First, Let's Throw Out the Trash.
That evening, Rachel came to see me, having fallen for my proposal about welfare—more precisely, the promise that she could become even more beautiful than she was now.
And so, I arrived at the Gold Territory Office, the first completed building in Gold Territory, with Rachel in tow.
"Hmm, it's quite... flashy, isn't it?"
"It has to be, for Gold Territory. What do you think? Doesn't it make you want to get to work?"
The massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling of our Gold Territory Office had been a gift from Duke Frederik, and the rug that unfurled the moment you opened the front doors had come from the Ecna family. We'd also sourced accessories from all over to emphasize an elegance befitting my status, blending Western opulence with Oriental grace in perfect harmony. No wonder Rachel was stunned.
But the real showstopper she needed to notice was the ticket dispenser machine. Seeing the spare one I'd stocked up on in case my hospital's machine broke filled me with a fresh wave of pride. Every time I'd gone to the Frederik Dungeon Zone Office before, I'd had to carry an extra handkerchief to deal with the slimy mucus from those disgusting ticket-dispensing snails. Not in Gold Territory Office—no room for such dignity-destroying monsters here.
"The atmosphere... it feels less like an office and more like a ballroom. It's a bit over the top—"
"Better too much than too little."
"...Pardon?"
"It's a saying from my homeland."
"What kind of place is the Baron's hometown to have sayings like that—"
"Call me Director from now on, not Baron. You'll be working with me, so you'll say it plenty. And with the tour done, let's get going."
"Going? Where to...?"
Wherever I came from is none of your business, Rachel. You provide the labor, and I'll make you beautiful. That's the deal.
Seeing her confused expression made one corner of my mouth twitch upward involuntarily.
"To the Beauty Tower. We need to sign that contract, right?"
"Ah, yes. We did agree to that..."
Look at this sly woman. She'd already run the numbers in her head, and now she was pretending to be nervous.
Or is she actually nervous?
On the way from the office to the Beauty Tower, a quick scan of her micro-expressions—narrowed brow and all—confirmed real anxiety flickering between her eyes.
Tsk tsk, that's no good. She's not just going to be a regular office clerk. I need her for all sorts of things. Can't have her making faces like that.
I didn't love doing free treatments, but for Rachel—who'd soon be stamping her seal on the contract—I'd throw in a teaser service.
The automatic doors slid open as we entered the Beauty Tower, and there was Walter waiting right at the entrance.
"Welcome back, Director."
"Yeah, I'm here. No need to follow. It'll just be the two of us talking. And she needs a treatment anyway."
"Understood."
As I brushed past Walter, who bowed his head, and headed for the elevator, Rachel—trailing behind—spoke up in a startled voice.
"Director? A treatment? What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing major. Once we sign the contract, you'll officially be a Gold Territory resident, right? As a welcome gift, I'll touch up your face a bit."
"Y-you don't mean... my nose today?"
If the elevator doors hadn't opened right then, I might've whipped around with a scowl.
People need a conscience. Does she think she can get a free nose job from the hand of God—me, of all people?
"Like I said back at the Frederik Dungeon Zone Office, nose jobs aren't free—they're discounted. Today, it's something simple that’ll make you beautiful in an instant."
"A treatment that makes you beautiful in an instant?"
Her voice trembled ever so slightly, thick with anticipation.
"If you're curious, we'll do the treatment first, then the contract. It won't take long."
"Ahem, well, shall we?"
As we stepped into the elevator together and the doors closed, my scheming smile faded away.
The elevator reached the 11th floor, doors opening to reveal Res sprawled across the patient waiting room chairs. The little fluffball sprang up and charged at me like a bullet.
"Maiineer!"
"Res, go wash up again before you come in."
"I already washed!"
"You were lying on the chair. Who knows what invisible germs are on you now. Unless you want all your fur shaved off—"
"Chii, fine."
I grabbed the face of the rapidly approaching fluffball and shoved it sideways. The white cotton-puff grumbled with pursed lips and scampered off to disinfect its fur again.
Rachel watched the scene with a puzzled tilt of her head.
"Last time I was here, it was a human nurse, wasn't it?"
"Not a nurse—think of it as a healing magic specialist aide. Come on in, and we'll talk."
"Yes."
Value depends on reserves and output. Res costs 1 gold per hour to use magic.
Back when I first picked up Res, the cost-performance was so abysmal I avoided using it as much as possible. Now? It's cheap labor—no, dragon power.
Among Beauty Tower staff, those who could use healing magic fell into three categories: the ex-Black Moon Church Jo family folks, the witches, and Res. Rebecca, Hazel, and Stella were premium talent handling simple procedures and surgeries—no need to elaborate. The Jo family were thriving as beauty techs in the total beauty care shop. And not one of them earned less than 1 gold per hour.
Except Res.
In other words, with Res's relative cost-performance improved, it only made financial sense to use it for these odd jobs.
"Before the full consultation, let's start with a skin diagnosis. See that black curtain? Yes, stick your face in there and wait a moment."
"You want me to put my face in that box thing?"
"It's a MarkView skin analyzer. No pain, so don't be scared—just shove your face right in. Relax your neck... there, slide it in nice and easy. Keep your eyes closed tight—no peeking."
Back in the day, skin care consultations meant the manager glaring at you with piercing eyes, scrutinizing every inch. You had to put up with that awkward staring contest to spot issues.
But with the MarkView system widespread now, no more of that embarrassment.
Beep—
"Good. Front shot done. Now left profile. Eyes closed tight again."
MarkView photographs the face from front, left, and right profiles for a full analysis. Visual checks alone usually just skim the epidermis.
But MarkView uses an 18-megapixel high-res camera, steady LED lighting, polarizing filters, and more.
Beep—
"Perfect. Now right profile. Eyes closed."
That means analysis across four views: NL (natural light), SL (specular), PL (polarized), UV (ultraviolet). It diagnoses not just the epidermis but the dermis too. Plus personalized metrics like vascular activity or sebaceous gland levels, tailoring treatments perfectly.
Beep—
"All done. You can open your eyes now. Results will be ready soon."
"Y-yes..."
Unlike her usual prickly demeanor, Rachel looked tense as hell. Fair enough—MarkView exposed every bare-faced flaw mercilessly.
Moments later, the results popped up: four photos in yellow, white, pale, and blue tones on the monitor. I gestured for her to look.
"Sit here. We'll go left to right. First is natural light, second specular."
I circled spots with the laser pointer.
"Specular shows pores, fine lines, texture, scars like this... Rachel, how old did you say you were?"
Back in September, she'd come for syphilis treatment. I never forget patient details.
But asking her age now? Sales tactic 101—time to push the meds.
"Twenty-nine this year. Why...?"
"Aigoo... nine year... it's a nine year."
"Nine year? What does that mean?"
"It's a folk superstition from my region—not worth explaining. Just... an age that needs caution."
She furrowed her brow slightly, pushing up her glasses in surprise.
"Tell me! What's a nine year?"
"Hmm... it's nothing. Don't take it to heart."
As she nodded eagerly, I sighed softly and continued.
"Ages with nine—like 9, 19, 29—are bad for marriage. Bad things happen."
"Haha... what nonsense."
Her lip twitched as I shook my head lightly.
"The nonsense is your face, Rachel."
"Pardon? What did you—"
"How could you not come to the hospital until your face turned into this? Twenty-nine? I'd believe thirty-nine."
"Hey, Director! That's too much!"
"Too much is your face! No wonder you're unmarried."
"W-what?!"
She reeled from the sudden attack. But you don't stop at impact—that's amateur hour. Press when they're staggering, finish the job.
"Listen up, Rachel. It's not just specular. Polarized shows brown and red pigments. UV on the far right reveals deep pigments and porphyrins causing acne. And here's the report card! Any of this look okay?!"
"What language even is this...?"
Fair—she couldn't read the English and Korean labels.
"My homeland's language. Judge by colors. See the top-left bars in green, lime, yellow, orange, red? Two lines: top for redness sensitivity, bottom for acne."
"Mine... both hit red?"
Her voice shook; I nodded vigorously.
"Worst level! And that's not all. Below, those square boxes—two up top, two bottom, small one in the middle where they mesh?"
"Yes... what's that?"
"Shows your skin type. Yours? Top-right: oily."
"Is oily bad?"
"Listen. Your skin's in chaos right now."
"Ch-chaos?"
"Total disaster. Keep going."
Rachel's MarkView results were predictably abysmal. Thirty years without proper care? No surprise.
"Look—pores wide as hell. Wrinkles galore, sebum overflowing, but here! Moisture! See? Normal skin's 30%—yours is 19%!"
"Is that... bad?"
Her eyes were already glistening. Compared to other territory office workers, she lagged in specs and cash—and now skin too? Shredded her last pride.
"Very bad. Dehydrated oily skin."
"Dehydrated... oily?"
I thrust my index finger toward her lips as she started to ask.
"Mmph! Whmph thmph?!"
"You don't even deserve to ask. Just listen."
"Don't deserve—?! What do you keep saying? First skin treatment—how should I know?!"
She shoved my finger away, raising her voice. I gripped her shoulders hard.
"Ugh! What the hell?!"
"Listen, Rachel. Once."
"...?"
I spoke softly but drilled it in.
"Your face is a trash bin, Rachel. Twenty-nine years dumping garbage in it. Now it's overflowing, and you want it to shine? Think garbage dreams of marriage? Dares to? Not time for questions on dehydrated oily—it's time to flip that disaster!"
"Uh... ughh... how could you..."
Sorry, Rachel. After all you've put me through, no guilt saying what I'd never tell a regular patient.
"Hic... snif... "
"Hey, stop crying! Tears won't un-trash it."
"Snif... then what?!"
As she wailed, snot and tears flying, I flashed a gleaming grin, gums and all.
"First, let's throw out the trash."
Undeniable fact: Rachel had treated her face like a dump for years.
But dump the filth, clean inside and out?
Skin care alone could transform her completely.
And I would make her beautiful, come hell or high water.
Rachel had all sorts of uses.