Chapter 124 My Fair Boy
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Even in the middle of my best days, guilt has a habit of catching me off guard. I had finally decided to buy souvenirs for the people who’d bled for me – a small gesture to clear the heavy sediment of debt in my gut.
I was finally getting used to life in the Imperial Capital, so I decided to take another shot at the high-end boutiques. These were elite shops packed with mystical artifacts¹ that commoners weren’t even allowed to look at.
And, honestly, I wanted a bit of payback for the last time they turned me away.
I draped myself in the finest kimono I owned and did my makeup with surgical precision. I even dug out an old etiquette textbook to brush up on the finer points. The result was a masterpiece.
”I hate to be the one to say it, but I look damn good,” I muttered to the mirror. “I’m a dead ringer for one of those fair-faced youths in a Western oil painting.”
Looking back at me was a boy straight out of a shoujo manga. My nose was straight and elegant, my lips as plush as camellia petals. The soft curve of my jaw had that warmth peculiar to children – the kind of look that practically begged for a gentle touch. Beneath a fringe of silken black hair, my obsidian eyes glittered.
I looked like the protagonist’s tragic best friend – the sickly boy who spends the whole story in bed. The one whose only companion is a pet canary that he inevitably sets free through the window just before the tragic finale.
”Okay, maybe I’m laying it on a bit thick. Besides, who cares? I’m popular enough that my looks are irrelevant. This is a total waste of time,” I said to myself.
Part of me wished I could just look like some disheveled creep. Though I suppose the visual of me acting spoiled in that state would be a nightmare for everyone involved.
”In this world, though, everything just gets filtered through the ‘onee-shota’² lens anyway. Still… makeup is a pain. Did the women in my previous life really do this every day? Total legends.”
But enough of that. I had a cure to find.
I had two casualties among my Imperial Guards. The Capital was the perfect place to hunt for medical supplies for Maggot and Flatty. Between Flatty’s recent wounds and the head injury Maggot sustained nearly ten months ago, it had been a long road. Even if they didn’t want me fussing over them, it wasn’t bad to be prepared. I could finally give them a real ‘thank you’ for all the s*x they let me have.
I’d find a clerk, explain the situation, and let them point me toward the best gear. If they didn’t have it, they’d have the connections. Every mystical object in Japan eventually flowed through the Capital. I’d just leverage my ‘Tall Big Sister’s’ deep pockets, flip the goods, and recover the capital. It was a flawless plan.
I marched out toward Ginza in high spirits.
The store was a marvel of Renaissance-inspired architecture. I’m no expert, but the dark, dignified masonry and the rhythmic symmetry of the windows made the entrance look like a temple of luxury.
”Right then. Time to make an entrance,” I whispered.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’d been kicked out.
I stood on the curb, just another unremarkable boy with slumped shoulders.
”Is it because I’m a guy? Is there some kind of ‘male rank’ I’m missing?” I wondered.
The moment I’d stepped into the foyer, I’d been ‘gently encouraged’ to find the exit.
I tried the other boutiques in the prime real estate of Hibiya, but the result was the same. I was either barred at the door or escorted out the moment I crossed the threshold. When I finally snapped and asked why, the clerks just gave me vague, blurry excuses.
I retreated to my private room, defeated. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror – that ridiculous, over-eager face caked in makeup.
”Pathetic. Look at you. You’re actually kind of ugly when you try this hard,” I muttered.
The sting was real. I didn’t even bother washing my face. I just crawled into bed and let my tears soak into the pillow.
The following days were no different. I was utterly crushed. In the high-end shops, they treated me with the distant politeness one might show a child, but never as a customer. The best I could hope for was a piece of candy on my way out.
But the answer was closer than I thought. Specifically, it was lounging on the first floor of the estate. I hadn’t found the cause of my rejection, but I’d found the one person who definitely knew it. Uribayashi Kiku, the estate’s caretaker, had spent decades as a secretary in the cutthroat world of Capital politics. She knew these streets better than anyone.
I went down to the first floor and gave the guardroom door a cautious knock. No answer.
”Hello?” I called out.
I knocked again, thinking maybe her hearing was going. “Uribayashi-san, are you in there?”
Silence. Again. I knew she was in there. She was playing her favorite game: pretending I didn’t exist.
My frustration began to boil over. I was the one paying her salary, after all. Was this just the way of the Imperial Capital – to treat a male without a title like a piece of furniture?
”Are you really out? I thought for sure you’d be here after breakfast,” I said to the door.
She had served me breakfast herself. It hadn’t even been thirty minutes. Then, a flicker of worry crossed my mind. She was getting up there in years.
I knocked a few more times. Finally, a response came – not quite a sigh, but something close to it – and I was beckoned inside.
Uribayashi-san was dressed in a sharp, form-fitting tunic dress of deep forest green.
”Do sit down,” she said.
I took the seat she offered – a weathered wooden chair with a high back. With hands wrinkled and stained with ink, she draped a soft woolen throw over my knees.
The tension in my spine began to ebb. I sat there and poured out the frustrations of the last few days. I felt like a beaten dog. I figured this was the tax I had to pay for dodging the responsibilities of a male-dominated society for so long.
She stood tall, meeting my eyes with a bluntness that cut through my self-pity.
”The reason you are being treated like an interloper, Your Lordship, is because you are utterly ignorant of Social Etiquette Ceremony³.”
”Social Etiquette Ceremony?” I repeated.
”I was on my best behavior,” I argued. “There were men in those shops being absolute terrors, screaming at the staff and acting like tyrants.”
I wasn’t exaggerating. I’d seen it. I’d been nothing but polite.
”And were those men asked to leave?” she asked calmly.
”Well, no. But I assumed it was because they were high-ranking. I figured their status gave them a pass to be assholes.”
”A common misconception,” Uribayashi-san replied. “In the Imperial Capital, nothing is held in higher regard than the Social Etiquette Ceremony. If one masters the ritual, even a stranger of the lowest birth can walk into the finest establishment and receive the hospitality they are owed.”
”So it’s not about status or clothes? It’s just because I didn’t know the ‘ritual’?” I asked.
I searched my memory, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong.
Uribayashi-san began to speak, her words measured, like she was carefully untangling a knotted silk thread.
”First, Your Lordship must understand the gulf between etiquette manners and Social Etiquette Ceremony. Until you grasp that distinction, we are simply wasting our breath.”
Her voice was raspy with age, but there was no malice in it – only a weary sort of concern.
”I don’t get it,” I admitted.
”When you came to this room just now, I intentionally ignored your calls. Do you know why?” she asked.
”Yeah. It sucked. It made me feel like crap.”
I didn’t hide my emotions. A look of profound distaste crossed her face, as if she were forced to swallow something bitter.
”It gives me no pleasure to cause you distress, believe me,” she said. “But to overlook a flaw is not an act of kindness. Allow this old woman to explain herself.”
I nodded, watching her. It was strange. She had chosen to ignore me. She admitted it. And yet, she seemed genuinely pained by it. My anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden pang of sympathy for her.
”I did not answer you because the way you announced your presence did not conform to the ceremony required when addressing a subordinate,” Uribayashi-san explained.
”Oh. Thank God. I thought you just hated me.”
”Perish the thought. Do not make me out to be a monster,” she said.
”So… what was I supposed to do?” I asked.
”When visiting a person of a caretaker’s station, knocking on the door is a grave error. The formal method is to announce oneself by scratching at the wood.”
A dry, rasping sound against the grain. Apparently, that was the correct answer.
”So that’s the rule? I’ve never heard of that…” I muttered.
”Your lamentations are quite pitiful, my Lord, but this is no fault of mine. It is simply the regulation,” Uribayashi replied.
She began her explanation.
Knocking, in the Western tradition, is a relatively modern habit. According to her, the “good old days” of the nobility dictated a more subtle approach: alerting the household with the graceful sound of one’s nails against the door. The logic was that I hadn’t deigned to travel there to deliver a message myself. Instead, the caretaker was meant to intuitively sense their master’s arrival and rush to the door as if by instinct.
Regardless of the merits of this ritual, it worked; I was welcomed into the room. Whether this was a quirk of this world or if the upper classes of my previous life had been just as eccentric, I didn’t know. In the Imperial Capital, however, it was considered common sense.
I decided to be blunt.
”To be honest, it was the same with my lessons at school. The ‘common sense’ I learned is different from everyone else’s,” I said.
My head was a jumble of half-remembered facts and modern assumptions.
”I’ve got a lot of things backward. I really thought you were supposed to knock on the doors of Western-style houses. I thought the number of knocks even changed the meaning.”
”The poor quality of your education is not Your Lordship’s responsibility,” Uribayashi said after a pause. “However, do you truly believe using that as an excuse will serve you? Pray, cease this unsightly display.”
Two, three, or four knocks… each apparently meant something else. Or so I’d heard.
”Ah, no, that’s not it… forget it. Let’s talk about the reincarnation instead. It’ll be faster.”
I revealed the truth of my previous life to Uribayashi. It made explaining my mindset easier, and at that moment, it felt like the only way to be sincere. Besides, I had no intention of getting tangled in life-or-death stakes anymore. And a caretaker, of course, is sworn to secrecy.
The effect of this confession was dramatic. Reincarnation is a tall tale by any metric, but when a man confesses with such raw honesty, it strikes a chord.
She stumbled, leaning her weight against the bed. The shock of having her common sense shattered left her unable to even remain upright. It was a bizarre collision—her world of dungeons and mysteries suddenly invaded by a bedtime story from a completely different reality.
Women generally have a way of believing whatever a man tells them. It isn’t that they lose their reason; rather, it’s an expression of a certain sincerity—a willingness to listen on the premise that the speaker is being truthful. It’s like a mother listening to a toddler insist their dream was real. They whisper bedside spells for sweet dreams or place a board at the foot of the bed to keep the nightmare monsters away.
They engage with it as a reality.
”It’s the truth. I don’t dislike women. In fact, I’m quite fond of them. I just… I came from a place like that.”
As proof, I took Uribayashi’s hand—a hand mapped with the deep wrinkles of a lifetime of labor. I’ve always liked hands that show the weight of a person’s history. I tried to support her, sensing her internal turmoil, but halfway through, she sharply brushed my hand aside.
Taking it all in, Uribayashi didn’t affirm or deny the story. She simply… withered.
We both needed a moment to breathe.
When I returned to the room two hours later, Uribayashi’s sense of duty had pulled her back. She had completely regained her strict, professional mask.
We sat across from each other once more.
”In Japan, we lost the war and the class system vanished. Even people of noble lineage were arrested when the law demanded it. There were no lords, no samurai, no Peerage. And I was just middle-class—a typical townsperson. So, all this talk of ‘superiors’ and ‘inferiors’ just doesn’t click for me.”
”Then do you truly believe the arrogant behavior of the high-born is merely insolence rooted in status?” she asked. “That is a superficial misunderstanding typical of the common folk.”
”Wait—do you actually believe me?”
”Are you telling a lie?”
”No.”
”Then why would I doubt you? Though stones may float and dry leaves sink, my ears were given to me so that I might truly hear what others have to say.”
Uribayashi did not grow suspicious. No matter how absurd the claim, she met it with that uniquely feminine sincerity.
Sensing my frustration, she attempted to untangle my confusion regarding the “Social Protocol” from the ground up. Over a pot of warm tea, she took her time explaining exactly why I had been turned away at the door.
There is a sharp distinction between Manners and Protocol.
I had already learned the former: Manners. These are the behaviors befitting a noble—movements full of beauty and consideration that remain constant regardless of who you are facing. If I host a tea ceremony, I treat a beggar with the same grace as a mayor. It is a personal code—like maintaining perfect table manners even if the restaurant is a dive and the food is swill.
The latter, however, is Protocol.
This is entirely dependent on the status of those involved. Its purpose is to define the hierarchy between two parties and preserve the class order of a feudal society. For example: when a person of high rank passes, the rule is to kneel and avert your eyes. You don’t bow for an equal, and if the other person is your subordinate, you make them bow to you. This isn’t about the “beauty” of the gesture; it’s about the Protocol. The grace of the movement is secondary to the absolute priority of showing—or demanding—respect.
In the Imperial Capital, a mistake in this social hierarchy is a fatal wound. Because so many different regional customs collide here, people don’t have time to worry about the fine details of your manners. Instead, they look for the Protocol that signals where you stand in the pecking order. If the hierarchy is left ambiguous, the result is endless strife. There have been cases where a slight between two women escalated into a full-scale war between their respective towns.
This was exactly where I was failing. I was replying to women when it wasn’t required; I was wearing the same colors as VIPs; I had no idea when to bow or when to make others bow to me. I knew the how, but I didn’t know the when. In short, I had no sense of time, place, or occasion.
If you can’t switch your persona to match the scene, you’re bound to cross a line eventually. That was Uribayashi’s real fear.
”…Though, I suppose Your Lordship isn’t the only one,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Every noble who arrives from the countryside must endure the ‘Baptism of the Capital.’ Everyone struggles with the difference between their hometown ways and the expectations of the city.”
She seemed to be remembering students from years gone by.
”I guess it was a shock,” I admitted. “I didn’t think that even as a man, I’d be treated so coldly just for walking into a high-end shop.”
”And so you should be. No matter how much courtesy you think you are showing, if it does not conform to the Protocol, it is wasted effort. You must carry the pride of a noble and give the world exactly what is demanded of you.”
”So… learn the Capital’s rules and fall in line. Is that it?”
”You must open the door with the correct behavior. Social Protocol is the only key that fits the lock of high society.”
Those luxury shops were serving as a trial by fire.
It was a form of education for young men—a way to see who had the patience to follow the rules of the world and who didn’t. The more a man submitted to tradition, the more he was introduced to even more exclusive circles, eventually finding his way to the very heart of the nation’s power. It was a system designed by women to scout for promising, reliable young men. To be welcomed into the upper echelons, one had to either be naturally submissive or patient enough to fake it.
I needed that failure. Exactly as Uribayashi had planned, I had been humiliated at the shop, and now the desire to actually learn these traditions had finally taken root.
She really did have a streak of the sadist in her—watching me get rejected like a failed pick-up artist at a checkpoint just to prove a point.
”I’m not even that interested in high society, honestly. But I got kicked out of everywhere.”
”Everywhere…?” she asked. “Yeah. I hit up about ten different luxury shops. Got rejected at every single one.”
”You mean… you didn’t give up after the first humiliation?”
”Nope.”
Uribayashi pressed both hands to her mouth.
She began to tremble violently.
”How… how horrifying. Why would you even attempt such a thing? I am appalled! Why did you not come to me for help sooner?! To endure such cruelty…!”
”Whoa, hey! What’s wrong?!”
”Oh… woe upon this heartless city…!”
With a dramatic gasp, she collapsed into her chair and fainted dead away.
I lunged forward to catch her.
I carried her over to the bed in the corner of the room. Her body was as light and brittle as a withered branch. Without her stern resolve to hold her upright, she looked like nothing more than a fragile old woman.
I was stunned. Talk about an overreaction.
After a while, just as I was debating whether or not to call for a doctor, Uribayashi finally blinked her eyes open.
Her face was still a mask of exhaustion.
”I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would shock you that much.”
”If you give me one more surprise like that, you will be the death of this poor old soul,” she said. “You could search every dark alley of this vast Capital for such a tragedy… no, you could ask every single rat in the city, and I doubt even they would know of such an ordeal.”
”Is it really that bad?”
”You truly have no idea how far outside the bounds of common sense you have wandered. It seems I was mistaken to treat Your Lordship as a ‘normal’ noble after all.”
Uribayashi buried her face in her hands, defeated.
Uribayashi’s face was a mask of pure agony, yet she forced her lips to move, desperate to bridge the gap between my ignorance and the world”s expectations.
”In all my twenty-odd years of attending to the nobility,” Uribayashi wheezed, “I have never once encountered a soul with such a… terrifyingly reckless streak.”
”I mean, yeah, I started getting desperate toward the end,” I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. “I honestly thought I was just having a run of bad luck with the shops I picked. I even tried going back to one place that had already kicked me out twice.”
”Your Lordship is a perverse spirit,” Uribayashi whispered, her voice trembling. “Please… I beg of you, do not tell me another word of these horrifying tales.”
She effectively put a gag order on me after that. I was silenced.
Apparently, I was a bit of an anomaly. Most boys, when faced with the sting of a single rejection, are consumed by a c**ktail of rage and sorrow. They vent, they scream, and they demand satisfaction. It is only then-once their pride is sufficiently bruised-that they are finally ready to endure the grueling education required to survive the customs of the Imperial Capital ⁴. That was her method: let the heart break first, so the lessons can take root in the cracks. It was a cruel way to teach, especially for someone as devoted as her, but she believed it was the only way the truth would truly sink in.
Looking at her now, I could see the regret tearing her apart. The image of me being chased out of shop after shop, unwanted and unlearned, had left her frantic and physically depleted. She was speaking through sheer grit, her words beginning to slur as her stamina failed.
I didn”t give her a choice; I told her she was resting for the day. I considered playing nurse, but I realized what she actually needed was space-time to sit in the quiet and try to wrap her head around the “non-common sense” entity that was me.
* * *
The following morning, the lecture began: Social Etiquette and the Rites of the Peerage ⁵.
I had a goal. I needed medical supplies, and if my lack of “grace” was the reason I couldn”t even step foot in a museum or a library, then I”d just have to learn the bare minimum. I had no interest in being a puppet of high society, but being barred from what I wanted simply because I didn”t know which fork to use was a special kind of irritating.
But “Social Etiquette” wasn”t just about forks. It was labyrinthine, tedious, and cruelly precise.
Uribayashi was remarkably patient with me, considering I knew nothing of the Peerage systems-hell, I barely understood how this male-dominated society functioned at all.
”I”m still not quite catching the vibe,” I said, flipping through a page. “What”s the actual difference between ‘manners’ and ‘ceremonial etiquette’ (etiquette)?”
”Let us look at a practical example,” Uribayashi said, pulling a heavy, intimidating tome from the shelf. It was the Rites of the Peerage-a textbook designed to beat “nobility” into the heads of young men. She flipped to a section on formal Western dining and posed a question.
”Your Lordship has accepted an invitation to a Western banquet. You are seated, you dine, and you engage in conversation. Within these scenes, can you distinguish which actions are mere manners and which are matters of ceremony?” Uribayashi asked.
She showed me the page. It was covered in dozens of sketches: a gentleman sitting, a gentleman sipping soup, a gentleman holding a wine glass and a folding fan. Every second of a social gathering had been dissected into a single, silent frame.
”I think I get it,” I muttered. “Isn’t it all just… manners? You put the VIP in the seat of honor, napkins go on the lap, you scoop your soup from the front of the bowl to the back… all of that’s just manners, right?”
”Unfortunately, that interpretation is incorrect,” Uribayashi replied.
Etiquette isn’t just a collection of random rules. Unlike manners, which are about sensibilities, etiquette is born from rights.
Take the banquet example:
[Manners] are the “how.” You wait for the attendant to pull your chair. You adjust your seat only once. You don”t slurp. You don”t chew with your mouth open. If you”re full, you don”t say it; you cross your silverware on the plate. These are rules of aesthetic and refinement. They make you look like a person of authority.
[Etiquette], however, is the “who” and the “when.” It is the order of the universe. The person with the highest authority has the right to the head of the table. The next most important person has the right to sit beside them. The highest-ranking person is the only one with the right to touch their food first. They choose which wine glass to pick up, and everyone else simply mirrors them by default.
Manners are built on grace; Etiquette is built on power.
In the West, if you have bad manners, people will simply look down on you. But if you break etiquette-if you violate the “rights” of the room-they will be incandescent with rage. You haven’t just been rude; you’ve committed an act of social trespass. You’ve challenged their status.
”Huh,” I said. It was finally starting to click. I’d been lumping them all together, but etiquette was basically just a shifting map of who held the power in any given room.
”In the Imperial Capital, we operate on the concept of privilege,” Uribayashi warned. “These are either born, granted by title, or bought with coin. But the very first thing you must master is the Right to be Seated ⁶.”
She leaned in, her voice dropping an octave. “The primary right belongs to the highest-ranking man and his wife. Then come the married noblemen. Unmarried men are last. And women? Women have no right to be seated at all.”
The “Right to be Seated.” A literal priority list for chairs. And because of my birth, I’d been holding a golden ticket without even knowing it.
Imagine one of those Western mansions from the illustrations-all mahogany and velvet. When the noble families gather to chat, the seating order is a battlefield. In any public setting, the privileged take the best spots. The master of the house first, then his wife, then the other madams, down to the unmarried young ladies. But in the most formal circles, the women stay standing. Men first. Always.
Let’s use a real-world example to make it clear. Think back to Taichi Shigeo, the master of those strangely poetic, weak-as-water aberrations-the jellyfish and the rabbits. If we were all invited to Taichi’s estate-me, Ichimatsu, and the Town Mayor of Kujukuri-the order would be absolute:
1. Master Taichi (The Host)
2. Taichi’s Wife (The Hostess)
3. Ichimatsu (The Married Male)
4. Me (The Unmarried Male)
5. The Town Mayor stays standing. Along with every other woman in the room.
That’s the reality of it. It doesn’t matter if you sit with the grace of a god if you don’t have the right to be in the chair.
”High-end establishments will often test visitors on this very principle to confirm their standing,” Uribayashi continued.
”I don’t remember being tested,” I countered.
”There are three types of chairs: the simple bench, the chair with a back, and the armchair. Just as your clothes change with your rank, so does your seat. A young noble is often only permitted the bench. When you were guided to the waiting area of those shops, which chair did you choose?”
”The one that looked the most comfortable,” I said.
”Then Your Lordship almost certainly sat in the wrong chair,” Uribayashi sighed.
And just like that, I was marked as an interloper. An animal who didn’t respect the “rights” of the establishment.
”So there’s a specific chair for every rank? That’s insane,” I muttered. “What happens if everyone gets tired of standing?”
”If a meeting is prolonged, it is considered acceptable for those without precedence to sit, though it is technically a ceremonial error,” Uribayashi explained.
Interestingly, the Rites of the Peerage actually allow for nobles to lounge on long couches and chat for hours while lying down. It looks terrible from a “manners” perspective, but in terms of etiquette, it doesn’t matter if you look unsightly. As long as you are in the chair you have the right to occupy, you could sit there stark naked and upside down and technically be within the rules.
”Speaking of lying down,” Uribayashi added, “there is a famous anecdote regarding the royal courts. Only a spouse has the privilege to lie upon the bed of a married wife. No exceptions. Not even for the closest of kin. And that brings me to…”
She began a story about two boys, a tale where these cold, rigid rules of etiquette suddenly felt very, very personal.
Once, while two boys were playing in a bedroom, the visiting boy was suddenly overcome by a fit of dizziness. The master of the room hurriedly called for a chaise longue to be brought in so his friend could lie down. He pointedly did not offer his own bed. Even between members of the same s*x, there were lines that simply could not be crossed; the bed was a sanctuary reserved for the master alone.
Through this one gesture, the ailing boy realized his host had secretly wed. It goes without saying that the rest of their afternoon was spent less on recovery and more on a relentless interrogation of the host’s private life. It was a perfect example of how a nobleman’s status is telegraphed through his every move. In this case, the wife’s sanctity was preserved by the husband’s adherence to his exclusive rights.
In the social circles of the Imperial Capital, the sum of these privilege-based rituals is known as the Protocol of the Peerage⁷. From the way one dines and dresses to the very rhythm of one’s stride, every action is governed by ceremony.
”Based on your status, you may wear this to the gala,” Uribayashi-san explained, pointing to the wardrobe. “But you must never wear that. You are permitted to sit in that chair. That one is forbidden. When passing a superior in the hallway, you must yield the path. Conversely, you must demand that person yield to you. Judge them by their clothes. Your clothes are the map of your rank; you have no excuse for error.”
I felt my stomach churn as I listened. “So,” I muttered, “any man who can’t master this is doomed to be a mere tourist, splashing in the shallows of the Capital. No entry to the proper shops, no seat at the table, and no hope of climbing the social ladder. I think I’m going to be sick.”
These rules were as numerous as the withered leaves of an autumn forest. There was no way I could memorize them all.
Uribayashi-san ignored my plight, spreading her textbooks wide to lecture me on the nature of ‘Privilege.’ My head was already throbbing, but I gritted my teeth and pushed on. In the Imperial Capital, ‘Privilege’ is a sprawling concept. It dictates everything from the right to purchase luxury goods and access restricted districts to the very career paths open to you.
The peerage, of course, holds the lion’s share. The right to dress with flamboyant excess. The right to ascend to the inner sanctum of the Palace. The right to force others to give way. A Duke can practically saunter through the Imperial Palace while the world kneels at his feet. Then there are the individual privileges, each backed by a formal parchment issued by the Imperial Household. Many are so bizarre they seem designed solely to stoke the fires of vanity.
[The Right of the Nameplate:] The exclusive right to display one’s name in bold letters at the entrance of a building. Apparently, it provides a certain breed of ego with immense satisfaction.
[The Right of the Rickshaw:] Official posts are essentially a form of privilege, frequently bought and sold. This was the right Biwa held-the one she’d intended to sell to settle her mounting debts.
[The Right of the Imperial Nap:] The privilege to be present for the ritual of His Majesty’s post-lunch slumber. You get to stand in the room and watch the Sovereign doze off. Why? Honestly, I have no idea.
[The Right of the Imperial Table:] The privilege of being a spectator at a royal meal. You stand in the corner of the room, forbidden from eating or speaking. Truly, the mind boggles.
[The Right of the Rapeseed Oil:] The ‘honor’ of personally replenishing the oil in the lamps throughout the Palace. It’s a glorified chore. It’s essentially being a maid with a fancy title. Seriously, what is this?
What this actually means is that these tasks offer a chance to catch a word with the Great and Powerful through their attendants. From simple bragging rights to spying on the direction of national policy-or, if luck favors you, whispering a request into the right ear-these privileges are traded for astronomical sums.
”I don’t want it!” I cried, staring at the list. “Who in their right mind wants the ‘Privilege’ of cleaning His Majesty’s used tissues and spittoons?!”
Some people, it seemed, would cling to any scrap of authority, no matter how foul.
Why was such useless minutiae subdivided and sold off? Purely for the sake of ‘Privilege Consciousness.’ No matter how trivial the act, receiving an Imperial Grant is considered a supreme honor. For the Crown, it is a magic wand-a way to inspire fierce loyalty without spending a single cent.
If I could sell the ‘Privilege’ of touring my bedroom or the ‘Right’ to change my bedsheets, the townspeople would probably trade their life savings for it. My cost? Zero. And the buyer would spend the rest of their life thanking me for the opportunity. It is the ultimate trump card.
This is how the clockwork of the Capital’s high society turns. The branding of the Great Houses and the sale of these privileges is the unique power of the Imperial Family-a brilliant method for building a fan club that ensures the survival of the nobility. His Majesty is the perfect, ultimate ancient idol.
Everything exists for a reason. The Protocol of the Peerage is nothing more than a strategy to ignite the ‘collector’s soul’ within the masses, turning the burden of authority into a prize to be won. Collect them all and brag to your friends!
There were eight hundred more of these things. I was officially done with this world.
”Uribayashi-san,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ve decided. I want to be a commoner.”
Her face flushed a deep, indignant crimson.
”It seems you still fail to grasp the weight of a nobleman’s pride,” she snapped. “We shall begin again. From the very beginning.”
The lesson was extended indefinitely. My memory is unnervingly sharp; I could learn it all if I had to. But I felt a profound reluctance to occupy my brain’s precious capacity with this nonsense.
”Uribayashi-san, is this really necessary?” I asked. “I’m getting a sudden urge to use the Peerage Protocol as kindling.”
”You will address me as Uribayashi,” she corrected. “And you will maintain the proper distance required for one of your station.”
”Fine, Uribayashi. This is mind-numbing.”
In this city, even my politeness was a commodity to be bartered among the titled elite.
”I know I’m a bit ‘different,’” I sighed, “but surely some of this is objectively pointless. Look at this: ‘When passing a Count or higher, one must fold their fan, press both hands to their thighs, and offer a charming, radiant smile.’ What am I, a Victorian debutante?”
The complaints leaked out of me, born of pure exhaustion. Lese-majesty be damned, I wanted to hurl the rulebook into the nearest bin.
”We endure these constraints,” Uribayashi said, her voice softening just a fraction, “because the very act of enduring is a mark of respect.”
”What does that even mean?” I asked.
”It means: ‘If it is necessary for you, I will endure this. Even if the ceremony is useless, I accept it for your sake.’ That is the message you send.”
So, even they knew it was a pain.
Uribayashi continued to beat back my whining like a mother dealing with a child who hated his homework, patiently drilling me on the Peerage Protocol. We practiced bowing, sitting, kneeling, and the correct way to receive a kiss on the back of the hand. She was determined to strike while the iron was hot.
No matter how much I withered, her passion for my ‘education’ never flickered. If anything, it was contagious-or perhaps just inescapable.
”You will rarely find that following the Protocol brings you a direct profit,” she chided, her voice sharp. “But I assure you, the opportunities to ruin your life by ignoring it are a hundredfold.”
If I weren’t a man, I suspect a whip would have been involved.
”Now, will you learn to walk the Capital with the dignity of your peers? Or do you prefer to be the clown whose ignorance provides them with their evening’s entertainment? If you do not apply yourself, this will take months. I, for one, have all the time in the world.”
”Grrgh…” I groaned.
Her gaze was steel. She was a different breed than the tutors I was used to. She was a veteran of the social wars, a soldier who had disciplined herself against decades of heartless remarks and the toxic whims of powerful men.
”It’s a far cry from the ‘unfiltered’ lessons I’m used to,” I muttered. “Though I suppose if I tried those with an old lady in white gloves…”
That was a dark path I didn’t want to go down. Not my style.
”What are you muttering about?” she asked. “Focus!”
”Nothing! I’m focusing!”
I thought of those young men I’d seen earlier-dining in luxury at the tea houses while I was stuck outside-and I felt a spark of genuine motivation. I might as well learn the rules, if only to stop the lectures.
And so, my mornings in the Imperial Capital were surrendered to the dizzying, soul-crushing fog of the Protocol of the Peerage.
—
Summary:
The protagonist attempts to visit high-end shops in the Imperial Capital to buy medical supplies but is repeatedly rejected despite his perfect appearance. Defeated, he seeks answers from the caretaker, Uribayashi Kiku. She reveals that his failure stems from ignorance of the ‘Social Etiquette Ceremony’ rather than low status.
Following his repeated rejections from shops, the protagonist learns that his failures were due to a fundamental misunderstanding of Imperial Capital society. Uribayashi begins teaching him the ‘Rites of the Peerage,’ distinguishing between the aesthetics of manners and the power-based logic of etiquette. The chapter concludes with the revelation that status dictates even the specific type of chair one is permitted to use.
The protagonist undergoes intense etiquette training under Uribayashi. They learn about the ‘Protocol of the Peerage’ and the bizarre, subdivided privileges sold by the Imperial Household to maintain social control. Despite extreme frustration and a desire to quit, the protagonist finds the motivation to continue to avoid future social humiliation.
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Trivia:
- The protagonist has been in the Capital long enough to feel ‘used’ to it.
- Maggot’s injury occurred 10 months ago; Flatty’s is recent.
- The shops are restricted to the upper class/nobility.
- Uribayashi Kiku was a secretary in high-level politics.
- The protagonist is currently the employer of Uribayashi.
- The protagonist was refused entry to a museum and library previously.
- Uribayashi’s teaching method involves letting the student ‘fail’ first so they are more receptive to learning.
- Etiquette is defined here specifically as ‘rights’ rather than ‘sensibilities.’
- Unmarried noble males are ranked lower in seating priority than married noble males.
- Women in this setting, regardless of status, technically have no ‘right’ to be seated in formal settings.
- The reason the host didn’t use the bed: to protect his wife’s exclusive rights.
- Privileges aren’t just for status; they are practical ‘cards’ for political and career advancement.
- The Imperial Household uses zero-cost ‘honor’ to control the wealthy elite.
- Biwa’s rickshaw right was a sellable asset intended for debt relief.
- Uribayashi’s background as a ‘veteran’ of social battles with men
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Character Insight:
The protagonist struggles with the discrepancy between his high physical beauty and his lack of social standing/knowledge in the Capital. Uribayashi Kiku shows a strict but caring mentor-like side, willing to use ‘tough love’ (ignoring him) to teach vital social survival skills.
The protagonist shows a practical, albeit begrudging, willingness to learn social rules to achieve his own goals (medical supplies). Uribayashi reveals her own emotional burden; her role isn’t just to teach, but to suffer alongside the failures of her charge.
The protagonist shows a mix of modern cynicism and high adaptability, while Uribayashi is revealed as a strict but principled gatekeeper who views etiquette as a shield against disrespect.
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Behind the Scenes:
The ‘Social Etiquette Ceremony’ functions as a localized social power system, implying that in this world, behavior and ritual are as important as actual rank.
The setting uses ‘Taisho Roman’ aesthetics, a real historical Japanese era characterized by a blend of Western architecture/clothing and traditional Japanese social structures.
The ‘Imperial Capital’ setting draws heavy inspiration from Japan’s Meiji and Taisho eras, where the Peerage (Kazoku) system merged traditional nobility with new meritocratic titles.
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TL Notes:
Notes:
• Uribayashi – High-end noble caretaker with decades of common sense and a sharp tongue.
• Ichimatsu – A high-ranking figure associated with the Imperial Guard, mentioned as having spineless guards around him, with no further details provided.
• 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.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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