Chapter 125 High-Society Hospitality
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
One week later.
The “internal brain upgrade” was complete.
Thanks to the memory-boosting effects of my Psionic doping, I had managed to absorb the complex web of social protocols with a single glance. To be honest, I was a little underwhelmed by my own success. It seemed that, deep down, I still stubbornly clung to the idea that I was just an ordinary guy.
Mastering even the basics of aristocratic etiquette usually takes a month of grueling effort, no matter how hard you push yourself. According to Uribayashi-san, that put me at the very top of every man she had ever trained-excluding the natural-born Tokyo elites, of course.
Still, true grace takes years of practice. For now, I would have to rely on my crammed knowledge and dive headfirst into the fray.
With my passing grade secured, I set out to test the fruits of my labor. My destination was the high-end mystical artifact boutique in Hibiya that had previously defeated me. I had been waiting for this rematch.
From my haori cords to my tabi socks and setta sandals, my spring attire was flawless. I had chosen a semi-formal navy blue ensemble to emphasize my status as an unmarried man. Unlike my last disastrous attempt, I made sure not to bring any artifacts with Eastern crests into a Western-affiliated shop. Uribayashi-san had personally vetted my entire appearance.
She was restless as she saw me to the door. I knew that if I came home dejected again, she would end up blaming herself. Despite her age, she wasn’t the type to show sentimentality, but the worry was written in the tension of her shoulders.
* * *
The morning sun had begun to warm the town by the time the distant tolling of the bell announced the Hour of the Snake. My reserved jinrikisha arrived right on time.
”Are you still insisting on using that rickshaw, Your Lordship?” Uribayashi-san asked. She had regained her composure, though her voice was laced with exasperation.
”I am,” I replied. “I’ve grown fond of the bumpy ride. Besides, Biwa-chan is getting better every day. If she keeps this up, she might get promoted from the black ribbons soon. It’s rewarding to watch her progress.”
Contrary to my lighthearted mood, Uribayashi-san’s gaze remained icy. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That lowest-grade rickshaw is not a vehicle intended for a gentleman of your standing. In fact, Your Lordship is the only person of rank who would even consider using it.”
”Wait, what? What do you mean?” I asked, stopping in my tracks.
”The pullers themselves are kept in the dark, but the Metropolitan Government has instructed the Rickshaw Union to maintain a fleet of intentionally outdated models. That is what you are riding. It is a calculated arrangement; the sight of such clunkers-inferior to their own carriages-is meant to provide the nobility with a sense of psychological ease.”
”…So that’s how it is,” I muttered.
They were running beat-up carts on purpose, just so the elites could look down from their polished carriages and feel a smug sense of relief. The standard for a gentleman usually started at the white-ribbon grade. It was a “consideration” for the male psyche-one the men themselves weren’t even supposed to know about.
”The Shafu is also an unmannered nobody. The officials and guards don’t even recognize them as legitimate workers. They are treated with utter neglect, yet somehow, you failed to notice.”
Poor Biwa-chan…
”I shall send her away,” Uribayashi-san declared. “I will arrange a suitable carriage immediately. It is time Your Lordship learned the proper way of things.”
”But if I switch to a ‘proper’ lady driver, the physical contact might be… I mean, look, it’s fine! I like riding with her. There’s no law against it, right?” I said, trying to dodge her logic.
”It is not… strictly illegal,” she conceded.
”Then I’m sticking with her. We’re both still leveling up. I want us to work hard together.”
Uribayashi-san’s expression remained frostily neutral. “As you wish.”
Then came the threat-delivered with a posture so straight it was hard to tell if it was out of cruelty or kindness. “However, if you attempt to handle matters alone again, I will resign as your caretaker. And I will not return to this life. Remember this: if you persist in such selfish whims, you will not be the only one to suffer. You will be stripping an old woman of her only job and her sole reason for living.”
I waved goodbye, and she responded with a silent, deep bow.
”I’off!”
* * *
Biwa-chan was as spirited as ever. She gave me her usual boisterous morning greeting, babbling about what an honor it was to have me on board. I took my usual seat.
Watching her back-exposed save for the thin straps of her apron-I felt a sudden pang of sympathy. She worked so hard every day, yet in the eyes of this city, she was nothing more than a living prop designed to make rich people feel better.
”Biwa-chan. I’m always going to be on your side.”
”A-ah? What’s with the sudden serious talk-ssu? You’ve got such a solemn look on your face!”
”No, it’s nothing. Just keep doing your best.”
I tried to give her a reassuring smile. Her reaction-completely unrefined and genuine-was a massive relief. In Biwa-chan’s world, the suffocating rules of high society didn’t exist.
”Please stop-ssu! You’re giving me the creeps. Wait… you’re not firing me today, are you?”
”The caretaker just suggested it, that’s all,” I said.
”Suggested it? For real? Oh, please don’t do that-ssu! Lately, every day has felt like a dream. I’m terrified I’m gonna wake up and find out it was all a lie.” Biwa-chan was trembling now, a frantic, shaky smile plastered over her teary eyes. “That lady… she was just joking, right? Right-ssu?”
”She was serious,” I replied. “That’s why, once you move up in the world, we’re going to go back and report your success to her together.”
I spent the rest of the trip comforting her and clarifying the destination. Shafu is a good job for that; the wind dries the tears quickly.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we arrived.
The boutique was a massive, imposing structure that looked more like a fortress than a shop. Because it was frequented by the Imperial Family and high-ranking Kazoku system members, the protocols here were almost as strict as those at the Palace. Looking back, I realized I’d basically charged in here unarmored last time. It was the social equivalent of rolling into a five-star restaurant in pajamas and flip-flops.
I am a peer of the realm. I am a peer of the realm…
I muttered the mantra, scrubbing the commoner out of my psyche. By the time I reached the entrance, I was ready. As I approached, a clerk in a formal suit stepped to the gate and pulled back the heavy bolt.
”Welcome, Your Lordship,” the man said.
I ignored him completely, stepping past as he held the door.
Last time, this was where I’d tripped up: the mud mat in the vestibule. That hateful little rug, placed just past the threshold, had forced me to turn tail and run. This time, I didn’t even give it a glance. I marched right over it in my setta, deliberately tracking dust and grit onto the pristine marble floor.
The sound of my footsteps alerted the staff. A woman in her twenties-the very same senior attendant who had kicked me out last time-rushed out to meet me.
”I’ve made a mess,” I said coolly. “What of it?”
I didn’t care. It was her job to clean it.
”Watch yourself, this floor is expensive,” I added with a smirk. “Make sure you don’t miss a spot.”
”M-my deepest apologies, Your Lordship!” she stammered.
I slipped off my outer haori and thrust it toward her. Even though I was the one who had tracked in the mud, the role demanded I speak to her this way. Without waiting for her to hang the garment, I strode toward the waiting room. She scrambled ahead of me, frantically pulling the doors open so I wouldn’t have to slow my pace.
In the waiting room, I picked the seat appropriate for my status: a simple, backless stool for an unmarried gentleman.
Everything had finally fallen into place.
”Oh, my…!” one clerk whispered from the hallway.
”How wonderful…!” another replied.
The eyes of the staff watching from a distance sparkled with admiration.
”I’m so proud. He’s become so splendid,” a third clerk said quietly.
”It’s like he’s a different person,” another added. “He must have studied so hard.”
They were genuinely moved, some even covering their mouths to hide emotional tears. Of course, they thought their whispers were private; they didn’t realize my Psionic senses picked up every word.
I finally allowed myself a small breath of relief.
A nobleman has the privilege of having his shoes cleaned by the staff. To use a mud mat like a commoner-rubbing your own soles like a merchant-is considered uncouth. It is a bad act because it robs a servant of their purpose.
The shop manager approached to greet me, bowing solemnly with a hint of genuine joy. The world looked completely different now that I understood the ceremony. By dirtying the floor, I was allowing the world to turn correctly.
In my old life, seeing a man track mud into a building would have struck me as monstrously arrogant. But here, in the Imperial Capital, it was the correct way. Shoe shining and floor scrubbing were legitimate professions. These jobs provided the townspeople with a livelihood. To be considerate was to steal their bread.
It was a bizarre culture, but the upper class thrived on this subdivision of labor. Supporting a small army of servants was the duty of the high-born; it was how they projected authority and kept the economy circulating.
As they began to polish my footwear, I finally stated my business. I was led to the private guest chambers on the upper floor. We passed the first-floor displays-there were no glass cases here, only open tables with mystical artifacts laid out like bare jewels. Theft wasn’t even considered a possibility.
”This way to the second floor, Your Lordship,” the manager said. “May I have your hand?”
”You may,” I replied.
Gemini said
A slender arm was offered with practiced grace. I leaned on the clerk; these “stages”—as they called the tiers of the grand staircase—were treacherous. Her escort was a requirement of the house, not a suggestion.
We ascended a gentle semi-spiral, arriving at a chamber that breathed reception. Again, the chairs were arranged with that same, stifling precision.
”Please, make yourself comfortable while you wait,” the clerk said.
”Right. I understand,” I replied.
With a deep bow, she withdrew from the VIP salon.
’Same trial as last time, then?’ I wondered.
I moved to take the “correct” seat without a second thought, but then I caught it. The salon opened into the grand hall, and there, peeking from behind the heavy ceiling-hung drapes, were three of the senior staff. They were watching me with a “Do your best, little one!” gaze. They looked like they were holding their breath in prayer.
’I didn’t notice it last time, but being the one to turn a customer away must have left a scar on them, too,’ I thought. ‘If the man leaves with a bitter taste in his mouth, the house takes the damage.’
I sat on the stool, no longer feeling the bite of tension. Behind the curtain, I heard a collective, hushed sigh of relief.
They were actually happy. They were hovering over my “Customer Audit” like worried parents. Having all those eyes on the back of my neck was hardly comfortable, though. It felt like a parent-teacher observation day.
I felt a chill of detachment settle over me, mixed with a prickle of embarrassment. Through the gap in the drapes, the girls were literally clutching each other’s hands.
’Do they really think I can’t see them?’ I mused. ‘It’s like a reality show following a toddler on his first solo errand…’
”Thank you for waiting, milord. May I present our selection?” the clerk asked as she returned.
”Whoa! You scared me,” I said.
”Is something wrong?”
”Nothing. Just spacing out. Go ahead, give me the rundown,” I told her.
The clerk wheeled in a cart. It was a ceramic mobile desk, the kind you’d see for high-end hotel room service, and upon it sat a small, exquisitely bound book. The book was the product—The Anatomy of Truth, a mystical relic of the highest order.
It had been unearthed in a dungeon beneath Mainz, Germany. The Library of Truth is a realm of silence and absolute order, haunted by predatory, man-eating printing presses. To survive, one must decipher the hall’s maddeningly complex bylaws and curry favor with the monstrous librarians just to be “gifted” a single volume.
This book contained roughly three hundred pages, each detailing a specific trauma or ailment. It was a consumable medical marvel; you tear out the page, and the affliction is erased. Unlike the Kujukuri medicines that merely boost one’s natural healing, this was niche—it surgically restored a specific condition to its factory-default state of health.
A true exotic import. It was beautiful enough to be a museum piece, and depending on the rarity of the ailments listed within, a single volume could fetch upwards of a billion yen. Not exactly an impulse buy.
I opted to buy it by the leaf. I’d just take what I needed.
For Maggot-san, the page for Cerebral Infarction. For Flatty-chan, the Adhesion Release for her contracture. Fortunately, the pages were still in stock.
Following the clerk’s advice—that it was better to have a professional diagnosis than to waste a billion-yen page on a hunch—I had her draft a referral to a doctor. They would hold the pages for me; once the clinic finished the exam, the order would be sent directly to the shop.
”Thanks, this really helps… No, never mind. I’ll leave it in your hands,” I said.
”As you wish,” she replied.
I almost thanked her properly, but I caught myself. No noble thanks a clerk for the mere privilege of reserving a product. It wasn’t a law, but doing so would mark me as a social illiterate who couldn’t read the room.
* * *
Having finished my business, I mentioned I’d like to browse. The clerk fell in behind me, a silent shadow who only spoke to provide flawless commentary when I lingered over an item. A few pieces caught my eye. Being a subsidiary of a Zaibatsu with a stranglehold on maritime trade, this shop specialized in the truly exotic. The prices were, frankly, obscene.
[Origin: USA] | The Glory Days
A bolt of ancient shroud. Wrap a corpse in this, and a pillar of holy light descends from the heavens. Anyone bathed in that light receives a final influx of the deceased’s memories and emotions. For those who cannot say goodbye.
[Origin: China] | Kyonshi Nyan
A Taoist talisman. Affix this to the brow of any creature born of Earth, and it becomes perfectly submissive. Ideal for “pets.” It effectively induces a state of living stasis, allowing you to preserve a beloved animal—or an endangered species—forever.
[Origin: USSR] | The Khorovode (Corolla of Fertility)
A ceramic pot. Any plant placed inside repeats its cycle of blooming and fruiting at a hyper-accelerated rate. It’s a horticultural tool for harvesting perfumes from ultra-rare flowers that normally bloom once a decade.
[Origin: South Africa] | Jue ya Bito (The Blood Jewel)
A gray conglomerate stone. You “feed” it your own blood once a week. When it matures, the rock shatters to reveal a piece of jewelry perfectly tuned to your soul’s deepest desires. A treasure for a lifetime.
They were even trading with our “hypothetical enemies.” That was the sheer weight of a Zaibatsu trading house—they ignored the government’s xenophobia just to flex the length of their reach.
Every time we moved to a new section, a different clerk appeared. Their sole job was to open doors. They were human “automatic doors.” They could have used a mystical object to do it, but they chose the luxury of human labor. On the stairs, an arm was always there to steady me.
”You’re the one who showed me out last time, aren’t you?” I asked. “I feel much more at ease being guided by you today. It seems my tutor’s lessons in etiquette were worth the headache.”
I descended the stairs two steps behind her, catching her profile. This was the same woman who had looked like she was cutting her own heart out when she asked me to leave that night. She remembered.
”Please, forgive me,” she whispered. “We are strictly forbidden from explaining the ‘why’ to a guest. The guest must realize the fault on their own—that is the way of the Imperial Capital. If I had broken that silence, I would have lost my position, and my family would be on the streets.”
”It was your job. I don’t hold it against you. Besides, you look pale. I’m not about to scold a woman who’s clearly suffering,” I told her.
”You are too kind… To be honest, I’ve seen Your Lordship’s retreating back in my dreams every night since. I haven’t slept,” she said, letting the words slip. “But now… you stand with such dignity. It is as if you’ve been reborn. You have become truly magnificent.”
And then, she just started crying.
I pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe her eyes, but that only made the floodgates open wider. I ended up gently brushing her eyelids with my thumb to stem the tears. I could feel her lids trembling weakly. My heart went out to her.
Poor thing. I hope she finally gets some sleep tonight.
As long as you follow the “forms,” this town is surprisingly loose about physical contact. Hugs at social functions are standard; even a light peck on the cheek isn’t unheard of. For women, these social rituals are a joy. For men, they’re a chore, but we go along with it because the fear of being labeled uncouth or unrefined is stronger than any discomfort. It’s a moral battlefield where you can’t afford to lose face to your peers. And even a man gets used to it eventually.
The world of high society is inherently lecherous. It’s built on the foundations of feminine desire.
“Ugh, well, it’s the rules, so I guess I have no choice.”
“It’s the rules, so I guess I’ll just dance so close that my groin is pressed against her hip. Rules are rules!”
That’s the vibe. It’s suspiciously similar to my own way of thinking. I disgust myself.
”As a reward for your sincere service in looking after me, I’ll leave you this handkerchief later,” I said.
”I would be honored to receive it,” the clerk replied, looking genuinely radiant.
Lately, my default move had been “just give them a handkerchief.” It worked on kids, it worked on adults—it was the ultimate cheat code. Though at this rate, I was going to run out. Is this my version of noble debauchery? Tipping in linens?
”Nn… ah…”
Wait, the clerk’s breath was turning a distinct shade of rose. Probably because I’d spent too much time wiping tears and ended up caressing her ears and cheeks.
’Crap, abort mission.’
I pulled my hand away, fast.
In a formal setting, a clerk letting a guest see her in heat is an instant termination. It’s a delicate balance; it’s one thing to get flustered in the street, but here, the Iron Law of the upper class dictates that everyone pretends to be unaffected so the men feel safe enough to engage in the contact. Even the ladies who usually hunt me like sport wouldn’t dare pull that move here.
* * *
On my way out, I presented the handkerchief—my apology for the accidental grope.
When a person of rank gives a gift, they cannot do so directly. Hand-to-hand is a taboo. Since I lacked an attendant, the Shop Manager—the highest-ranking person there—came out to act as the intermediary. I handed it to the Manager. The Manager then “granted” the handkerchief to the clerk as an imperial gift from my house.
The clerk expressed her undying gratitude to me. The Manager then thanked me for my grace in recognizing a subordinate’s hard work. I offered a humble, rehearsed deflection.
It was all so choreographed. God, this was exhausting!
But this—knowing the steps, executing them perfectly, confirming that we all exist within the same orderly framework of status—this is the highest form of mutual respect. This is the Social Ceremony. The daily grind of the elite.
Finally, I was handed a business card signed by the owner herself. My performance had been deemed sufficiently pleasing to the female staff. This card was a golden ticket; I could now enter any shop in this Zaibatsu’s chain without the trials. I had graduated from being a first-timer.
Normally, you’d just have another man introduce you to bypass this crap, but I’d climbed the mountain alone. I’d navigated the minefield of etiquette traps and reached the summit. It was the old-fashioned way—the true way.
I climbed into the rickshaw, pointedly ignoring the row of bowing clerks. I couldn’t even say goodbye.
”…I’m done for a while. Being served by professionals is draining. If you weren’t born into this, if you don’t have a mind that can treat other humans like tools, it just makes you feel guilty,” I muttered.
That hollow sense of futility hit me. Next time I show up, it won’t be “Welcome.” It’ll be “We have been expecting you.” There’s a certain sweetness to receiving that level of sycophancy with a stone-cold face, I suppose. Some people would live for it.
But I’d spent the whole time worried about a clerk’s feelings. Nine more shops to go. I’d given those girls sleepless nights, and now I had to spend five days on a “Gratitude Tour” to make it right—even if I didn’t actually want to buy a single thing.
I was the ultimate window-shopper.
—
Summary:
The protagonist completes a rapid etiquette training via Psionic doping. He discovers that his favorite rickshaw driver, Biwa, is part of a system designed to make nobles feel superior. Armed with new knowledge, he successfully navigates a high-end artifact shop by intentionally acting ‘arrogant’ and dirtying the floors, which the staff perceives as proper noble behavior.
The protagonist successfully navigates a high-society shop screening that he previously failed. He purchases medical relic pages from ‘The Anatomy of Truth’ to help his companions. The chapter concludes with a complex handkerchief gift-giving ritual that secures his status as a regular customer.
—
Trivia:
- The ‘black ribbon’ rickshaws are intentionally inferior models mandated by the government.
- The protagonist previously failed at this shop because he used a mud mat like a commoner.
- Uribayashi threatened to resign if the protagonist continued to act impulsively.
- The setting is a ‘Reverse Chastity’ world where male status is extremely high and protected
- The ‘stages’ are actually a social screening mechanism.
- The shop staff was emotionally traumatized by having to turn him away previously.
- The protagonist is buying treatment for ‘Maggot-san’ and ‘Flatty-chan’.
- Direct gift-giving is a social taboo; it must go through a manager.
- The protagonist spent five days visiting ten different shops to apologize to clerks
—
Character Insight:
The protagonist struggles with his ‘commoner’ identity while realizing that ‘arrogance’ in this world is actually a form of social charity that provides jobs for servants. Biwa shows deep emotional vulnerability, fearing the end of her ‘dream’ of serving a male customer.
—
Behind the Scenes:
The concept of ‘social etiquette as job creation’ is a satire on trickle-down economics and rigid class structures.
—
TL Notes:
Notes:
• Uribayashi – High-end noble caretaker with decades of common sense and a sharp tongue.
• Biwa – A young female servant with erotic brown skin and an athletic build. Highly ethical but easily influenced by the protagonist. Childhood friend of Ryoko-chan. A rickshaw puller who pants while working; acts as the moral watchdog or ‘Lolicon Police.
• Shafu – A girl with sporty tanned skin, fresh black hair, and firm thighs.
• Psionic Power – Mental energy concept in Chapter 35’s lecture. Trash-san teaches it to strengthen the protagonist’s mind after dungeon ordeals.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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