Vision Quest: The Resolution Rebellion

It was January 1st, the unofficial “Anime Protagonist Reset Day” in the sleepy millennial town of Toku Heights. Hiroshi Matsuda, a 28-year-old ex-gamer-turned-cubicle warrior, sat slumped in his studio apartment. Around him were the remnants of December’s binge—pizza boxes, empty bubble tea cups, and unopened gym membership paperwork.

His reflection in the dark screen of his TV was more depressing than the plot twist in Your Lie in April. He groaned, turning to his neglected corkboard, which displayed last year’s vision board. Well, what was supposed to be a vision board. A picture of Goku screaming “POWER UP!” and a motivational quote from Sailor Moon were the only remnants.

“This is pointless,” Hiroshi muttered, tossing a crumpled post-it note labeled “Gym Goals” at the trash can and missing.

But as the clock struck midnight, his world flipped upside down—literally. The air in his apartment grew cold, and the corkboard lit up like a slot machine.

“What the hell—?!” Hiroshi barely had time to process when the vision board exploded in a burst of sparkling confetti, and out stepped a glowing figure clad in anime armor.

“I am Shikibu, Guardian of Resolutions!” boomed the warrior, whose armor was inexplicably adorned with glitter and Post-it notes. “Your apathy has triggered a cosmic imbalance in the Resolution Realm. Prepare to embark on the Quest of Self-Betterment!”

Hiroshi blinked. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t drink enough for this to make sense. Second, I haven’t even made a resolution yet!”

“Exactly,” Shikibu said grimly, conjuring a giant scroll labeled Hiroshi’s Failures. “For three consecutive years, you’ve neglected your potential. No goals, no plans, and no progress. By the rules of the anime universe, you’re on the fast track to becoming a forgettable side character!”

“Wait, what?! I’m the main character in my life!”

“Not with that attitude,” Shikibu retorted, snapping his fingers. The room shifted, and Hiroshi found himself in a vast celestial arena. Floating vision boards and holographic charts of inspirational quotes circled around him. A booming announcer’s voice echoed:

“WELCOME TO THE RESOLUTION REBELLION! CHALLENGE: CRAFT A VISION BOARD OR FACE ETERNAL MEDIOCRITY!”

Before Hiroshi could protest, a giant timer appeared in the sky, counting down from 10 minutes. Shikibu tossed him a stack of magazines, glue, and a pair of scissors.

“Start cutting, human!”

As Hiroshi scrambled to understand what was happening, he noticed other challengers in the arena. To his left, an overly enthusiastic gym bro was assembling a board filled with abs and protein shakes. To his right, a girl dressed as a magical girl idol glued pictures of microphones and cheering crowds.

Hiroshi’s panic was interrupted by the arena’s announcer: “FAILURE TO COMPLETE THE BOARD WILL SUMMON THE MONSTER OF REGRET!”

Suddenly, the ground shook. A shadowy figure emerged from the abyss—a grotesque creature stitched together with Hiroshi’s bad decisions: skipped deadlines, ignored friendships, and unposted Instagram thirst traps. The Monster of Regret roared.

“Oh, hell no!” Hiroshi shouted, furiously flipping through magazines. His scissors hovered over a photo of a beach. “Uh… Vacation goal?” He slapped it on the board. “That’s a start, right?”

Shikibu facepalmed. “Pathetic. Where’s your real ambition?!”

Hiroshi’s panic morphed into annoyance. “Okay, glitter armor, what am I supposed to do?”

“Visualize what matters!” Shikibu barked. “Your goals must be clear and personal. What do you actually want?”

The arena quieted. Hiroshi thought about the last year: the late nights scrolling TikTok, the half-hearted attempts to join dating apps, and the way he avoided calls from his mom because of his shame.

“Fine,” he muttered. Hiroshi grabbed a marker and scrawled:

1. Start writing again—remember your dream of becoming a manga artist.

2. Build confidence—join that drawing group even if it’s terrifying.

3. Get healthier—not just for the looks, but to stop wheezing after stairs.

He stuck the list onto the board and surrounded it with pictures: a pencil sketchbook, a group of friends laughing, and his old gym sneakers.

As the timer hit zero, his vision board glowed. The Monster of Regret let out a final roar and dissolved into sparkles.

Shikibu nodded approvingly. “Now that is a protagonist’s resolve.”

Back in his apartment, Hiroshi’s corkboard looked different. The hastily-made vision board now radiated with anime protagonist energy. Shikibu gave him one last nod before disappearing into the glowing corkboard.

“Remember, Hiroshi,” the voice echoed, “your journey is just beginning. A resolution is the starting point, not the finish line.”

Hiroshi sat down at his desk, flipping open an old sketchbook. For the first time in years, he smiled.

Sometimes, the hardest battle isn’t against shadow monsters or celestial warriors—it’s against the fear of starting over. And with a vision board in hand, Hiroshi knew he wasn’t just leveling up—he was finally playing the game.