Chapter 1

My life, soaked in alcohol, lies, and romance, ended with almost laughable ease.

—An alley in Kabukicho (Tokyo’s famous nightlife district).

A narrow, damp street where even the neon lights couldn’t reach. In a place reeking of garbage and cigarettes, a woman stabbed me in the back.

It was a cold stab, completely devoid of affection.

“Hey… Yuri-kun… Why wasn’t Julia good enough…?”

Her voice sounded like she was about to cry.

I’m the one who wants to cry here. But I couldn’t even shed a tear. It was nothing but painful, like blood was flooding into my lungs. I felt like I was drowning.

The clack-clack of her heels gradually faded into the neon-lit streets.

At least call an ambulance. Do something to stop the bleeding.

Was I really not even worth that much?

Fuck, she even went out of her way to pull the knife out.

Blood kept pouring out. I could feel my life spilling out of my body and onto the backstreet.

Was I going to die here?

“—Haah, why, you ask…?”

At her final question, I laughed.

My voice probably didn’t even come out properly. Even so, I couldn’t help spitting those words out.

“…You think a host would ever get serious about a customer…?”

That was my final, honest thought.

The pain felt surprisingly distant. Instead, the inside of my head started growing hazy.

As everything before my eyes darkened, all that came to mind was money, alcohol, and women.

During the day, it was shady sales pitches. At night, alcohol and romantic sales tactics. And money. Money, money, money.

Money flying around with all its restraints removed, all in a single night.

It wasn’t even sparkling. Just numbers.

Like the blinking neon lights. A flashy, fleeting illusion that would turn into a wristwatch by tomorrow.

—What a fucking joke.

Days painted over with superficial lies and fake smiles.

All of it.

It was so damn pointless.

My life, emptier than an empty glass, was ending in a place like this.

It was laughable.

No, it wasn’t fucking funny.

Would anyone cry?

Nah.

Even if a host who ranked No. 2 disappeared, everyone would forget about him in three days.

An account with no updates would get buried beneath new information, swept away until it disappeared among the garbage at the bottom.

Even my customers would find someone else to support after a little while.

In the end, I was just a mass-produced product that could easily be replaced.

Words like “I like you” and “I love you” weren’t meant for me.

They were just words people wanted to hear themselves.

Who the hell would put effort into someone who wouldn’t give those words back?

—Ah. Seriously, what a fucking shitty life.

—It’s bright.

The backs of my eyelids were strangely white and dazzling.

—It stinks.

What the hell was this? The smell of flowers?

Fresh flowers?

Whose birthday was it?

—Shut up.

What the hell was this song? Chanting? Whatever it was, it was fucking loud. I didn’t want to listen to some monk’s sermon even after I was dead.

And there were all these people sobbing.

Who the hell was crying?

This was unpleasant. It kinda felt like a funeral.

…A funeral?

Oh, right. I got stabbed by a customer and died.

Was I supposed to be conscious after death? Could I actually tell what kind of funeral they were holding while I was dead?

…Wouldn’t that mean I’d be in hell when they burned me?

Fuck no. I didn’t want to be burned alive while still conscious. What kind of punishment was that?

And who the hell was even holding this funeral for me?

I didn’t have any family, you know?

And I had no money left from my earnings. I’d just bought a ridiculously expensive wristwatch the other day.

What, was I bad with money?

Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do? I’d wanted that watch.

The club? No fucking way.

A woman? Which one?

My old man had died after ruining his body with alcohol, and my mother had left ages ago. I had no idea where she was.

She was probably getting along just fine with some new man somewhere.

I didn’t know who the hell was doing this, but if they had enough money to hold a funeral for me, they should’ve just bought me more Dom Pérignon.

They could’ve put up a champagne tower.

—Ah, fuck. Enough already.

Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP.

“—SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUUP!!”

My irritation exploded. I sat up and screamed.

This damn chanting was too fucking loud!!

Shut up! Stop crying, you idiots!

“—I’M NOT FUCKING DEAD!!”

When I opened my eyes, I saw a place that looked like a church where people held weddings, except it was much bigger and more spacious.

A bunch of monks wearing white robes.

A flashy woman with naturally red hair, dressed in black.

And a group of men wearing armor, all staring at me in stunned silence.

White flower petals were falling from above, over a scene filled with pure white light.

They were falling from my head and clothes.

The ground beneath my feet was completely covered in white flowers.

“…Huh?”

Was this… a coffin?

Had I been sleeping inside a coffin?

No, wait. Had I actually been dead?

If I was dead, why the hell could I sit up?

And why were these people staring at me?

What the hell was going on?

“…Prince Yuri?”

A ridiculously beautiful woman with red hair, dressed in something resembling mourning clothes, was looking at me with blue eyes.

“H-He is alive…! A miracle… The Holy Prince’s miracle!!”

Some ridiculously pompous-looking monk shouted.

Were funeral monks supposed to wear white robes?

And what the hell was that hat? It looked like a chef’s hat that pointed toward the heavens.

It was supposed to be plain, but somehow it was way too flashy.

And then—

“……..”

A little farther away, a ridiculously handsome man dressed like a knight was staring straight at me.

He had black hair.

He wasn’t a host, was he?

Maybe he was an actor?

What the hell was this situation?

It was like I’d been shoved into a coffin in some foreign movie’s funeral scene—

…Wait.

Was I being treated like a prop?

Had they picked me up because I’d died at just the right moment and decided to use me?

No fucking way.

“Prince Yuri!”

The beautiful woman in mourning clothes rushed toward me, tears streaming down her face.

Well, ‘Yuri’ was definitely my host name, but still.

Who the fuck were you people?

—Where the hell was I?