“Your Majesty! You came!”
Lady Zofi spotted me and called out.
Between the brightness in her voice and the big wave she gave me, she looked like a puppy wagging its short little tail as hard as it could.
This is genuinely moving, you know?
Back in modern Japan, there is absolutely no way a girl like this would ever even sit next to me on a train.
Well, I was grateful for that.
It would hurt too much to hear, “Ugh, the old guy who sat next to me this morning smelled awful.”
Her deep-blue dress fluttering around her, Lady Zofi approached at something closer to a jog than a brisk walk. The other two followed behind at a far more composed pace.
What a picture.
Ah, let me put it in terms that are easier to understand.
You know those film festivals or whatever? Where popular teenage idols and actresses in their twenties walk down the red carpet together in groups based on whichever movie they appeared in?
That.
“When Duke Gaillure invites me, naturally I must set everything else aside and attend. I could hardly let an opportunity to see Lady Zofi slip away.”
And I made sure to add a nice dry laugh at the end.
It would be disastrous if they failed to realize I was joking.
Her father was standing right beside me.
No, I understand. Given my position and the situation within the kingdom, I completely understand why he wants to pair me with his daughter.
But I can also sense that, as a father, the remark irritated him a little.
The murderous aura, you know.
“For Santeneri’s finest flowers, famed throughout the continent, to bloom so densely together—even I find myself dazzled by such delicate splendor. To think that such a supreme paradise existed within my own realm.”
I only learned how to talk like this recently.
Read it in a book.
Oh, and I have had a little alcohol too.
Wine made from grapes with carbonation added.
Champagne, basically.
Just a little.
Of course I have.
Doing this sober would be brutal.
“My, Your Majesty. Since when did you learn such flattery? It really will not do. You’ll only make the flowers conceited.”
That was Lady Braune.
Lady Braune is another trial bestowed upon me by God.
I assume this is a Santeneri custom, but the dresses worn to evening parties show rather a lot of...
Well.
Men have these karul scarves wrapped around their necks and chests, so I really think women ought to wear them too.
I genuinely have trouble knowing where to look.
And I am not even joking about this. It is actually rather frightening.
No matter how biological the issue may be, the instant the other person notices, it becomes a social issue.
That is when the Labor Standards Inspection Office gets involved.
And even if they never show up, I would still feel terrible about making someone personally uncomfortable.
Also, I really do not want to become a guaranteed topic of conversation at Secretarial Department drinking parties.
“No, no, Lady Braune. That was no flattery. A king never lies.”
I do, though.
I lie.
That is why I keep ending up apologizing to people.
“Have I interrupted your conversation?”
“Not at all! We were actually just talking about Your Majesty.”
Lady Zofi, that is precisely the kind of topic I least want to hear about.
Do not give me that look like, Would you like to know?
Lady Braune seems unexpectedly enthusiastic about this too.
I can already predict where this is going.
They cannot have been saying anything too bad.
Something like, “His Majesty’s large-cloth necktie actually has surprisingly good taste.”
Of course.
No working adult mocks their boss to his face.
When he is not there, though, that is another matter entirely.
“I am honored indeed. To think my name should grace the lips of such distinguished ladies! Still, it would be terribly tactless for a man to intrude upon the world of maidens...”
Right, Duke Gaillure?
I turned to my side to seek his agreement.
He was a short distance away talking to someone else.
Not even just someone else.
That is my Steward.
“Your Majesty, are we not to your liking?”
Lady Mary asked in a slightly low voice that matched her appearance perfectly.
Her black dress was more considerate than Lady Braune’s when it came to exposed skin, which I appreciated.
The problem was her tone.
To me, it sounded like:
“Are you dissatisfied with the price we are offering? (We have plenty of replacements.)”
Big companies really do negotiate viciously.
Those beautiful skyscrapers in Marunouchi were built from the blood and tears of small subcontractors like us.
“No, nothing of the sort. I simply thought it unfair to monopolize all of you when there are so many others here. So...”
Lady Zofi lowered her head, visibly dejected.
This is one of those situations where, if I make her cry, it is over.
They will condemn me for generations.
“Poor Lady Zofi. She was so excited to show Your Majesty that special necklace of hers.”
Lady Braune is closing in too.
“Is that so? Lady Zofi, was it the one I asked to see before?”
“Yes! This one!”
Lady Zofi, age fourteen, instantly recovered her energy and reached behind her neck, deftly undoing the clasp of her necklace.
Is that something she is supposed to take off herself?
Wouldn’t one of her maids normally handle that?
Every morning, a dignified middle-aged man ties this giant cloth necktie around me.
Lady Zofi held the bird necklace out in both hands.
I carefully reached for the chain, making sure not to touch her fingers.
Then, without warning, Lady Zofi closed both hands around mine.
Ah.
That is an arrest.
We are beyond local ordinances now.
Straight to arrest.
“Um... you might drop it!”
“Yes. It certainly would be terrible if I dropped Lady Zofi’s treasure.”
Concealing my internal panic, I glanced toward Lady Mary.
A hard-driving career woman like her would never tolerate something like this.
Surely.
Unexpectedly, despite being rather expressionless most of the time, she was smiling a little.
Just to be safe, I checked Lady Braune as well.
She too was watching us with an indulgent little smile.
No.
There is no way.
Her eyes are not smiling.
◆
You see that phrase a lot in history books, don’t you?
He indulged in drink and women.
One of the standard descriptions used for worthless kings throughout history.
Speaking as I am now, I would say this:
Do not lump alcohol and women together.
Every woman I met tonight was the daughter of one of the most powerful people in the kingdom.
They were chatting together quite amiably.
Lady Braune jokingly exposed Lady Mary’s surprisingly girlish tastes.
Lady Zofi had the wrinkles in her dress straightened by Lady Braune.
Despite their difference in age, they looked like close friends.
Perhaps even sisters.
But it was probably not that simple.
Whether male or female, people rarely display open hostility toward someone else in public.
Of course, it is different when there is a huge disparity in status or power.
A boss toward a subordinate.
A senior toward a junior.
A bully toward their victim.
Personally, I would not even call that “hostility.”
They are just getting pleasure from tormenting someone weaker than themselves.
Real hostility is heavier than that.
There is no pleasure in it.
Fighting someone should be painful the whole time.
Because conflict is exhausting no matter how you look at it.
And yet there are all sorts of reasons people deliberately force themselves through it anyway.
Envy.
Jealousy.
Conflicting convictions.
Feuds between families inherited from one’s ancestors.
The list goes on forever.
Conflict between people usually comes down to a majority vote.
Whichever side draws in more allies wins.
You might achieve spectacular results at work that put everyone else to shame, but in the end even that cannot beat sheer numbers.
There are countless concrete ways to bring people onto your side, but if you reduce them all to their essence, there is really only one.
Give the other person something they benefit from.
It can be something concrete, like money or status.
Or you can provide the reaction or words they want from you.
The former is easy to understand.
The latter is a little harder.
If you dismantle the structures behind “being liked by someone” and “liking someone,” in the end it all comes down to whether you gave them what they wanted.
Which means that if you want people to like you, you first have to figure out what they want.
And here in Santeneri, I am probably the person being probed most carefully of all.
Calling my power absolute would be overstating it somewhat, but under the current system I am still the single most powerful person in Santeneri.
In other words, I am the tastiest person to have on your side.
So everyone is constantly trying to figure me out.
I could never say this to anyone.
The only time I would ever admit it would be if someone I desperately wanted as an ally happened to want to hear my weakness.
Because I want allies too.
There is no other way for me to survive on this throne.
Both a company and a country are far too large for my tiny brain to grasp in their entirety.
If I cannot bring capable people from each field onto my side and get them to do their best, sooner or later both the company and the country will collapse.
A company might last ten years.
A country, maybe a hundred.
Though either one can suddenly get hit by some meteor-level catastrophe, and if that happens, neither may last even a year.
Being human is hard.
Unless we endlessly probe one another and endlessly build alliances, we are not even permitted to exist.
There is only one way to escape this karmic world.
Become an ornament.
Become someone insignificant.
Someone it does not matter whether people consider an ally or an enemy.
But someone they still think is worth keeping around, just in case.
Becoming insignificant is surprisingly easy.
You just say, “Handle it as you see fit,” to everything.
The maximum-difficulty part is getting them to think, Still, it is probably better to have him around.
Keep repeating “Handle it as you see fit,” and eventually someone will inevitably say, “Do we even need this guy?”
And once that happens, insignificant little me can easily be thrown out.
Physically.
Out of this world.
To avoid that, I need to become a punching bag.
When I say, “Handle it as you see fit,” and what they saw fit to do turns out badly, there needs to be someone they can point at and say:
“This is his fault.”
That is why “drink” and “women” do not belong in the same category.
“Women”—in other words, drowning oneself in women—would mean having women constantly provide me with whatever I wanted, including their bodies.
And why would they do that?
Because having me on their side would benefit them.
And why would it benefit them?
Because I was not an ornament.
Once I successfully become a useless ornament that makes no real difference whether it exists or not, there will be no advantage in winning me over.
What I am aiming for, as I said, is to become “someone who does not matter.”
An ornament that is still convenient to keep around because people can dump responsibility on it.
If some woman had to take part in that punishment game with me, I think that would be terribly unfair to her.
Alcohol, on the other hand, requires none of that consideration.
You drink.
You feel good.
And that is the end of it.
No complications afterward.
No guilt.
That is why I love alcohol.
For now, there is still a mountain of damage left behind by the old me, so I am working hard to cancel out all those negatives.
I am working hard to gain allies.
But deep down, I envy the old me.
He was reckless and ignorant of reality, but he had the courage to go out and fight anyway.
Most people like that fail in the end.
But every once in a very great while, one of them achieves spectacular success.
The possibility that the old me could have succeeded was not zero.
My face reflected on the surface of my drink.
My own face.
A face that did not feel remotely like mine.
Perhaps this “man” could have become a great ruler.
◆
I would like to offer a prayer of thanks for this body, which suffers absolutely no damage the day after a bout of heavy drinking.
Maybe it has an exceptionally strong liver.
Or maybe it is simply youth.
I was thinking about such things as I attended the regular council meeting when an entirely unexpected development suddenly dropped into my lap.
Well, unexpected to me.
In reality, my Steward and all the other competent people had apparently predicted and considered the possibility quite some time ago.
For me, it was the worst possible development.
A wild principal-queen candidate had appeared.
From the fields of the Empire, the ancient enemy of House Leroy across our enormous shared border.
My liver feels perfectly fine.
My stomach, though, seems to hurt a little.
You think getting a bride sounds wonderful?
This is not a fairy tale.
She comes bundled with a war.