Chapter 8: The New Currency for Survival Part 1

A week passed in the Kurogane Mansion.

Just marble floors, imported porcelain, and the sterile hum of climate control—the sound of their confinement. The air smelled faintly of citrus and money, a suffocating blend. The polished marble reflected their faces back in warped fragments, like ghosts trapped in a palace that didn’t know their names.

“Hah. Hah. Hah.”

Masayuki trained alone in the courtyard. His wooden sword cut through the air with sharp, practiced arcs—each swing precise, but hollow. A ritual performed after forgetting the god it once honored. His breath echoed off the stone like a heartbeat with no rhythm.

Inside, the dining table stretched like a runway—long, gleaming, and too symmetrical. It wasn’t made for meals. It was made for negotiations.

At the far end, Renji and Luna slumped in a single chair, swallowed by an oversized, faded hoodie. The confiscated smartphone glowed in their lap. A tinny “Gacha pull” jingle broke the silence—loud, synthetic, aggressively cheerful.

“Hell yeah, we pulled Tentacle-chan’s maid outfit!”

The sound echoed, jarring against the marble and glass. A desperate digital denial, bouncing off a world that no longer made sense.

Kokoro and Kotaro sat side by side, eating natto in silence. No conversation. No eye contact. Just the quiet choreography of chopsticks and breath.

Kyle watched them all from the center of the room. The silence pressed against his skin like static. The mansion didn’t feel safe. It felt like a brightly lit cell—too clean, too symmetrical, too curated. A stage where they were expected to perform the roles of “recovered heroes” for an audience that hadn’t finished writing the script.

Then—Minami entered.

Sebastian glided beside her, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. He moved like a shadow that had learned to wear a suit.

Minami wore a modern gyaru ensemble—playful, polished, and terrifyingly precise. Her smile was bright enough to burn.

“Good morning everyone,” she said, voice dipped in honey. “I trust your week of recovery has been… enlightening?”

No one answered.

Masayuki reentered, towel slung over his shoulder. The moment he crossed the threshold, the scent of sweat hit the room like a slap. Sebastian, without a word, began misting him with perfume. Masayuki subtly stiffened as the perfume coated him—the cold, chemical victory of the mansion over his effort.

“Now that you’ve begun to process your transition,” she continued, dabbing her nose with a silk handkerchief, “it’s time to formalize your asset allocation.”

Kyle blinked. Asset? That was the term reserved for Sunbreaker and the royal crown, or perhaps a prized antique, not a man.

Minami leaned forward, elbows resting on the glass. Her smile didn’t waver.

“We are a corporation, not a charitable foundation. However, the Kurogane family is pragmatic.”

Sebastian tapped his tablet. A projection bloomed across the table—cold, clinical, seamless. As if the mansion itself had been waiting to speak.

It whispered.

Like a curse written in perfect calligraphy, defining the exact value of their freedom.

Kyle didn’t breathe. He was used to carrying the weight of a world. Now he was suffocated by the weight of a number.

The itemized breakdown shimmered across the table, projected from Sebastian’s tablet in sterile green light. It didn’t feel like data; it felt like a verdict.

* ¥22,500,000 for property damage, vehicular replacement, and litigation

* ¥10,000,000 for suppressing local media coverage

* ¥9,200,000 for food, housing, medical, clothing, and utilities

* ¥6,500,000 for entertainment

* ¥1,800,000 for miscellaneous damages

The silence deepened.

Not confusion.

Not outrage.

Just quiet surrender.

Kyle recovered first. His voice was tight, his logic desperate.

“Wait,” Kyle interjected, pointing at the screen. The ¥22,500,000 for destruction he could understand, but the other costs felt like deliberate, manufactured burdens.

Minami sighed. Not loudly but just enough to signal that Kyle had missed the point. She was disappointed that he still thought like a human.

“Our hospitality includes certain standards, Kyle. The property requires a dedicated team. You are assets; we require you to be healthy, optimized, and free from the distraction of menial labor.”

She paused.

“But if you insist, we can reallocate a few of the staff elsewhere.”

Masayuki leaned forward, voice low and measured.

“If we are to repay this debt, we must minimize ongoing liability. We can take over some of the cooking and cleaning.”

He hesitated.

“And… What exactly is ¥6,500,000 for entertainment? That seems… excessive.”

Minami smiled sweetly.

Too sweet.

"Ah, yes, the entertainment budget."

She tapped the screen. The projection shifted.

"That includes access to premium streaming, gaming platforms, and... shall we say, necessary security measures for your continued comfort?"

Sebastian cleared his throat, directing the tablet projection to a subsection of the debt. The item title appeared: CULINARY HAZARD MITIGATION (ROYAL TASTE TESTER).

"Specifically," Sebastian noted clinically, "¥3,000,000 of the miscellaneous budget was allocated for the full-time employment of a specialized Culinary Security Technician. Or, as Renji requested, 'The Royal Poison Taste ”

The room went completely still. All eyes turned to Renji as he bolted upright.

“That’s insane! That’s extortion!” He pointed at the screen like it had betrayed him. He shouted, his voice cracking. “I asked for basic safety precautions! How am I supposed to trust the food when I still remember that time the Elves tried to feed poisoned fruit tarts to kill us?!”

No one spoke.

The silence was colder than the marble.

“You’re delusional!” Luna shrieked, struggling for control. “Why would you have thought that? We haven’t been poisoned once!”

“It was Luna!” Renji shouted, pointing wildly at his own face. His body trembled, not from fury, but from the raw, ugly fear of being singled out. “She insists on having every meal pre-screened for 'plebeian toxins' because she is royalty! I just go along with her ridiculous demands!”

Luna’s control flickered as she whispered the curse, “et tu Renji.” Her mind escaped from the judging persecuting glares, unable to bear the weight of having their deepest aristocratic delusion priced and exposed by the corporation.

“Regardless of who is to blame,” Minami stated, returning to the main screen, “a decision must be made.”

Kyle stared at the numbers still glowing on the table.

“You may remain here under my patronage,” Minami continued, voice lacquered smooth, “pursue an independent life, or return to your original families.”

She let the options hang in the air like a contract waiting for signatures.

Kyle looked around the room.

No one moved. No one rushed to speak. The silence was their answer.

It was then that Renji, still bitter, spoke first.

“I’m staying here,” he mumbled as he didn’t look up.

He paused for a bit before scratching their leg with the other foot.

“This place is heaven. The only way I’m leaving is if I’m dragged out—and if I do, I’ll probably die in the sun,” Renji said monotone before their face lit up. “Holy crap, I just triggered a secret story for Tentacle-chan.”

Luna seized control. The body snapped upright, posture regal.

“I sincerely apologize for the conduct of this gremlin,” she said, voice clipped. “And so we graciously accept your invitation to continue our stay.”

Then her eyes darted to the phone screen. A flicker of panic. “Yes, yes... come to mama!” She swiped with trembling fingers, checking the status of Gacha characters, her composure fighting the digital craving.

Minami smiled, pretending not to notice the twitching.

“Excellent. With the primary objective sorted, we move to formalities.”

Sebastian slid a new set of documents on top of the tablets—pristine, official, and quietly terrifying.

“These are your Japanese identification records,” he said, voice smooth but distant. The IDs were spread across their faces like cold, plastic verdicts, granting them legitimate existence in this country, secured by the Kurogane family.

The room went still.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Kotaro and Kokoro reviewed their records in tandem. Kokoro pointed at the ID card using Kotaro’s body, her movements precise, practiced.

“My name is correct,” she said softly.

Kotaro nodded, then winced. “But… my gender,” he whispered, staring at the female marker beside his name.

After two years searching for a method or magic item, no reversal was found. Just paperwork confirming the absolute, permanent authority of the bureaucratic seal. The pain in his voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp—the final confirmation of the swap.

Kyle stared at his own documents.

His name. His face. His blood type.

All clean. All precise. All wrong.

The birthplace—Tokyo. The name—Kaito. He felt a phantom pain where his old identity used to be, a scar of manufactured history etched not by a spell, but by ink and government consensus. He was now fully owned by the system that created his new name.

Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait. Work has just been so difficult. I will be releasing more hopefully quicker. Please show your love by liking and commenting.