Menu no.36 - Proposal for Mr.Hugo

I stood still, barely breathing, as Mr. Hugo flipped through the pages of the proposal I had prepared.

The scratch of paper against his fingers sounded louder than it should have. Each page he turned felt like a second shaved off my lifespan. Diagrams, cost breakdowns, risk assessments, handwritten notes about foot traffic in the Dungeon market—all of it laid bare in front of him.

He read carefully. Too carefully.

I resisted the urge to speak.

Finally, he closed the proposal and leaned back in his chair.

“A solid proposal,” he said. “Well thought out.”

My heart skipped.

“This could work.”

I swallowed. “R–Really?”

He nodded. “I see no issue approving it.”

Then he looked straight at me.

“So, when do you plan to start?”

“If everything goes smoothly,” I replied, finding my voice again, “we could begin as early as the day after tomorrow. Mr. Mitrovic has already finished most of the equipment.”

Mr. Hugo rose from his seat, walked around the desk, and handed the proposal back to me. Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand.

“I’ll provide the loan for your initial capital,” he said. “Let’s consider the agreement settled.”

For a moment, I forgot how to move.

Then I grabbed his hand and shook it firmly.

“…Thank you very much.”

I bowed deeply—probably deeper than necessary—but I didn’t care.

When I stepped out of Mr. Hugo’s office, the first thing I saw was everyone waiting for me.

Alisa.
Gustav.
Erina.
Vanguard.

All of them watching my face like it held the answer to everything.

I didn’t say a word.

I just smiled—and raised my thumb.

For half a second, they froze.

Then—

“Yes!”
“We did it!”
“Congratulations, Daiki!”

Applause filled the hallway.

Erina leaped at me and wrapped herself around my waist, clinging like a cat that had decided I was its territory.

“Erinyan knew it would work!” she said proudly.

I laughed and gently patted her head. “You’re really just a cat, aren’t you?”

“Mrrrow~”

Alisa smiled warmly. “Congratulations, Daiki.”

Yeah.

It was real now.

My dream of opening a café—no, a Dungeon café—was finally within reach.

.

.

.

A few days earlier.

I had been hunched over a table late at night, surrounded by coins, notes, and scraps of paper. I counted my savings over and over again, recalculating expenses until the numbers began to blur.

Coffee beans.
Equipment.
Fuel.
Rent.
Emergency costs.

Even with careful planning, it wasn’t cheap.

That was why I asked Vanguard for help—specifically, to look for vacant spots inside the Dungeon market. Places abandoned after failed ventures. Stalls no one dared to reopen because the Dungeon was unpredictable.

Some were too close to monster paths.
Some were too far from foot traffic.
Some were… cursed. Probably.

After narrowing it down, I compiled everything into one complete proposal.

Then I brought it to Alisa.

She read it with sharp eyes, occasionally tapping the page with her finger.

“This part is too optimistic,” she said.
“You should add contingency costs here.”
“And this—Mr. Hugo will definitely ask about risk mitigation.”

She was ruthless.

But she was right.

By the time I revised everything, the proposal was stronger—more realistic, more convincing.

And now, standing here after receiving approval, all of that effort finally paid off.

.

.

.

Later that day, I was in the kitchen when the familiar sound of heavy boots echoed from the back entrance.

“Daiki,” a gruff voice called out.

I turned to see Mr. Mitrovic standing there, wiping his hands on a cloth. His beard was slightly singed—never a good sign or maybe always a good one.

“The press machine is done,” he said. “Along with the modifications you requested.”

My eyes lit up. “Already?!”

He snorted. “You doubt me?”

“Never.”

He led me deeper into the workshop area.

There it was.

A compact press machine, reinforced with metal joints, smoother levers, and a sturdier base. It looked familiar—but better. Stronger. Designed for repeated use, not temporary improvisation.

“I adjusted the pressure mechanism,” Mitrovic explained. “More stable. Less strain on the user. You can operate it faster without sacrificing quality.”

I ran my hand along the frame.

“…This is perfect.”

“Hmph,” he grunted. “I also added a few personal touches. You’ll notice them when you use it.”

I bowed. “Thank you. Really.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t break,” he replied. “And if it does—bring it back.”

“I will.”

As he left, carrying the remaining tools with him, I stood there alone for a moment.

Looking at the machine.

Looking at the future.

.

.

.

The next day passed in a blur.

I finalized supply lists.
Coordinated schedules.
Double-checked permits.

Erina helped organize ingredients while Gustav handled logistics. Vanguard scouted the area again to ensure safety, and Alisa oversaw everything like a silent commander.

By nightfall, the empty stall at the Dungeon’s base floor no longer looked empty.

Tables were cleaned.
Surfaces polished.
Equipment carefully installed.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it was mine.

I leaned against the counter, exhausted but smiling.

A café.

Inside a Dungeon.

Who would’ve thought?

Tomorrow—or rather, the day after tomorrow—we’d open.

No grand opening.
No banners.
No announcements.

Just coffee.

And the hope that, in this dangerous place, people could find a small moment of warmth.

I closed my eyes.

“Alright,” I whispered. “Let’s do this.”

The Dungeon café was about to begin.