Chapter 418: The Host Knights of the Round Table
Merlin pushed Shirou along as they headed inside. Along the way, there were many impeccably dressed, glamorous women waving and smiling in their direction. Among them were vibrant young women in their early twenties, beauties in that attractive "in-between" stage from twenty-five to thirty, and mature, peach-like women around the age of thirty.
There were also women in their forties and fifties whose crow's feet were no longer hidden; yet, in their dress—wearing professional women's suits and adorned with gold and diamond jewelry—every movement betrayed an air of corporate powerhouse, a level above that of the younger women.
As they passed by, the women on the sofas greeted them one after another. Some called out to Merlin, others to Shirou. It seemed more people called his name; he appeared to be quite popular.
Shirou felt a sense of trepidation regarding his past. Just what was his social life like before? The number of women who were familiar with him seemed rather high.
"Eh? Is that so?" Shirou asked with a blank expression.
"It's quite common for guests at the cross-dresser bars or the SM clubs next door to drink until dawn, only to wake up lying on the road in the buff, feeling a stinging pain in their backsides. Just sleeping it off is enough. Anyway, since you were effectively 'out on assignment' all night, if you aren't going home, just go inside and get some rest. Once you're refreshed, come back out to see the clients. If a guest requests you by name, I'll come get you," Merlin said with a smile, patting Shirou on the shoulder and pushing him into the back lounge.
Shirou was shoved, dazed, into the collective lounge for the hosts. Passing through the dance floor, he seemed to spot several familiar faces: a handsome, prince-like man with bright, golden hair (though Shirou chose to ignore the man's gaze, which was fixed squarely on the chest of a voluptuous woman nearby); a purple-haired man sitting with a group of married noblewomen; a red-haired bard surrounded by a crowd of girls; and a kind-looking guy with a small braid.
Every one of them seemed like an acquaintance.
Compared to the opulent dance floor and crystal lighting outside, the lounge felt remarkably crude. In the corner stood a row of vertical lockers commonly found in school classrooms; in the center were sofas and a table, along with two two-meter-long soft leather benches—just enough for one person to lie down on, presumably for resting. On the other side was a vanity. After all, this was an era where men needed makeup and grooming even more than the goddesses did, so Shirou didn't feel anything was amiss.
However, when he saw himself in the mirror, he felt a certain sense of dissonance.
In the mirror was a young man in his early twenties. His hair was styled smoothly and cleanly, with no stray strands; in front, he wore bangs in a style that had been popular in Wako (Japan)
for decades. His skin was also much fairer. In his memories, the only time he had dressed like this was for a ball in a past life.
Yes... had he become handsome!?
To be precise, he had become stylish. Usually, he would only buy new clothes on discount days and step out wearing a coat convenient for movement, completely oblivious to trends. Yet, his current attire was more fashionable than the models in magazines. The dinner-style formal wear looked expensive, and the collar was adorned with silver chain-like jewelry. While not an exaggerated style like the shama (punk/flashy) look, his hair had a beautiful texture—smooth and elegant, clearly having been permed.
Shirou was filled with doubt. What kind of life was he living in this world?
He peered through a window by the lounge door—perhaps due to a special setting, he could clearly see the situation outside without being noticed.
On a small stage, a handsome man with long, deep-red hair and closed eyes was plucking at a small, bow-like harp, chanting European poetry. On the sofa below, a group of noblewomen sat with hands clasped to their chests, listening to his performance in a trance. Though it was unclear if they understood the deeper meaning hidden in the verses, judging by the heart-shaped glint in their eyes, he was certainly handsome enough.
"Since so many people have come here tonight to hear me sing, I am truly sad," Tristan said, lightly plucking the strings.
"Ahhh, Tri-chan, don't be sad. Bring a mid-range rosé champagne~!" a woman in designer clothes waved her hands.
"Understood~!" the waiter responded happily. Though the host took the lion's share, if the liquor sold well, the waiter earned a commission. A bottle of mid-range rosé champagne actually cost about 7 Fukuzawa Yukichis (70,000 yen).
Everyone consuming alcohol in a nightclub was an adult. As long as the guest had a decent career, or a father who had worked diligently as a full-time employee for over thirty years—even if he was just a department chief—the annual salary would be around seven million yen, plus the customary annual bonus. Seventy thousand yen was merely two days' wages for an older gentleman. After all, while Wako's unemployment rate had risen and the economy was sluggish, it was still a developed country. A fresh college graduate joining a company like Huawei started at 400,000 yen; in the first year, they would earn 2.8 million, and with bonuses, it would definitely be over three million. People returning to places like this were wealthy women. As long as it wasn't the type who went bankrupt tipping streamers, a male host club was an absolutely profitable industry. From China's streamers to Wako's nightclubs, both were hyper-profitable sectors.
"For someone like me... you are truly too kind. The only ones who have been this good to me in the past were Isolde and the others. I am truly so sad, but..." Tristan spread his arms, leaned
forward, and hugged the woman who had ordered the drink. He whispered in her ear with a magnetic, masculine voice: "Thank you."
"Haaaah~!!" The woman being hugged had hearts in her eyes, saying excitedly: "Although I don't know who that woman Isolde is, the person who cares for you most here, Tri-chan, is definitely me! It's me!"
Saying this, the woman raised her hand high and shouted toward the bar.
"Excuse me~! Forget the rosé; add a bottle of Gold champagne~!"
Tristan, leaning on the woman's shoulder, remained in that same posture with his eyes closed, murmuring softly: "I am truly so sad..."
The woman being hugged felt a flush on her face, her eyes filled with hearts. Her mood was one-third racing excitement; one-third the satisfaction of showing off to others; and the final third was completely enveloped in a sense of happiness. With a strange pout on her lips, she looked as if she might break into a manic, obsessive smile at any moment.
She buried her head in Tristan's red hair, took a deep breath, shot a proud glance at her companions sitting nearby, and agreed with a blurry, indistinct smile: "Mm, I'm also so sad."
"..."
From the depths of the darkness came a swish.
The surrounding women felt as if something in their hearts had shattered, and something else had ignited. Something called "reason," and something called "jealousy."
"I'm also so sad!"
"No! I'm sadder! I'm going all out—bring a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne!!!"
"Yes~! A guest at Table 3 has ordered 100,000 yen Ace of Spades champagne! Thank you so very much~!"
In another seating area, a noblewoman wearing a long purple gown and a sheer silk scarf looked curiously toward the commotion and smiled. "It's very lively over there."
Just then, a pair of strong hands reached over, firmly grasping the hand of the noblewoman sitting across from him, pulling her focus back.
"Don't look over there. I would prefer that we cherish the time we spend talking together, My Lady." The purple-haired man rested his hands on the table, gazing affectionately into the noblewoman's eyes. His eyes seemed to possess a unique charm—perhaps it was the French intuition, an innate ability to convey emotion through one's gaze.
"Lance-chan..." The noblewoman, being watched like this, felt her heart melt, her eyes instantly becoming hazy.
In another seat, a tall, handsome man with blonde hair held a crystal glass filled with gold champagne, clinking it elegantly against the lady's glass across from him. There was also a silver-gray-haired young man with a small braid, speaking in gentle whispers to the woman seated with him, telling stories about the King.
Fragments gradually surfaced in Shirou's mind. He seemed to recall something, noticing a sense of déjà vu in the club's furnishings. Events that had happened here flashed through his brain.
He, who had been sleeping in the universe, was discovered by Merlin one day and brought back to Earth in this world. It was probably two years ago that Merlin brought him to this city. When he woke up, he had lost his past memories and had no place to live. At the time, Merlin had smiled kindly and extended an invitation. After all, since both were beings with connections to that King, they were "one of our own."
Although Shirou's intuition felt that this man was unreliable and shouldn't be trusted, he had no other choice and could only hang around Merlin for meals. Because the shop Merlin opened was a host club, he had started from the bottom as a kid delivering drinks. Gradually, as he became familiar with the customers, he had somehow become the top host of the club.
At the lower end, there were those who sold their bodies rather than their talent—called "ducks"—who were guaranteed 60,000 yen per session for those willing to play with steel wool. Once they recovered and got stronger, they could earn millions annually. At the higher end were marriages of transaction; some people, to secure certain resources, would marry someone they didn't like. Once they obtained what they wanted and were no longer dependent on the woman's family, they would move on.
These successful people, now middle-aged, still came here to find young girls to drink and talk with, exchanging sentiments and attempting to reclaim the emotions they had once abandoned.
Male hosts fell somewhere in between. Their job in the club was to make customers happy so they would spend money; as for whether or not they left with them, that was a matter of personal freedom. The gap between the top-tier host and the lowest-tier host was perhaps the same as the gap between a top courtesan in the red-light districts of the past and a streetwalker.
This place was Shinjuku's Kabukicho, the first place that came to mind when people sought nightlife, released stress, or looked for comfort. In the Ichiban-gai, it was currently the most popular male host club. Disappointed women could temporarily abandon the hardships and torments of reality here, indulging themselves under the influence of alcohol and sweet talk.
However, the cost was not cheap; this place didn't just capture souls—it drained gold. "The land of gentleness is the hero's grave"—this saying, in the modern world, applied to men and women alike.
Yet, no matter the gender, the world taught people that to live well, they had to struggle during the day. No matter how bitter, tiring, or aggrieved they felt, they had to hold on. But the stronger one forced oneself to be during the day, the more fragile one became in the loneliness of late night.
For those who valued etiquette and rules to an almost severe degree in public—the inequalities between senior and junior, superior and subordinate, men and women—human relationships were heavily influenced by hierarchy. Especially in a big metropolis like Tokyo, with its fast pace of life and consumer pressure. Beneath the veneer of politeness lay indifference, a segregated class system, and a particularly oppressive existence. When the stress accumulated in the heart finally exploded...
The well-dressed, mild-mannered salarymen of the day would, by night, end up with ties tied around their heads, shouting and screaming, stumbling about, and acting like drunks. People like that were everywhere.
And Shinjuku's Kabukicho was exactly the place that targeted such people. For this area—packed with gangs and over 50% owned by the Yakuza—it was even known as a burial ground and a place where money was burned. If you were an unclear rookie who came alone, once you were targeted as a mark, they might make you spend money until you had to take off your pants to leave. Even for the guys who came here without money, trying to cheat their way to free food and drink, there were naturally professionals who would go to their door to collect debts.
Here, it was the most indulgent and licentious, yet the most dark and heartless place. There were sellers who cared only for money, and buyers who spent thousands in a night just to buy away the pain in their hearts; it was a collection of human desire.
However, in this place, there was at least one person who moved like a fish in water: the Flower Magician, Merlin. For him, being here was as easy and free as being at home. The energy he needed, even if he did nothing, just by breathing the air of this place—the energy generated between men and women in the darkness—was enough for him to survive.
Flirtation without any burden, glamorous attire, beautiful grooming—women who were very "open" could be found everywhere. As long as one had a unique charm, it wasn't hard to find a suitable target.
After a passionate night, they would part ways, remaining strangers who didn't interfere with each other, or ideal friends-with-benefits to relieve loneliness—all could be found here. Conversely, few were those who took things seriously.
The so-called "Incubus" (Nightmare) was exactly this kind of species. They were more enthusiastic about lust than humans were. It wasn't that they were [not human], but they had a different kind of need—an instinct for survival.
Born with such a licentious constitution, they attracted humans and were attracted by humans, dallying with people in reality and "communing" with them in dreams, never tiring of it, never feeling disgusted or bored. Sometimes, they would even switch genders to dally with a targeted goal, or play them in the palm of their hand.
The reason Merlin was able to be immortal was not because he had reached the realm of magic or modified his physical body, but because of his natural constitution. He could replenish a bit of energy for Chaldea from time to time. It wasn't that his constitution didn't require food or water; rather, the characteristics of an Incubus meant it wasn't meant to be while awake.
Perhaps, for him in the high tower of Avalon, all of this was a dream; it was just that this dream was too realistic. For everyone else, it was genuine indulgence.
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