Chapter 8 — Showing Skin Is Politeness Here

The door swung open without a sound.

A woman slipped inside, moving with the fluid grace of silk across stone.

I looked up—and froze dead in my tracks.

She wasn't wearing clothes.

Well, technically, she was wearing something, but where that fabric sat defied all comprehension. It wasn't draped to conceal her body; it looked arranged purely to emphasize every single curve. Thin chains circled her bare waist, and a diaphanous scrap of crimson cloth drifted down from beneath her breasts. Her stomach, her flanks, her thighs—every contour was completely laid bare to the room. With each step she took, the delicate chains rang out with a clear, silver chime.

In the quiet room, that metallic chime sounded unnervingly loud.

Bereft of anywhere decent to look, my gaze bolted straight toward the wooden beams of the ceiling.

"…Um. Your clothes."

"What about my clothes?"

The woman burst into a lyrical giggle. It started low in her throat, ending on an airy, teasing lilt.

"Why so startled? Aren't you cute?"

"No, it's not that."

"If it's not that, then what is it?"

"…You're going to catch a cold."

Even to my own ears, the words sounded utterly ridiculous.

The woman paused for half a beat, then clutched her stomach and doubled over in outright laughter.

"A cold? Look at him! Of all the things to worry about, you're fretting over an undressed stranger catching a chill?"

"It's not fretting. It's basic courtesy."

"Courtesy, is it? Well now—you picked the absolute perfect word to stumble over today."

She hoisted herself onto the edge of the table, making herself at home. As she crossed her bare legs, my eyes immediately shot back to the rafters.

"Hey, National Treasure. See something fascinating stuck to the ceiling?"

"…No. It's just that you're…"

"I'm what?"

"Practically naked."

"Naked?" She cast a nonchalant glance down at her own torso, then let out an even richer laugh. "Ah. So you really aren't from this continent. The rumors weren't exaggerating after all."

She flicked the chain resting against her hip with a polished fingernail.

Clink.

"This is etiquette."

"…Etiquette?"

"On a continent dominated by women, showing some skin is formal decorum for adults. It signifies that you have nothing up your sleeve, no hidden daggers, no deceitful intent. Walking around bundled up like a mummy is what's actually considered rude."

I blinked, trying to process the logic. "So you're telling me that in this place, the more clothes someone wears, the shadier they look?"

"Bingo. See someone wrapped up from chin to toe, and everyone immediately thinks, That one's got a dirty secret. What are they hiding?"

"Good grief."

"It's the same when receiving guests. The more distinguished the guest, the more bare your shoulders should be when welcoming them into your parlor. Greeting someone all bundled up is practically the same as slamming the front door in their face."

"…What about merchants, then? When they're peddling wares?"

"They bare the most skin of all! People only trust the merchandise if they can see the merchant's body. It translates to, 'I've got nothing hidden under my tunic, and my prices are honest.'"

"Seems to me swindlers would be stripping down even faster, then."

Lara brought her palms together in a sharp, delighted clap.

"My, look at that sharp brain! Exactly. That's why these days, merchants who bare a little too much skin are viewed with extra suspicion."

"So it just circles right back around to being completely ambiguous."

"That's etiquette for you across the world. It starts with grand intentions, and ends as a giant game of reading the room."

A sudden flashback hit me—memories of sweltering summer afternoons on Earth, sweating through a crisp three-piece suit on my way to corporate job interviews. In this world, every single one of those outfits would have screamed, I refuse to associate with you, you untrustworthy scum.

A cold sweat broke out along my neck. I couldn't even begin to calculate how many locals I had inadvertently insulted since crash-landing on this continent.

"…Then, at a wedding or something like that…"

"It's the most formal occasion of a lifetime, so naturally, you wear the absolute least."

"…Ugh."

"What? Imagining it?"

"I am not."

"Your eyes were already straying south, though?"

I whipped my gaze straight back to the ceiling beams. Lara chuckled again, clearly relishing my discomfort.

Only now did I truly grasp what Lena had meant when she insisted her revealing garments were simply standard adult attire. Back then, my heart had nearly exploded because I assumed she was seducing me with every ounce of her being. In reality, she had just put on her business suit and clocked in for work.

"…So right now, you're showing me proper etiquette?"

"My, you catch on quick." Her golden-brown eyes narrowed into feline crescents. "Meanwhile, you're bundled up tighter than an iron safe. By our standards, that means you're intensely on guard against me."

There was no counterargument. She had hit the nail on the head; I was completely on guard.

"Lara. Wandering dancer. And—information broker." She tossed out her identity as casually as a gambler flicking a coin onto felt. "Plenty of powerful figures are lining up to buy intel on you. But personally, I prefer buying over selling."

Information broker.

The title made my ears perk up instantly. Ever since my coordinates were leaked to the world, I hadn't understood a single thing about what was happening across this continent. Why the Kingdom was mobilizing royal decrees. What this shadowy 'Purity Society' nonsense was supposed to be.

Sera had simply shaken her head, dismissing it with, "I've only heard tavern gossip," while Lena drew an unyielding line in the sand: "You don't need to know right now."

It felt like everyone in this realm knew something except me. That suffocating ignorance had been lodged in my chest like a lead weight for three days straight. And now, this woman was sitting on my table, claiming she could sell me the answers.

Quietly, I called up the delivery app interface and triggered a scan out of habit.

Trust was at twenty-four percent. It was abysmal. Lena's very first scan had clocked in at forty-one percent, and this was barely half of that. A thick haze of question marks obscured everything; I couldn't read her inside at all.

Refusing to back down, I forced a rescan.

The number dropped. It was supposed to climb with familiarity, but it fell instead. How bizarre. Up until now, scanning someone deeper only brought their hidden self into sharper focus. With Lara, it was the exact opposite.

One more time.

I stared blankly at the glowing blue interface. For the first time since I arrived in this realm, the system had thrown up its hands in defeat.

Lena had been encased in twenty-seven years of frozen emotional trauma, yet she was still decipherable. Mia was an open picture book from the very first encounter. Sera's warm inner loyalty was plain to see even behind her biting jokes and tavern keeper banter. But Lara—the deeper I dug, the hazier she became. The more I tried to pry her open, the further she retreated into the shadows.

If I triggered another scan, the system would likely feed me a completely corrupted, distorted reading. I pulled my fingers back.

"What are you up to?" Lara tilted her head, her gaze piercing right through me. "You're sizing me up right now, aren't you?"

"…How did you know?"

"I've spent my entire life under the eyes of people stripping me down to the skin. I can recognize that look from a hundred paces away." Her easy smile thinned by a fraction. "Though yours is a little different. You're not looking to peel off my clothes. You're searching for something else entirely."

She had read me. Even when the system failed to parse her thoughts, she had seen right through mine. It was unprecedented. To hold an omniscient scanning tool and still walk away feeling utterly outmaneuvered.

"Let's settle on the price of the intel first." Lara held up a single slender finger. "I don't deal in silver or gold. Coin is dreadfully boring. What I want… is merchandise from Earth."

"…What do you even know about Earth merchandise?"

"That dark water circulating through Sera's tavern. The fizzy, sharp one that shocks your senses awake with a single mouthful."

She was talking about Coca-Cola.

On this continent, a single glass bottle of soda equated to three days of high-end intelligence broker wages. A fizzy soft drink traded for three days of prime rations—the economic inflation here was beyond parody. Back on Earth, you could fish one out of any corner convenience store fridge for fifteen hundred won, but over here, it hovered close to the market value of a prime draft ox.

"Give me one bottle of that, and I'll throw in a top-grade rumor on the house."

"Isn't that highway robbery?"

"Highway robbery? Oh, listen to him!" Lara snorted with theatrical indignation. "The Royal Head Maid offered a permanent position in a ducal estate for a single bottle! A senior researcher from the Magic Tower handed over an entire spatial seal diagram copied over three sleepless nights just for two bottles of that black water!"

"…That was the going rate for two bottles of Coke?"

"In this world, absolutely. Isn't it like that on Earth?"

"Back on Earth, kids buy that with loose pocket change."

Lara's eyes widened into massive circles. "Children? That black nectar? Good grief, the brats on your continent are wealthier than the kingdom's chief ministers!"

"It's not that they're rich; it's just mass-produced."

"Abundance is wealth, dear. A world where miraculous treasures are lying around everywhere like pebbles—do you have any idea how terrifying that sounds?"

I couldn't help but find this exchange, suffering mutual culture shock over the market value of carbonated sugar water, strangely hilarious.

"What about soju?" I asked.

"Soju?"

"Clear, bitter, gets you dizzy when you drink it."

"…That liquid counts as a research grant in the Magic Tower. The sorceresses are desperate to get their hands on it to fuel their all-night experiments; they're practically clawing each other's eyes out for a taste."

A single green bottle funding arcane research grants. A standard Korean convenience store cooler was, in this realm, the equivalent of a national royal treasury.

"One bottle of that black water, and I'll throw in a rumor," she repeated.

"Let's stick to the Coke. I need to hoard the soju for emergencies."

I called up the Dimensional Shop and materialized a chilled bottle of Coca-Cola.

Pfft-tsssh.

I pried the metal crown off with a fluid snap. For the first time, Lara's eyes grew genuinely round with awe.

"…That sound."

"Drink up."

She brought the bottle to her lips and took a cautious sip. Her throat bobbed, and almost instantly, a shimmering glaze washed over her dark eyes.

"…What in the world is this? It's downright fraudulent."

"The intel. You promised to throw in a rumor."

Lara cradled the glass bottle between both hands as if holding a sacred relic. She leaned in to take another draft, but thinking better of wasting a single drop, she pressed the cap firmly back over the rim.

"…I need to savor this drop by drop. I'll spill the rumor now." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "All right, National Treasure. Have you ever heard of the Purity Society?"

It was a name I had never encountered before.

"Never."

"That's only natural. Most people who know about it can't open their mouths."

"Can't open their mouths? Why?"

"Because the people who did weren't seen the following morning. So everyone learned the hard way: that name is only meant to be spoken inside your own head."

Lara rested her fingertips over the glass ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bottle, her tone sinking into an icy whisper.

"Haven't you ever wondered why there are so few men on this continent? Zero point eight percent. Do you honestly believe nature orchestrated that balance on its own?"

A chill swept down my spine.

"…It wasn't natural?"

"Three generations ago, the male population plummeted off a cliff. The history books call it a sudden epidemic. But illnesses don't discriminate and pick off only men." She traced the lip of the bottle with a smooth stroke. "In my great-grandmother's day, there were ten times as many men as there are now. Then, in the span of a single generation, gone. Erased—as if someone took a cloth and wiped them from the slate."

"Erased them?"

"There are those who believe a world inhabited solely by women is the righteous path. They claim men are impurities that contaminate the world. So they resolved to make it 'pure.' That is the Purity Society."

"Those absolute lunatics…"

"Lunatics, absolutely. But they hold terrifying power. They're embedded deep within the Royal Palace, and behind the closed doors of the Magic Tower. Faceless, nameless. None of them know each other's identities; directives simply filter down from above."

"…How do you know all this?"

"Because I'm an information broker. I scavenge the scraps that careless people drop in corners no one else bothers to look." Lara locked her gaze onto mine, her eyes razor-sharp. "And your coordinates? The ones that were posted to the Gallery with lethal precision? That was their handiwork."

The weight of my circumstances suddenly multiplied a hundredfold. The invisible hunters I had been running from without rhyme or reason finally possessed a face.

"Why target me?"

"Because you're an anomaly. A specimen." Lara tapped the wooden table with a sharp fingernail. "In the eyes of the Purity Society, men fall into two simple categories: those who can be managed, and those who must be erased. The manageable ones are locked away in gilded cages. The ones who can't be controlled are quietly put down."

"…Then what about me?"

"You refuse to fit into either box. You're tethered to this strange 'system,' you pull impossible artifacts out of thin air from Earth, and you're infuriatingly good at slipping away. You won't walk into their cages, and they can't erase you."

"…Wait. The men who can be managed—where are these cages?"

Lara's playful smile vanished instantly.

"That piece of intel costs far more than a single bottle of soda."

"…Is it that expensive?"

"It's not expensive; it's heavy. If you hear that story, you won't sleep a wink tonight." She flicked the neck of the bottle with her nail.

Tink.

"We stop here for today. Shoving another course down someone's throat before they've even digested the appetizer makes you a butcher, not an information broker."

I swallowed hard. The brutal geopolitical reality tethered to a single bottle of soda went far deeper than I had ever imagined.

"…Is being unmanageable really that bad?"

"To them, you're the absolute worst nightmare imaginable. A man completely outside their jurisdiction." She swirled the dark soda gently. "And things outside jurisdiction can't be assigned a price tag. The world is terrified of commodities it cannot appraise. Right now, their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠council is almost certainly debating how to dispose of you: whether to cage you, or to snuff you out."

Lara flashed a wicked, radiant grin.

"Doesn't frighten me, though. It's far too entertaining."

Lara flicked her finger toward the empty air.

"Look. It's trending right this second."

I opened the system's integrated community board, the Carrier Gallery.

Right before my eyes, one of the replies vanished with a soft digital pop.

It was genuinely deleted in real time.

Then the next comment blurred into static and disappeared as well.

"See?" Lara swirled the soda. "This rumor never stays up for long. Someone is actively scrubbing it. Which means they hold the administrative power to do so. To meddle with the Gallery across the entire continent… can you even begin to fathom how far their reach extends?"

I closed the screen.

That comment mentioning the 'Tavern National Treasure' had been referring directly to me.

"…Why sell this to me?"

"Who knows?" She shrugged her bare shoulders in an airy motion. "Because the Coke was tasty?"

It was delivered as a joke, but her eyes weren't smiling at all. Another wall of question marks. What on earth did this woman truly desire?

The system remained pinned at an unyielding [ Trust: 11% ] without budging a millimeter.

"Lara."

"Hm?"

"What do you want from me?"

I discarded the games and attacked the problem head-on. If the Scan refused to read her, my only option was to ask directly with my own mouth.

Lara hesitated for a fleeting instant.

Her manicured grip on the bottle tightened by a minuscule fraction.

"…Well now. That's a question I've never received before."

"What is?"

"Everyone asks me, 'How much?' Not 'What do you want?'"

"…Is that really so different?"

"Completely. Asking 'how much' means treating me like a commodity to be purchased. Asking 'what do you want' acknowledges that I have desires of my own." She looked down at the dark soda bottle, her expression softening. "All my life, people have slapped price tags on me. Not a single person ever stopped to ask what I actually wanted."

For a split second, the polished mask fell away.

The vulnerable face beneath flickered into view—only to be swiftly veiled once more behind her practiced smirk.

The system's analytical algorithm missed that half-second beat. But I caught it with my own eyes.

A woman whom the scan had written off at eleven percent trust was, for one brief heartbeat, completely legible through pure human instinct.

I finally began to understand what 'Please confirm through relationship' meant.

She rose from the edge of the table.

Her bare shoulders caught the warm, amber glow of the candlelight. She closed the distance between us, her intoxicating, spicy floral perfume washing over me in a dizzying wave.

"National Treasure. Shall I share one more piece of wisdom? On the house."

"…What now?"

"I'm an information broker. When an unattached man appears on this continent, he becomes the most expensive commodity in existence. Priceless enough to make the Head Maid's ducal estate or the Magic Tower's ancient diagrams look like copper scraps."

She leaned her face in close, her breath warm against my cheek. Her husky voice dipped low, ending on that signature, breathless lilt.

"If I sold you, I could lounge in luxury for the rest of my days. Without ever lifting a single finger."

My breath caught in my throat.

"…And yet you're not selling me?"

"Not yet."

"'Not yet' sounds pretty terrifying."

"It was meant to sound terrifying."

Lara laughed softly, the vibration humming through the narrow space between our chests.

"Still, you see…"

This time, her smile was no shield.

"I could sell you off to the highest bidder, or I could keep you for myself. And I did tell you—I prefer the latter."

The candle flame flickered.

Her scent, the soft chime of her waist chains, and the weight of those parting words—all of them hung suspended in the stillness of the room.

Above her head, the system interface remained completely incapable of reading a single syllable of her true heart.

For the first time, I genuinely wanted to read someone.

Not through the convenience of a system scan, but through another way entirely.