"You're so biased..."
The young man, angered to the point of laughter, worked tirelessly to provide his wife with a comfortable life, only to find out he had neglected her feelings, giving someone else the opportunity to exploit the situation.
Furious, he lost control and began yelling insults.
"Hey, sir, your words are too harsh. Hosts are performers, not prostitutes. Please don't look at us with such prejudice.
"And yes, your wife came here behind your back. She was wrong to hide it from you.
"But are you completely blameless?
"Think about why your wife sought happiness elsewhere. Isn't it because you've neglected her and made her feel cold and distant?
"When evaluating problems, please be rational and avoid blaming others for everything. It only makes you look incapable."
Momonosuke spoke with righteous indignation, projecting the image of a fair and impartial mediator.
The young man couldn't take it anymore and lunged at him, dismissing the "rational mediator" and rejecting the victim-blaming logic.
However, in his anger, he overlooked one crucial detail—this was Momonosuke's turf.
The moment he acted out, he was quickly subdued under the guise of self-defense. He was then thrown into jail for "causing a disturbance."
The lovestruck young woman, now completely consumed by infatuation, saw nothing wrong with this. Instead, she believed her husband was irrational and even apologized to Momonosuke on his behalf.
Momonosuke wore his trademark fake smile, handling the situation with the ease of someone well-versed in such affairs.
Though this "ghost pillow" customer had now lost her stable income source, Momonosuke, driven by a sustainable "no-resource-left-untapped" philosophy, had no plans to discard her.
As long as he could steer her toward taking out high-interest loans or working in adult services, he could still extract value from her, like squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.
After resolving the matter, Momonosuke returned to his office, shedding his usual facade. With his legs casually crossed on the desk, he no longer bore the polished, graceful demeanor he showed others. "Kurozumi, pour me some tea. I'm thirsty."
A simple, honest-looking young man brought him tea. His name was Kurozumi, and he had served Momonosuke since childhood.
Wait, you ask, how does an orphan have a servant?
Well, that's just the marketing narrative crafted by the host club.
These days, if you don't play up a tragic backstory, how can you evoke public sympathy? How else can you stand out in the competitive host industry?
Momonosuke took a sip of tea, not drinking it but merely moistening his throat before spitting it out. Only on the second cup did he drink properly.
At that moment, the door to the room opened. This was his private space, and very few people in the White Horse Host Club had the freedom to enter.
The visitor was a middle-aged man with a broad, thick face and a mustache—the owner of the host club.
Strangely, however, the owner displayed a humble attitude toward his star host. "Lord Momonosuke..."
At this moment, it seemed Momonosuke was the real boss, while the owner was merely his subordinate.
Momonosuke remained indifferent. "What is it, Kanjuro?"
"Lord Momonosuke, with the interconnected businesses of hosting, adult services, and high-interest loans, we've now accumulated enough initial capital. Should we consider—"
Momonosuke cut him off. "I'm a bit tired. Can you let me rest for a while?"
"I understand..."
Kanjuro's spirits dampened as he left quietly.
"Kurozumi, you go, too."
Once both had left, the office was empty, leaving Momonosuke alone.
From his collar, he pulled out a necklace, frowning deeply. He had no desire to return to that place.
...
Kinjuro introduced, "Mr. Momonosuke, these are the hired ninjas who will be escorting you this time."
"Why are they all kids? Are they really up to the task?"
Momonosuke's gaze swept over the group, landing on one individual with a sudden glint in his eye—the predatory look of a hunter spotting prey. He extended his hand. "Hello, young lady, I'm Momonosuke, the top host at this establishment and your escort mission target."
Seeing him extend his hand in apparent goodwill, Tsunade hesitated but refrained from shaking it. Instead, she simply replied, "Hello," as a polite gesture.
She wasn't particularly fond of people who were overly enthusiastic from the start. It reminded her too much of Jiraiya.
Momonosuke was momentarily stunned, his sunny and charming demeanor failing for once. He laughed awkwardly. "Sorry, sorry. I actually have a soft spot for young girls. I tend to lose control when I see them. Please don't take it to heart."
Tōshirō silently remarked to himself: Isn't that just being a lolicon?
"It's fine," Tsunade replied calmly.
Perhaps due to her naivety, she failed to notice anything unusual.
Momonosuke's Conversation
Momonosuke casually asked, "What's your name, young lady?"
"Tsunade," she replied.
Momonosuke was momentarily taken aback.
Tsunade? That's quite an unusual name.
Putting on his best facade, he remarked with sincere admiration, "What a lovely name! Young lady, do you know much about hosts?"
"I know a little," Tsunade replied, her brows furrowing.
She couldn't shake the feeling that this host was a bit too talkative. His behavior reminded her of Jiraiya, someone she thoroughly disliked.
Flashing a wide, eight-toothed smile, Momonosuke adopted the image of a sunny, cheerful young man. "Hosts are masters of bringing happiness to women. Would you like to experience it, young lady? I wouldn't even charge you."
Tsunade frowned, puzzled. "Why do you keep calling me 'young lady'? What's with that title?"
Momonosuke replied warmly, "It's a term of endearment, a nickname born out of affection."
Tsunade looked at him as though he were a lunatic. This guy must be crazy.
Who in their right mind starts using affectionate nicknames right off the bat? If it weren't for the fact that he was their employer, Tsunade might have punched him on the spot for being a creep.
Or are all hosts just a bizarre bunch of people?
"What's wrong?" Momonosuke asked.
"Nothing."
Tsunade decided she didn't want to continue the conversation. "If there's nothing else, let's get moving." Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned and walked away.
Momonosuke was genuinely baffled. His usual charm, which always worked wonders, seemed utterly useless here.
Girls around Tsunade's age visiting host clubs weren't unheard of, and Momonosuke could usually win them over with minimal effort. Yet this time, his target was proving frustratingly difficult to charm.
Hmph... Young lady, you've piqued my interest.
The more unattainable something seemed, the more he wanted it. Fueled by this twisted psychology, Momonosuke's gaze burned with determination.
.....
In the Land of Wano
In a dimly lit room, a burly man with his eyes covered by bandages swirled a glass of red wine in his hand before placing it on the table. His deep, resonant voice echoed, "I see… No wonder he's been impossible to find all these years. He's changed his name and even become a host. Hmph…"
This man was Dokei, the nominal ruler of this nation.
Before him knelt three subordinates, one on each knee. Upon hearing his words, the subordinate on the right, a corpulent figure, spoke, "No wonder he's been so elusive. If not for the traitor among them, we'd never have found him."
The subordinate on the left, a seductive woman, grinned. "It seems certain now. Momonosuke is that bastard child."
The middle subordinate, of average build, remarked, "Killing Momonosuke seems straightforward."
"But this escort team includes ninjas from the Leaf Village. They appear young, but there's something unusual about them. Their strength might be considerable."
"Heh heh, things are getting interesting," the woman chuckled.
"Don't underestimate them," Dokei warned.
....
After sending his subordinates off on their mission, Dokei remained alone in the dim room. Rising slowly from his seat, he approached a lifelike stone statue and gazed at it for a long time, his eyes filled with reverence.
Suddenly, he seemed to sense something and frowned. "Didn't I say I wasn't to be disturbed right now?"
He turned, only to freeze in shock as a figure emerged from the shadows.
The man bore an uncanny resemblance to the stone statue, though he looked older. Of course, that was natural—stone statues don't age, but people do.
"You… You're Lord Madara."
Uchiha Madara smiled faintly. "How are those eyes treating you?"
"Thanks to you, they've been a blessing," Dokei replied, his tone brimming with reverence. Without the man before him, he wouldn't be where he was today.
"Take off your bandages and show me your eyes."
"Yes."
Without hesitation, Dokei removed the bandages, revealing a pair of scarlet eyes with three tomoe spinning in them.
Uchiha Madara squinted slightly, his own eyes quickly transforming into the Mangekyō Sharingan. Forming a single-handed seal, he said, "I'll give you something interesting."
Sharingan: Transcription Seal.
(End of Chapter)
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