The Real Order Wasn't Water

The door opened.

One glass of water. That was the order. Plain and simple.

It was stamped into the order slip in exactly three words: a glass of water.

And yet the woman in front of me couldn't have cared less about the water.

Lena von Aska. Twenty-seven. Eldest daughter of Ducal House Aska.

Above a daringly cut dress, a face frozen like ice looked down at me.

To be precise, she looked down at me — and stopped.

"…A real. Man?"

Her voice was trembling. She didn't seem to notice herself.

I stood there awkwardly, still holding the glass of water.

The woman stared at me. Up and down. Up and down again. Up and down one more time.

It was the face of someone who'd just crossed paths with a unicorn out of legend.

Except a unicorn at least has a horn. I'm just a twenty-seven-year-old in a delivery vest.

"…You ordered water, right?"

I spoke first. The silence had gone on too long.

The woman didn't answer. She just kept looking.

It felt less like she was looking at the water in my hand, and more like she was looking past my hand entirely — straight at my face above it.

It was overwhelming. Genuinely.

Honestly, my own head was spinning too.

Until yesterday, I was Kang Dohyun, killed by a truck in the middle of a rainy delivery run. Today, I was supposedly an ultra-rare commodity hearing the word "National Treasure" thrown at me, on a continent where men make up 0.8 percent of the population.

Being called a National Treasure — I'd assumed that was a good thing.

An ice-cold beauty dissecting me like a specimen the second the door opened? Not a good thing.

I felt like an exhibit sealed inside museum glass. With exactly one visitor.

Seriously, someone give me a moment to adjust.

It had been less than a day since I died. Back on Earth, my funeral probably wasn't even over yet.

But here I was, already employed. And clearly on track for overtime.

My phone buzzed quietly in my pocket. That familiar sensation.

The phone that had still been clenched in my hand at the moment of death. On its screen, an app I'd never seen before had appeared.

She orders a glass of water, and her real order is something else entirely.

This system peeks into people's hearts.

Water on the lips, something else underneath.

They say if you deliver for twenty years you can read a customer just by their face — well, this is straight-up cheating. It's like reading the answers written on the back of the test sheet. Except the answers are a customer's innermost feelings.

My conscience stung a little. Just a little.

But a 41 percent trust level, apparently, meant even this woman only half-knew what she wanted. So let me just be half a scumbag, then.

I decided my conscience could wait. First, figure out what this woman actually wanted.

Lena cleared her throat.

It was the sound of a mask going back on. She knew perfectly well that she'd wavered just now.

"Did you bring the water?"

"Ah — yes. Here you are…"

I handed over the glass. Our fingertips brushed.

In that instant, her shoulders visibly stiffened. I could see her holding her breath.

All that over a single brush of fingertips. How starved for human warmth must someone be.

The phone rang out again.

Stay with me.

It wasn't the water.

This ice queen of a ducal heir had been starved for human warmth for three days.

Alone, behind a flawless mask.

Come to think of it, it made sense.

A world where men were 0.8 percent of the population. A ducal heir living in a mansion crowded with women, never letting her expression crack.

It was the face of someone who'd never once had a shoulder to lean on.

She could buy everything money could buy — except, apparently, one thing.

Someone to simply be beside her.

An item with no price tag and no delivery address. The most common thing in the world, and the least for sale.

"Um…"

"What."

"Are you thirsty? Actually thirsty?"

Lena's eyebrow twitched.

"…Do I look like the eldest daughter of a ducal house would bet her life on a glass of water?"

"No. But you did order water. And not just that — 'cold' water, 'one glass.' Very specific."

"…"

"People who are actually thirsty just say 'give me water.' Someone counting out the glasses wants something else."

The woman fell silent. Apparently I'd hit the mark.

Twenty years of delivery experience. Half system cheating, half hard-earned skill.

"…A mere deliveryman, pretending to understand people."

"Did you say mere? I happen to be this world's National Treasure."

The corner of Lena's eye trembled, ever so slightly.

Whether she was holding back laughter or holding back anger — possibly both.

I rummaged through my backpack.

The rider's bag that had been with me at the moment of death, all the way into this world. The thing that had stayed strapped to my back even as the truck crushed me. It had loyalty, I'll give it that.

My hand closed around something.

Cold. Slick. A familiar curve.

A can of cola.

Why was there cola in there at a time like this? I had no idea.

Maybe my last delivery had been a convenience store pickup. Or maybe the god of delivery had packed it as a coffin gift.

Dying and hauling a single can of cola across dimensions — it was basically a summary of my whole life.

"Would you like this instead?"

"…What is that?"

"A beverage."

I cracked the can open.

Tssshk — and steam hissed up.

Lena took half a step back.

Her face said she'd just heard a blade being drawn.

For the first time, Lena's composure cracked.

"…The black liquid. Made a sound. On its own."

"It's carbonated. That's what it does."

"Why is the water angry?"

"It's not angry. It's just cold."

The conversation was going nowhere. But her eyes were already locked onto the can.

That face — terrified and dying of curiosity at the same time. It's the expression people wear when they're at their most dangerous.

"Try it. You won't die."

"…If I die, it's your responsibility."

"I'm a National Treasure. I'm not about to kill a customer."

The woman took the glass. No — she snatched the can, almost.

The cool, aloof act had already sailed across the river.

She wrapped both hands around it, as if cradling a secret of the universe.

One sip.

Lena's eyes went wide. Then wider. Then wider still.

"…My tongue. It's exploding."

"Right? That's the carbonation."

"This is black magic water. Explosive water."

"It's just cola, I'm telling you."

"Stars are bursting inside my mouth. Thousands of them. All at once."

She was getting outright poetic.

In ten years of this job, I'd never had a customer this emotional ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over one sip of cola.

On Earth, this would be a five-star review with the owner crying tears of joy.

"A world that creates things like this. Where on earth did you come from?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Tell me."

"I was doing a delivery, got hit by a truck, and fell here."

"…What?"

"See? You don't believe me."

Another sip. And another.

Those haughty shoulders were loosening little by little. Her throat moved with every swallow. A ducal heir was being disarmed by a single can.

A weekly wage.

Just now, I had made a woman gulp down a full week of someone else's earnings.

In one can. Without even offering to share.

I stole a glance at my bag.

In there: two more packs of ramen. Half a bottle of soju rolling around loose.

By this world's standards, I was currently a vagrant carrying two noble banquets and half a month of Magic Tower funding on my back.

Cola was a weekly wage. Chicken, a monthly salary. Ramen, a noble's table. Soju, a research budget.

My backpack was a walking national treasury. An entire continent's economy in one convenience store bag.

If this woman ever learned the real prices, she would not let me walk out that door.

She'd lock me up. Very, very politely.

Lena didn't know. Couldn't have.

"One more glass."

"That's a weekly wage right there."

"…What?"

"Nothing. Go ahead. On the house."

"What is 'on the house.'"

"It means it's free."

Lena looked down at the can.

"Free. There is no such thing as free in this world. People always give expecting something."

"I don't want anything, though."

"…That's the scariest part."

The woman stared straight at me. She seemed to trust that sentence even less than she trusted the cola.

"A weekly wage. For free. You're insane."

"How would you know that, ma'am?"

"…Excuse me?"

"Nothing at all. Please, finish your drink."

Cold sweat broke out on my back. I'd nearly confessed my backpack's total market valuation.

By the second sip, the ice had melted.

The corner of Lena's mouth — just barely — turned upward.

She smiled. The haughty duchess-to-be smiled.

And then the rims of her eyes flushed red.

"…It's been three days."

"Sorry?"

"Three days since someone stood beside me."

Her voice cracked.

A hairline fracture split the flawless mask. Clean through.

"…No. Not just someone."

Lena looked down at the can.

"Someone who stands in front of me, without watching my every mood. That's what it's been three days for."

"…You have to watch people's moods?"

"Everyone does. One flicker of my expression and the entire mansion freezes over."

"I don't know how to do that. I've only been in this world for one day."

The woman looked at me.

This time, it wasn't the eyes of someone examining a specimen.

"…One day."

"One day. So I don't know anything. Not the rules here, not how to read the room, not the prices."

Well, I knew the prices. As of two minutes ago, via status window. But that stayed my secret.

Lena laughed softly. This time, without holding back.

"A one-day-old man, walked straight into the arms of a woman who's been starving for three days."

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I just stood there. Because that was the order.

Her face said that was enough.

We stayed like that, until the last of the cola in the can went lukewarm. Without a word. With nothing but warmth between us.

First delivery complete.

She ordered a glass of water, drank cola instead, and cried.

This world was seriously, fundamentally broken.

And yet — it wasn't bad.

That's the thing about deliveries. You think you're just dropping off a package, but really, you're the one walking away carrying that household's story.

Today, I carried away a full bowl of loneliness. And paid out a cola's worth of weekly wage as the tip.

The math was catastrophic. The mood wasn't.

Even after emptying the can, Lena stayed sitting there for a long while — just for the sake of having someone beside her.

And I simply stayed beside her. Because that was the order.

"What's your name?"

"Kang Dohyun."

"Kang. Dohyun."

The woman rolled the name around slowly, like a candy she'd never tasted before.

"I'll remember it."

The Ice Duchess intended to commit a stranger's name to memory. The same woman who, one hour ago, had been picking me apart like a museum specimen.

So that was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the power of a single can of cola.

One weekly wage for one name's worth of goodwill. The exchange rate was a total disaster.

I was gathering my bag when a different window popped up on the phone.

…That was about me.

I was already taxidermied into the public record as "the man selling black water."

One can of cola cracked open, and the continent's anonymous message board flipped upside down.

Twelve thousand upvotes on the guy demanding my coordinates.

Twelve thousand people, eyes blazing, hunting one me.

An Earth celebrity with that kind of heat would retire and go into hiding. I hadn't even debuted yet, and I was already being stalked.

…Should I run?

Why did that thought just occur to me?

My body knew before my head did: I couldn't stay here long.

Delivery rider's instinct. When an alley smells off, it really is off. And this mansion smelled exactly like that.

Then it came.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Not the front door — the mansion gate itself boomed.

Three times. Perfectly rhythmic. That wasn't a knock. That was a notification.

Lena's face froze over in an instant. A different kind of ice this time. New ice froze over the spot where the old had just melted — far thicker.

"…Already."

"What's wrong?"

"The Aska Knight Order."

From beyond the gate, a hard, cutting voice rang out.

National Treasure.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

That was me.

Secured. Something about that word sent a chill straight through me.

Twenty years in the delivery business, and I'd never once had a recipient come at the door this aggressively.

Also a first: the package being myself.

Normally I deliver the goods. Today, it looked like I was about to be delivered.

"Um, when you say 'secured'—"

"It means locked away."

Lena said quietly.

"It's illegal. Which is why they call it 'protection.'"

Imprisonment, gift-wrapped in pretty words.

Beautiful ribbon on the outside, iron bars on the inside.

The phone displayed a single dry line.

…A system with a conscience but no legs.

Warnings in real time, but the escape route was DIY.

It'll navigate for you, but the feet are still yours.

Lena looked at me. With those same eyes that had laughed just now.

Her face hesitated, just for a moment.

The phone quietly read her heart and printed one line.

If she kept this man, the warmth she'd been starved of for three days could stay within arm's reach.

All she had to do was not open the door. No — open the door, and simply refuse to hand me over.

There were a hundred ways. She was the heir of a ducal house.

But the woman shook her head.

Slowly. As if convincing herself.

As if to say: caging people was what the knights out there did — not her.

"The back gate. Now."

Her finger pointed down the corridor.

"A National Treasure isn't something you lock up. It's something you honor. But they wouldn't know that."

"…And you do?"

"Just learned. While drinking the cola."

Lena smiled faintly. The third time.

"Whoever locks a person up ends up alone. Only the ones who come of their own will stay. Live alone for three days and you'll understand."

The words lodged somewhere in my chest, strangely deep.

"…Wait."

Lena grabbed my wrist.

Outside, BANG again. The knights' patience was wearing thin.

"We don't have time."

"I know."

And yet she didn't let go.

"…Just once. Let me—"

"Let you what?"

"Confirm it. That you're a real National Treasure."

The excuse sounded reasonable. Her eyes didn't. The eyes of a twenty-seven-year-old ducal heir were wavering like a child's set loose in front of something never seen before.

Lena sank to her knees. The hem of her dress spread across the marble floor.

"…Doesn't seem like something a ducal heir should be doing."

"I know."

Her hands, undoing my belt beneath the delivery vest, were trembling. The hands of a woman called the Ice Duchess.

The zipper came down.

When I sprang free, Lena stopped breathing.

"…This is—"

"Yes."

"This is. A man."

A single fingertip touched it, cautiously. Just the tip — and her shoulders jumped.

"It's warm."

"You've never touched one?"

"…Only in paintings."

Painting-taught hands wrapped around my cock. Clumsy. She gripped too hard, flinched when I inhaled sharply, let go — then tried again.

"…Does it hurt?"

"No. It feels good."

At that answer, something in Lena's eyes changed.

Her tongue came out.

She licked the tip. Once. A taste. Then, eyes closing, she took it into her mouth.

"Mmph—"

Deep. Clumsy, but deep. She pushed it all the way to the back of her throat, gagging on it, and still didn't pull away.

My hand found the back of her head. Silver hair spilled between my fingers.

Outside, BANG. BANG.

Lena didn't stop.

The front of her dress had fallen open, her nipples stiffening in the marble-cold air. Her other hand was already inside her own skirt.

A wet, slick sound rose — threaded between the sounds of her mouth on my cock.

"…You're touching yourself right now?"

She lifted her mouth off me, lips glistening.

"…What else am I supposed to do."

She went back down. Deeper this time. Fingers still circling her own clit.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

My hips bucked.

"Lena — I'm about to—"

She grabbed my hip with her hand and pulled me in. Don't you dare pull out.

I came deep in her throat.

Lena swallowed. All of it. Not a single drop spilled.

Then she pulled back, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and looked up at me.

"…You're a National Treasure all right."

I hitched my backpack up onto my shoulder.

Weekly wages, monthly salaries, research funding — an entire continent's treasury strapped to my back.

"What about the cola?"

"…What?"

"Nothing. I'll come collect later."

"…You'd better come."

That wasn't a command. It was a request.

The Ice Duchess's first request in her life.

Leaving behind the beauty who'd crumbled over one can of cola—

The gate boomed again.

My first delivery ended, and my first getaway began, in the same breath.

The National Treasure was smashing out of his museum glass and running on his own two feet.