Chapter 43

I woke up in a hospital bed. I hurt, but the doctors said it was a miracle. Cases of vegetative state like mine had become increasingly common, and the doctors couldn’t explain the recent increase in cases nor why I had woken up.

I thought of explaining Isekai and spells to them, but I was too tired.

My parents were there. It was good to see them. I promised to visit them later that month, and this time I meant it. It had been too long since I had seen them.

I had another surprise visitor. The boy from the street visited me, dragged into the room by his mother. She had been under the impression that I had thrown myself in front of the truck to save her son.

I didn't have the heart to tell her what really happened. She treated me like a hero. It was one of the more awkward interactions I can remember having, and I once had a naked guy land his butt on my face with a hundred person audience.

As the boy and his family left, the kid ran back into the room and gave me the cat stuffed animal I had rescued. “I don’t even like that toy much anyway,” the boy said before he left the room.

I looked at the cat. I thought of Nyarin.

I was discharged from the hospital shortly after. I had logged into the Truck-kun Isekai Fans app, so all of my stuff was still safe at home.

The world didn’t feel real to me. I had been living in worlds with magic, catgirls, and adventure for what had seemed like years.

It had only been a day.

Nothing in my apartment had changed. I still had to go to work after the weekend. The world hadn’t changed.

But I had changed.

I picked up the daruma doll with its one painted eye. I had promised myself to paint in that other eye when I had found a place in which I could be happy.

I put the daruma down and spent that weekend working feverishly. I didn’t leave the house until the next Monday. I had called out of work sick that day due to an overdose of truck just a few days before.

After a weekend of all-nighters I finally left my apartment for Asakusa, a part of Tokyko with plenty of old history. I had an important meeting arranged by phone a couple days before. With any luck, the results of this meeting would let me paint in the other eye of that daruma doll.

I carried only a simple briefcase. I passed through the massive, ornate Lightning Gate dodging tourists. I weaved down one side street, then another. I eventually found an old but clean little house. A polished, pristine statue of the goddess Kishoutennyo stood near the door.

The statue was lovingly crafted, with incredible skill that made the figure and the grains of the stone speak elegantly. I admired its beauty. I couldn’t do that before.

As if summoned by my appreciation of beauty, the door to the house opened without me needing to knock. I was early for my meeting, but an elderly woman guided me to a formal tatami meeting room. “The lady of the house will be in to see you shortly.”

I waved to the seat opposite the beautiful dark lacquered table. The first rule of negotiations is to control the context of the negotiation. It seemed the goddess knew that much. “Will the lady of the house not join me now, if it pleases her?”

The old woman smiled down at me where I knelt beside the negotiation table. The way she moved was not just walking, it was a directed dance. The tones of her voice were affected with age, but they had been a humble, quiet kind of song.

Everything she did exuded beauty, if one was willing to look past the elderly exterior. “Very good,” the old woman said.

Apparently I had passed the test of appreciating the beauty of the statue to summon her. I had also passed the test of recognizing her despite the disguise. What would have happened if I had failed those tests? No meeting? Death?

The goddess transformed before me. She was young, flawlessly beautiful, and terrifying.

And she was also dressed in the Tokyo Gyaru style, complete with outrageous makeup, bleached hair, and provocative clothing.

She noticed me taking in her fashion choices and smiled. “One has to adapt to the times to survive, does one not?”

I bowed in agreement, speaking as little in her presence as possible.

“Now, to business,” she said. She was sitting across from me, but she hadn’t moved between where she had stood and where she now sat. She seemed to instantly teleport. There hadn’t even been a gust of wind as she moved faster than I could blink.

A woman, or a goddess, who enjoyed graceful movement like this one wouldn’t teleport about for no reason. It had been another negotiation tactic. She wanted me to know that she was powerful, and there was nothing I could do if she decided to end me.

I presumed that this was her rejoinder to my success at seeing through her elderly disguise. My palms started to sweat, but I gave her no evidence that I was terrified.

She smiled at me in a way that told me she held all of the cards. “I presume you are here seeking grievances for the assault on your person perpetrated by my vassals?”

While Truck-kun had been weak at negotiating, the goddess of beauty, happiness, and fertility seemed to have plenty of experience with negotiations. I mused to myself that perhaps all three of those things are often unavoidably related to negotiation of one kind or another.

“Not exactly, great one.” I had learned from Truck-kun how to speak to a goddess.

I found myself wishing I had asked him a hundred more questions on the topic. I felt like she could happily kill me and never think of it again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to leave this room alive, and in some ways I felt like I had just relearned how to live.

I chose my words carefully, “That incident was my fault, and you have my sincerest apologies. I come hoping to address that grievance for any others who might in the future suffer such an assault, or have in the past.”

“Heavens preserve us from modern Japanese sensibilities,” she laughed, and it sounded like music, “are you planning on bringing a multiple plaintiff lawsuit against me? On behalf of all of the worshippers I’ve gathered?”

I bowed. “Forgive my lack of clarity, great one. I bring a humble gift as a poor recompense for waylaying your vassals on their appointed duties.” With smooth, obvious, unthreatening motions I opened the briefcase. I reached for one of a dozen nearly identical spiral bound documents. I had prepared like a madman, using my years of experience as a data analyst and salaryman.

The goddess eyed me. “You may call me Kisshin-sama, instead of great one.”

That was a good sign.

The way she said her nickname, Kisshin, led me to a flash of insight. It was the kind of nickname a young person might use, perhaps more especially a girl who followed the Tokyo Gal fashion closely.

I sat there awkwardly with my hand still gripping the document inside my briefcase. It was probably a stupid idea, but at that moment I felt like risking my life on a stupid question. “One of your vassals called herself Nyarin.”

Kisshin’s eyes sparkled, knowingly. “Ah, you like her? I gave her that name. Names are important for those that are human, and far more important for those who are not. Has the little cat told you her true name?” Kisshin’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“No, Kisshin-sama, she has not.”

“I see,” Kisshin said, “sharing names like that is very… intimate.”

I pulled the document out, laying it respectfully, with a bow, on the table. “Then it is an honor to know and use a name like Kisshin.” I was sure that neither Kisshin or Kisshoutennyou were the goddess’ true name.

She smiled approvingly, but quirked an eye at my offering.

When she said nothing more, I assumed that she wished me to continue. “Have you ever been to Akihabara?”

Her eyes sparkled at the mention of one of Tokyo’s more flashy, hip districts. It wasn’t a mecha of her Gal sensibilities, but it was no stranger to fashion and beauty and excitement.

“I have indeed. It’s garish, but,” she waved her head back and forth playfully, “such is the style of the era, is it not?” She leaned forward, examining the spiral bound document. “You said that this is a gift, no?”

I sat across from her, hands politely folded in an agreeable meeting posture honed over dozens of high stress negotiating tables. This was just one more negotiation, and if I wasn’t careful it could be my last. “This,” I said with a smile, “is called a business proposal.”