It actually worked.* This game's command input is too easy. Yahata began walking down what would later be known as Mirror Crown Street, a major thoroughfare. People parted before him in succession. Merchants pressed themselves against walls while clutching their goods. Craftsmen bowed while holding their tools. With each footfall on the stone pavement, the crowd split like receding waves. As he walked, Yahata began observing the heads around him. This was the fastest way. In games, when you entered a field, you always checked enemy placement and strength first. A completely bald old mage approached—everyone who passed bowed deeply. Meanwhile, a young man with full hair bowed first to a half-bald man. In front of a bakery, a man with a modest amount of hair smiled at customers while bowing ninety degrees to someone who appeared to be a high-ranking mage. *I see. The percentage of baldness is a direct visualization of status. A simple game system.* Simple, visual, impossible to fake. A system that carved proof of strength into the crown of the head. Whoever designed this might be a genius. ...But wait. He hadn't used any magic at all, yet he had this degree of baldness. *This is completely a con artist position, isn't it?* Cold sweat would have trickled down his smooth scalp if it could, but internally it definitely seeped through. Walking as the revered Mirror Crown, he was nothing but a powerless fraud pretending to be high-spec. This was bad. If his true identity was exposed, what would happen? Anxiety began to smolder quietly in his mind when— A smell came. The scent of freshly baked bread. That stupidly blissful aroma. Melting butter, toasted wheat—that one. Yahata's stomach made a judgment call that completely ignored diplomacy. *Grrrrrrrr.* It echoed through the quiet street. The people with bowed heads looked up in confusion. "D-don't mind it... the Mirror Crown's... the Mirror Crown's..." He tried to say something appropriate. "Even the Mirror Crown's stomach rumbles sometimes," or "Even celestial beings know hunger"—but in that moment, his vision rotated sharply to the left. The ground disappeared beneath him. The stone pavement rushed toward his face. *Ah, I'm dying.* The highest-ranking Mirror Crown collapsed from hunger on the street. His cheek touched the cold stone. Cries of "The Mirror Crown!" and "What's wrong?!" erupted from the crowd. *If this were a game, this would be the death penalty pattern... worst...* With his cheek pressed to the pavement, Yahata thought vaguely. Footsteps approached. They were brisk, decisive footsteps. "Please step back. Excuse me." The voice pushing through the crowd was calm, yet somehow rigid. A single pair of shoes appeared before the collapsed Yahata—plain leather shoes, worn but meticulously maintained. When he lifted his head, a man in his early thirties stood there. Short brown hair, the crown of his head beginning to thin slightly—what would later be called the "hair crown" position. His jawline was firm, and if he wore glasses, he'd have the air of a serious scholar. He wore a dark blue robe bearing an academy crest, and his eyes looked down at Yahata while remaining unmoved, methodically assessing the situation. The man named Pedro examined Yahata's head for three seconds, then slowly hardened his expression. *An unidentified Mirror Crown collapsed on the street...* His face bore the look of administrative judgment, as if those very words were written across it. "I need to report this to the Academy Director." The words he spoke aloud seemed less directed at Yahata or the crowd, and more like a confirmation to himself. He turned and gave two subordinate instructors a brief order to bring a stretcher. As he was placed on the stretcher, Yahata murmured with half-closed eyes. "Where... in RPG terms, is this the early-game village...?" "Be silent, Mirror Crown, sir," Pedro replied in a bewildered low voice. The gap between the honorific "sir" and the reality of being carried on a stretcher gradually wore away at Yahata's pride. The highest-ranking figure, carried on a stretcher. This RPG's initial settings were definitely off. Tonsura Academy stood on a hill. Multiple stone buildings of the academy complex rose on high ground in the northern part of the capital, with statues of bald mages standing solemnly on both sides of the main gate. The statues were all polished so their heads gleamed brilliantly—at certain angles, the reflected light was sharp enough to sting the eyes. Pedro explained in a monotone that it was founded three hundred eighty years ago by Calvos the Great, the first Mirror Crown of the founding era. As Yahata was carried through the main gate on the stretcher, the first sight that greeted him was the hallway. An elderly professor with a gleaming bald head walked down the stone corridor. The students ahead parted like waves, pressing themselves against the walls and bowing deeply. Not a single face was raised. The professor passed without a glance. On the opposite side of the corridor, a freshman with full hair was being spoken to by a half-bald upperclassman and cowering. "The hairy ones walk at the edge of the corridor," the upperclassman said. "Sorry," the boy replied, pressing himself against the wall as he walked. *The game balance is terrible...* Yahata muttered internally from the stretcher. Passing the dining hall, it was immediately obvious that seating was determined by baldness. The central, spacious seats were occupied by students with gleaming heads, while the cramped, shabby seats in the corners were packed with students with full hair. Pedro continued talking as he carried the stretcher, unprompted. He explained how hair fell irreversibly with each use of magic. How the degree of baldness determined hierarchy as proof of magical consumption. How the Mirror Crown—completely bald—was the highest rank, with only seven in a thousand years of history. How the Baldness Law prohibited research into magical systems other than root-hair thaumaturgy. As Yahata listened, he began assembling the pieces in his mind. *Magic use causes baldness → baldness equals authority → but if all the hair roots are gone...* He stopped there. *Where does the magic power come from then?* The question blinked in his head. If hair roots were the storage for magical power, then a Mirror Crown who'd used them all up would be—the strongest, yet with an empty gun. Wasn't something fundamentally wrong with this world's magical system? He couldn't afford to dwell on it now. He'd think about it later. A piece of paper was pasted on the corridor wall. Yahata's eyes, gazing from the stretcher, stopped on it. Depicted was a tall man with a dark purple pattern carved into his left eye. His head was—completely bald. Like Yahata. But the text on the wanted poster was written in red, clear and unmistakable. "Forbidden Mage Vex, Chief of the Withered Root Sect, Suspected Use of Root Origin Reversion Theory" A completely bald man like him was wanted. And as a forbidden mage, no less. *...I have a bad feeling about this.* Yahata murmured with half-closed eyes. Pedro said, "I'll take you to the temporary holding room. I need to report to the Academy Director first," and proceeded deeper into the corridor. The stone ceiling drifted slowly overhead. Rough stone piled upon stone. A heavy ceiling bearing the weight of three hundred eighty years. "...Tutorial complete, main game begins, huh," Yahata muttered to no one in particular. Deep within the academy, someone spoke words Yahata couldn't hear. "He's come."