He looked a fair sight out of place, the young Japanese man in front of the back-alley merchants. They might have called him an herbivore, perhaps a shrinking violet, if they'd known what that meant--but they didn't even know what "Japanese" meant. Nor did they know of Japan, or Earth, or anything approaching a cheeseburger.

At first it had been difficult. Only a few of his classmates had survived the first year: possessed by dreams of glory and daring-do, they went running off into dragons' dens and worse. He'd seen a few, now and then, in the gutters: as he'd made his way through the slums to meet these fine gentlemen the first time, he'd spied a girl he remembered from his study hall. She'd been dressed in little better than rags, and had a dirty, bruised face--of course, he'd turned away. He didn't have time for charity.

But Toshi had established himself. Now, almost a whole year after his unfortunate and untimely relocation, he was better than adjusted--he was wealthy. Not rich, and not aristocracy, but he had money enough to buy a house and something else.

The house was a pleasant little cottage on the edge of a meadow, and the "something else" was at his doorstep at this very moment. The delivery man, if he could be called that, gave him a few warnings (no refunds, "as-is"). He gave him a few suggestions for proper use (daily to weekly, careful observation). And he gave Toshi a few warnings as well, but he hardly listened to any of it. His heart was racing faster than it had facing bandits straight after his rebirth; his head was swimming more than it had when he'd finally been confronted with the idea that one or his fantasy novels had come true. The deal was finalized at last and two heavy-set, burly men brought the barrel inside.

Toshi stared at the barrel for what felt like a long moment after they'd left, but forced himself out of his reverie and removed the lid with fingers he desperately tried to still.

She looked up at him from inside the cramped barrel, her luminous eyes just as bright and just as entreating as he remembered. She was slim but shapely, and the slender pointed ears that peeked out from her white hair marked her as an Elf--a Dark Elf, skin as black as soot. A rarity no doubt destined for an unfortunate end at the hand of some ill-minded noble. The thin shift she was dressed in would have hardly protected her from so much as a man's gaze. He'd had to have her the second he saw her--no, Toshi had needed to save her. And so he had done just that.

He stepped back and cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. He prepared the words he'd dreamed of saying for almost a year, and said them:
"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. I had to make sure you were safe, so I bought your contract. You're my slave now but I'll treat you just like I would anyone else."
He waited. Toshi watched her beautiful purple eyes and awaited the tears of relief--of total, transcendent relief--that would pour from her eyes. Now. Any minute now.

Instead those eyes narrowed, her expression suddenly fierce and mistrustful. "And why," she said harshly in a paradoxically melodic voice, "Should I believe you?"

Toshi sputtered. He searched for words. This wasn't how he'd expected things would go, not at all. What other lines had he prepared? "I am a fair and honorable man," he started, but never finished.
"Just what an unfair and dishonorable man would say," the girl interrupted. "I'd prefer you'd told me you were a dirty thief: then at least I'd believe you."

Toshi opened his mouth and then closed it. At once his throat felt very, very dry. "I mean you no harm," he offered.
"Then you can stay away from me," she snapped, "and I'll stay here in this barrel." And as she said, the slave ducked back into the barrel and curled up in its bottom. It couldn't have been comfortable.

Toshi just stood there, panicking, no longer at all sure of what to do with himself.
This wasn't at all how his books had gone.