“Good morning, Your Majesty.”
A deep baritone voice reaches me. It’s my chamberlain.
Until recently, this extremely dignified middle-aged man used to wake me right beside my bed, but that was honestly too much to handle, so lately I’ve been making an effort to wake up on my own.
It’s been about two months since I arrived in this strange other world.
Eight in the morning.
Prompted by my attendant, I head across my bedroom—which is easily the size of a school classroom—to the grooming area tucked away in one corner.
Shave, brush my teeth, get dressed.
No, that’s not quite accurate.
I brush my teeth. Myself.
As for the clothes, they’re something like a suit with all kinds of decorations attached. Apparently, the scarf around the chest is especially important. My chamberlain—a man in his mid-forties—carefully arranges it for me. Evidently, it matters that the embroidered crest looks impressive.
There aren’t any maids around me or anything like that.
I mean, there are maids in the palace, but everyone assigned to me is male.
Between you and me, when I first landed in this situation, I did have certain expectations. That’s just how men are.
But now I’m glad I’ve got middle-aged men instead.
Having women around would be exhausting.
You know how, once you become company president, you get someone like a secretary who handles things around you?
When I first inherited the company, I was delighted.
So this is the famous beautiful secretary you always see in TV dramas.
The problem is, they’re kind to you at first, but then you can gradually feel their attitude cooling as they realize just how useless you are.
She probably complained about me at drinking parties.
While carefully avoiding the whole “everyone envies me because I work for the president” position, she probably slipped in a little subtle bragging along the way too.
Exhausting.
That’s why middle-aged men are soothing.
Once I’m properly dressed, I head to breakfast.
The endlessly long corridor is lined with nobles.
“Your Majesty, how are you feeling this morning?”
“Your Majesty, we would be honored if you would grace our residence with a visit.”
“Your Majesty, once again today, the sight of your noble countenance—”
And so on.
Half greetings, half petitions.
After somehow dealing with all of them, I finally make it to breakfast.
The room is called the Small Dining Hall, but there is absolutely nothing small about it.
There’s an absurdly huge table in the middle, like something I once saw on television during a summit between Western heads of state.
I sit there alone at the seat of honor.
A select group of elite nobles, chosen from the vast crowd in the corridor, sit with me at the far, far end of the table.
We do not speak.
I’ll talk about the menu another time.
The sheer amount of food is rough, but I make sure to finish everything.
Because if I don’t, things happen.
Once breakfast is over, it’s time for the main event of the day.
Usually around eleven.
The royal council begins.
There’s a foreign affairs day, a domestic affairs day, a finance day, a religion day, and so on.
Each day has its own theme.
Actually, these meetings are pretty interesting.
Educational, too.
They teach me about the current state of the Kingdom of Santeneri, where I reign as king, and about developments across the whole Central Continent.
Oh, so that’s how things work.
I’m constantly impressed.
Do I come up with ideas using my knowledge from modern Japan?
No.
None of it is useful.
Where exactly am I supposed to apply my skill of “searching random things online and cold-calling every result to sell Google ads” to running a country?
Maybe the ability to never give up?
Incidentally, of all these themed royal councils, finance day is definitely the hardest.
Because the Kingdom of Santeneri is deep in the red.
You’re probably thinking it’s because we fought too many wars.
But the thing is, every one of those wars was pretty much unavoidable.
Tax the nobles?
We do.
It just doesn’t necessarily look like taxation because it takes other forms.
And yet we’re still deep in the red.
And here’s the worst part.
I, the King of Santeneri, am personally liable for the debt.
When most small and medium-sized companies in Japan borrow money from a bank, the company president has to sign as a personal guarantor.
Our company had the same arrangement back in my father’s time.
By the time I became the third-generation president, the company had apparently grown large enough to get rid of it, so I never had to experience that myself.
I thought I’d managed to escape it back in Japan.
Then fate threw me into another world so I could experience it for the first time.
In Japan, even if the company collapses, you can just declare personal bankruptcy.
Here in Santeneri...
I’ll probably get hanged.
◆
There is no lunch.
We’re in meetings.
At around two in the afternoon, I finally get a short break.
I drink tea—and eat from a towering mountain of sweets—in a small room that looks about the size of the lobby of an international luxury hotel.
Oh, and “break” is only what we call it officially.
Every world has its polite fictions.
Today, my companion is Lady Braune en Froisbourg, daughter of the Marquis of Froisbourg.
Long ago, the royal family directly enfeoffed the Froisbourg family as military lords at the foot of the Central Mountains, which rise right in the middle of Santeneri.
In corporate terms, they’re veteran employees.
Apparently, the eldest daughter of every generation in the Froisbourg family is traditionally named Braune.
Braune herself told me that.
The family has existed for more than eight hundred years, so I wonder which Braune she is by now.
Lady Braune has beautiful red hair gathered into a thick braid that falls over her chest, a hairstyle that, by modern Japanese standards, gives her an exceptionally maternal air.
She also has blue eyes, which are relatively uncommon in Santeneri.
And a very... feminine figure.
Well, that’s just how men are.
Of course my eyes wander.
Can’t be helped.
Braune reminds me a little of Misawa, my old secretary. Twenty-five years old.
You mustn’t be fooled by the soft, gentle impression her appearance gives you.
How should I put it?
She’s earnest. Proper. Crisp.
Not exactly tomboyish or anything like that.
Do you know the kind of person I mean?
That overwhelming sense that she has her act together.
“Your Majesty, there is a stain on your large cloth.”
The scarf around my neck is, by any reasonable definition, not large at all.
Apparently, in the old days nobles wore a broad piece of cloth—a large stole—around their necks and shoulders, and over time it kept shrinking and shrinking until it became what it is today.
The scarf is embroidered with the crest of a snake impaled on a spear.
I’m not particularly fond of reptiles, so I’m not thrilled about it.
If we were going to have a crest, I would have preferred a lion or something.
Braune quietly sits beside me and gently brushes off this so-called large cloth, the karul.
Looks like some crumbs from the sweets.
This sort of thing must not be misunderstood either.
Braune is simply a proper person.
She can’t tolerate dirt.
Misawa used to clean my desk all the time too.
Of course it’s impossible not to become fond of someone like that.
But later, another woman from the secretarial department, Sasaki—twenty-six—told her superior, Yoshinaga, the forty-eight-year-old general affairs director, about something that had come up during a secretarial department drinking party.
Apparently:
“Misawa seems to be getting stressed because of the president.”
Then Yoshinaga told me:
“Sasaki reported that Misawa dislikes dealing with you, but those two don’t get along, so I doubt it’s anything too serious.”
Do you understand?
That indescribable aftertaste.
Therefore, even if Lady Braune fixes my scarf with those slender hands of hers, the probability that she’s doing it out of affection is low.
It’ll come later.
Probably.
This is how it’ll go.
Braune jokes to her maid:
“Taking care of His Majesty is seriously impossible.”
The maid tells Braune’s mother, the marchioness.
At one of the salons she hosts, the marchioness puts on a troubled expression and tells the other ladies about it while subtly giving off the impression that her daughter is especially favored by the king.
The other ladies ignore that second part while passing the first part along to their own daughters:
“Apparently Lady Braune said it was ‘impossible.’”
And eventually, one of those daughters tells me at a tea party:
“It seems Lady Braune is finding her duties somewhat... burdensome.”
So what do you do about that?
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Thank you for always supporting me. Truly, Lady Braune, you always put me at ease. Compared with you, I fear my own words can be terribly childish... I must do better.”
Point one: Show that you notice even small acts of devotion.
Point two: Clearly express gratitude.
Point three: Praise the other person’s strengths.
Point four: Admit your own shortcomings and show a desire to improve.
Point five: Look a little dejected.
That’s it.
“There is no need to say such a thing. Braune merely fulfilled her duty.”
Her words are curt, but Braune looks pleased.
Anyone is happy when their strengths are praised.
It feels good to know that someone sees you.
I learned that firsthand.
And I also learned firsthand how painful it is when no one does.
“Your Majesty is the one who rules all of Santeneri. The burdens upon you cannot possibly be light. Please do not trouble yourself over a few crumbs. From now on as well, this Braune herself shall attend to you.”
If you keep at it patiently, eventually you start getting answers like that.
It took two months.
At first, she was unbelievably businesslike.
You know the attitude women have when they absolutely do not want anyone misunderstanding and thinking, There could be something between me and this guy?
That.
Now, at least, I get the feeling she considers me something like a coworker.
As proof, even after brushing the crumbs off me, Braune doesn’t go back to her own seat.
This couch is absurdly long, so it’s not like we’re cramped together.
◆
At around four, I have individual meetings with the kingdom’s important people.
The chancellor.
The comptroller.
Regional governors.
Sometimes representatives from the National Assembly.
Sometimes foreign envoys.
All kinds of people come through.
This is pretty interesting too.
You know how, when you join a company straight out of university, once training is over you start tagging along with your boss on sales visits?
It’s like that.
Most of the time, I just sit there, so I can enjoy it as though none of it has anything to do with me.
Oh, the section chief has started negotiating.
Wow, that client representative looks intimidating.
That kind of thing.
And every now and then your boss remembers you’re there and talks you up.
“He’s still a rookie, but surprisingly tenacious.”
That sort of thing.
“I understand your concerns, gentlemen. We too are vassals charged with defending the Royal House of Leroy. We regard ourselves as pillars of Santeneri. We have no intention whatsoever of indulging our own private greed.”
A slightly heavyset man in his late fifties speaks in a deep, dignified voice.
This is Simon Ene en Montbrier, Comptroller of the Kingdom of Santeneri and military count of the central-western region.
Incidentally, the naming rules here aren’t all that complicated.
Given name, attached name, noble designation, territory.
In other words, Simon of House En, lord of the region called Montbrier.
He’s a genuine noble, but in his youth he studied at a university on the Remul Peninsula, and he has spent many years working at the royal court.
Basically, a career bureaucrat.
Exhausting.
“We are well aware of that. However, we commoners also support Santeneri. It is precisely because we are conscious of that responsibility that we have devoted ourselves to our duties until our hands bled. But any more than this...”
This man looks to be in his thirties.
That age when your ability is finally catching up with your youth and you’re probably at your most energetic.
He has blond hair and looks exactly like the kind of man who is good at his job.
One of the representatives of the National Assembly.
Gaston Chantre.
He’s the eldest son of a banking family and apparently spends his time building connections with others in the same business in preparation for the day he succeeds his father.
The National Assembly?
Yes, the National Assembly.
Basically, think of something like the youth division of a chamber of commerce or an association for young business owners.
It’s a little different from a modern parliament.
They’re probably an energetic bunch.
I reluctantly attended that sort of gathering a few times myself, and young regional business owners always head straight to hostess clubs afterward.
Cars. Alcohol. Women.
And watches. Designer goods too.
Between you and me, I got a little into watches.
No, that’s a lie.
I got pretty into them.
Those things are addictive.
The members of Santeneri’s National Assembly—the Young Business Owners’ Association, basically—probably go out drinking once the meeting adjourns too.
Come to think of it, I should check out what watches are like in Santeneri.
Anyway, the issue under discussion is essentially taxation and public rights.
The basic principle is that nobles provide manpower while commoners provide money.
But in practice, our country is genuinely broke, so the commoners are saying:
The nobles need to bear some of the burden too.
And if they can’t pay, then they need to provide something of equivalent value.
That’s what this is about.
If I were a great king, this would be the point where I displayed dazzling leadership, imposed taxes on the nobles, won the commoners over to my side, and so on.
But looking at the actual situation, that would be extremely difficult.
The previous king—my father, I suppose I should call him—got enthusiastic and stuck his nose into practically every conflict on the continent.
As a result, nobles have been dying left and right.
Because their job is to charge at the enemy from the front of the army.
To make matters worse, agricultural products from the Empire—our neighboring country—have been flooding in, and our grain can’t compete on price.
Land rents aren’t rising either.
And nobles are landlords, you know?
Quite a few of them have succeeded in business too, but fundamentally, they are landlords.
The commoner side is doing reasonably well in trade.
But they have their own problems.
One word from the authorities and they risk having their entire fortunes stripped away.
One government policy can destroy a household.
The government—and its friends—doesn’t repay its debts.
If you don’t know how to navigate things properly, there are instant-death traps everywhere.
The debate itself is fairly interesting.
Count Montbrier acts overbearing on the surface while actually appealing to emotion.
Gaston outwardly bows and submits while speaking about the dignity of the commoners—which really means the business owners.
And who exactly are they appealing to?
All the relevant parties.
Which, annoyingly enough, means me.
Most of this has already been negotiated behind the scenes, hasn’t it?
This is basically that ceremonial stage before they bring the matter upstairs and say:
“This is what we’ve decided.”
It’s like when the executive in charge of finance and the executive in charge of sales start battling each other during a management meeting.
That.
I’m the guy whose job is to stamp the paperwork, so I sit there silently and listen.
◆
And now it’s night.
Evenings are surprisingly modest.
Assuming there isn’t some ball or other event.
Oh, and by “modest,” I mean by our company’s standards.
Again, I eat everything I’m served.
Because if I leave anything behind, various things happen.
Tonight is a relatively small affair.
We’ve invited the Duke of Gaillure and his family.
The Gaillure family owns an enormous domain in northwestern Santeneri.
Apparently, they used to be an independent kingdom.
In other words, a subsidiary we brought under the corporate umbrella.
The president of that subsidiary has traditionally doubled as one of our company directors.
It happened a long time ago, so by now they’ve blended in fairly well.
The duke himself is an imposing, distinguished middle-aged man.
The beard running from his cheeks to his chin is streaked with gray, and his hair is swept straight back and is also silver-white.
Gray hair?
Isn’t he a little young for that?
He’s also very well built.
Definitely not the type who plays golf.
His hobbies are probably jogging and weight training.
He seems like the kind of man who gets up early to exercise too.
We spend a while having a refined conversation about hunting, which the distinguished gentleman has apparently taken up recently.
In other words, another variation on jogging.
“How long has it been since I last had the honor of sharing Your Majesty’s table like this?”
“Would it have been just after the New Year celebrations?”
“Ah, indeed it was. By the way, Your Majesty, do you have any plans after dinner?”
Duke Xavier Ene en Gaillure gets straight to the point.
He’s the type who thinks seasonal greetings are a waste of time.
I understand.
I had to write those things a few times when I worked at the advertising agency, and without a template they were genuinely annoying.
“No. I kept tonight free for you, Xavier. We could drink until morning if you wished.”
“It would be an honor. However, might I ask that you devote that time to my daughter instead?”
Sure.
I mean, that’s the main reason you came, isn’t it?
I understand.