You don't have magic. Everyone else does. That's not the problem.

The problem is figuring out where you fit when the system wasn't built for you.

Kenji Sato was about to start a factory shift in Tokyo. Then he was on his face in a field of impossibly green grass, being apologized to by a woman holding a glowing clipboard.

Now he's somewhere that doesn't have Japan, doesn't have electricity, and doesn't have a category for him—a person with no magic at all.

The island runs on enchantment. Society values what you can contribute. And the people at the bottom—the ones with spectacular magic and nowhere to use it—work the sewers, the repair shops, the jobs nobody writes songs about.

They're the ones who find him first.

No quests. No prophecy. No chosen one.

Just a guy with tape on his shoes, learning to live in a world that finds him fascinating, pitiable, and completely unclassifiable.

Sometimes home is where they don't know what to do with you either—but they let you stay anyway.