It was one of those days—good? Bad? Who even knows anymore. The air in Tokyo was a soup of damp humidity and exhaust fumes, the kind that promised an early end to a soul-crushing shift. Keika Tsugu let out a long, tired sigh that felt like it came from his very foundation, a sound of profound, world-weary exhaustion that went beyond a mere lack of sleep.
He ran a hand through his expertly styled, ash-grey hair, ensuring every strand was in place, a tiny act of professional vanity. He was already dragging himself into the opulent, neon-lit foyer of the "Nighthawk" Host Cafe, mentally preparing for the gauntlet: the unpredictable temper of the local Yakuza boss and the endless, demanding sea of wealthy, lonely ladies who paid a small fortune for his feigned affection.
This wasn't exactly a dream job—it wasn't even close to the Top 10 list of jobs he'd imagined in his youth—but, hey, bills don't pay themselves, and rent in Shinjuku was a beast.
He was barely past the velvet ropes when a voice like gravel scraping on glass cut through the hushed lounge music.
"VVIP Member," Jouzo tossed out, all casual and arrogant, like he owned the entire eight-story building. Jouzo. Keika's coworker, a perpetually grinning menace who managed to be the club's number two host despite—or perhaps because of—his absolute lack of internal filter or shame.
Keika just managed a lazy, practiced nod, his eyes already seeking the discreet, lacquered door that led to the VVIP suite. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool brass of the specially engraved key.
Just get him into the room, endure his nonsense for an hour, and then maybe he could slip away for a smoke, Keika thought.
And then, bam.
A sharp, silver-blue light suddenly flared from the ground, accompanied by a low, resonating hum that vibrated up through the soles of Keika's expensive Italian leather shoes.
A complex, glowing geometric pattern—a magic doodle, for lack of a better term—had suddenly manifested beneath their feet, pulsing like a captured star. The air crackled with raw, unfamiliar power.
Keika froze. His practiced, host-club mask of suave indifference shattered instantly.
What in the absolute hell is this? Did someone spill something on the floor? Is this a new, insanely expensive lighting gimmick? He glanced wildly at Jouzo, whose easy grin had dissolved into a look of startled confusion.
And then—FLASH!
The light intensified into a blinding, painful white, obliterating all sensory input. It was like being hit by a freight train made of pure light and sound, followed by a dizzying, sickening lurch in his stomach.
When the world stabilized, Keika was blinking furiously against the residual afterimages, trying to drag oxygen back into his lungs.
He was in some unfamiliar, cavernous room—not the Nighthawk. The floor was polished white marble, the walls were hung with enormous, crimson banners embroidered with a strange, gold crest, and the high ceilings were supported by pillars of carved, glistening jade.
The light was no longer the electric glare of Tokyo, but the clear, golden radiance of an afternoon sun pouring through massive arched windows.
He was still clutching the VVIP room key in his hand, the small piece of metal now feeling absurdly heavy and out of place. It felt like a lifeline in this blinding, confusing new reality.
And of course, right on cue, here came your classic anime king guy.
He was tall, draped in heavy, intricately embroidered royal robes—all crimson velvet and gold filigree. A heavy, jewel-encrusted crown sat on a head of long, perfect blonde hair. He struck a pose, one hand resting dramatically on the hilt of a decorative, impractical sword.
"Welcome, heroes, to the Achsharah Empire!" the King announced, his voice booming with theatrical gravitas.
Honestly, Keika thought, the sheer cliché of the moment hitting him like a physical blow. Could he be more cliché? Keika's professional instinct was to rate the performance a solid C-minus for overacting.
Jouzo was just standing there, beside him, looking momentarily lost—a rare sight. His eyes darted nervously around the room, making him look less like a predatory host and more like someone who'd just realized his wallet and phone had been stolen simultaneously.
The King, oblivious to their distinct lack of heroic enthusiasm, launched into a rapid-fire ramble about an ancient prophecy, a looming Demon King, and the necessity of their immediate, world-saving assistance.
Suddenly, Jouzo's momentary panic evaporated. The King's words, "summoned heroes," seemed to flip a switch in Jouzo's mind. His wide-eyed confusion dissolved, replaced by his signature, utterly shameless grin—the one that suggested he'd just won the cosmic lottery.
Meanwhile, Keika was still stuck on the fact that he was holding a damn door key in another world.
Like, is this thing magic now? Did I get transmigrated holding a cursed artifact? Or is my brain just short-circuiting from a bad dose of food poisoning?
Jouzo, being the absolute menace he was, leaned into the whole "summoned hero" thing with gusto, already posturing. He stepped right up to the King, his grin predatory.
"Yeah, sure, I'll save you. But I'm going to need compensation upfront, Your Majesty," Jouzo declared, his voice a charming, avaricious purr. "Let's start with an army of concubines. Toss me a dozen girls, all ages, all flavors."
Then, to punctuate the demand, Jouzo turned, grabbed the terrified-looking young woman who had been clinging to his arm back in the cafe—some poor client who must have been dragged along in the warp—and proceeded to nuzzle her neck and shamelessly grope her right there, in front of a king, his royal court, and a host of armored knights. Zero shame. Not even a shred of decency.
Keika watched the spectacle, feeling the last vestiges of his mental stability crumble. This was his life now. He took a deep, steadying breath. Right. Focus. The only way out is through.
He stepped forward, cutting through the awkward silence created by Jouzo's display.
"Your Majesty," Keika said, his voice calm and polite, the perfect professional pitch he used for his most difficult clients. "Let's cut to the chase. If we whack your Demon King, can we go home? Is there a return ticket on this magical train ride?"
The King looked at Keika, and for the first time, the theatrical mask slipped. He gave Keika a look—weirdly intense, utterly focused, and honestly, borderline unsettling.
It wasn't the look of a worried monarch addressing a potential savior; it was the full-on, predatory gaze of something that saw a meal. "I'd eat you alive" vibes, Keika thought, and his skin practically crawled.
"Oh, you can go home," the King purred, the deep rumble of his voice dropping an octave. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his eyes raking down Keika's body and lingering a fraction too long. "If you're still breathing, that is."
Yeah, super reassuring, Keika thought, resisting the urge to take a reflexive step back. He was used to being the object of intense stares—it was his job—but this felt different.
This was not lust; it was a hungry, scrutinizing desire for something far more fundamental. Keika suddenly felt incredibly exposed, despite his flawless suit.
A masked woman—an austere-looking figure in black armor who had been hovering by the throne—stepped forward, clearly annoyed by the King's extended, unsettling moment of silent appraisal. She held up a small, crystal orb.
"The heroes must check their 'status' to understand their capabilities in this world," she instructed in a sharp, clipped voice.
Keika had already done it. His mind, trained by years of managing a dozen demanding clients simultaneously, had raced ahead. Jouzo was still too busy embarrassing himself with the unfortunate client to notice the instruction, much less follow it.
Keika just needed to think the word "STATUS," and a clear, blue-green screen had popped up in his vision, visible only to him. He scanned the information, and his tired sigh returned, heavier than ever.
Name Keika Tsugu
HP10,000,000
MPSkill Healing Magic (MAX LEVEL), Creation Magic (MAX LEVEL), Intimidation (MAX LEVEL), Mimicry (MAX LEVEL), Copying (MAX LEVEL), Learning (MAX LEVEL), World Language (MAX LEVEL)
Additional Skill Travel to Another World (Condition: Harem of All Kind)
Origin Hero from another world, Demon King of Achsharah, Child of **********
Yeah. So, apparently, Keika was a living cheat code with a ridiculously weirdly specific travel requirement. He was a one-man magical apocalypse, and also, somehow, the previous Demon King, and the son of a censored entity, all tied together by the requirement of a "Harem of All Kind."
Keika just lowered the status screen, a single, weary thought running through his mind: He really should've called in sick today.