Chapter 46: It’s Only Natural for Irregularities to Occur
The assignment for this job was simple on paper:
Deliver letters.
The children involved were estimated to be between five and ten years old.
Despite their young age, children often understood more than adults gave them credit for. They might not fully grasp every detail of their circumstances, but they understood the broad reality—that they lived apart from their parents, that their lives were different from those of other children, and that the place they called home existed because someone, somewhere, cared enough to support it.
The children living here knew that.
They knew that the reason they could eat warm meals every day, sleep in clean beds, and spend their days laughing and playing without fear was because kind men and women donated money to keep the facility running.
One day, the director had gathered them together and made a suggestion.
“Let’s write thank-you letters to all the nice people who support us.”
The children had eagerly agreed.
With clumsy handwriting, crooked characters, and countless erased mistakes, they poured their gratitude onto paper.
Some drew pictures.
Some filled pages with innocent stories.
Some simply wrote, “Thank you.”
But every one of those letters had been written sincerely.
And our job was to deliver those letters to their recipients.
At first glance, that sounded ridiculously straightforward.
In fact, it sounded so straightforward that it raised an obvious question.
Why would anyone need a paid workforce for something like this?
If all that mattered was getting the letters delivered, they could have slapped stamps on the envelopes and dropped them in a mailbox.
Or the director himself could have delivered them.
The answer was simple.
Because the entire thing had been orchestrated from the beginning.
The very people receiving the letters were the same people who had encouraged the director to have the children write them in the first place.
A perfect self-created setup.
A classic case of manufacturing one’s own emotional payoff.
A self-serving cycle.
A pump-and-dump of sentimentality.
In other words:
A bunch of rich old benefactors had deliberately engineered an opportunity to receive heartfelt gratitude from adorable children.
The question then became:
Why recruit workers through this bizarre “Light Job” system?
The answer lay in something the children had apparently begun insisting on.
They had said:
“We want to read our letters out loud in front of the people we’re thanking.”
That changed everything.
Do you understand now?
Our real job wasn’t letter delivery.
It was, in the broadest sense—
Babysitting.
There were five recipients.
Each recipient would be visited by two children.
The children would personally travel to their destination and express their gratitude face-to-face.
And the people hired through the Light Job system were meant to act as their escorts.
At least, that had been the original plan.
If there had been five workers, everything would have been simple.
Each worker could supervise two children and accompany them to a different destination.
Problem solved.
But now there were only two of us.
Me and Oba-senpai.
With only two people, physically accompanying every child was impossible.
Naturally, using facility staff was one possible solution.
However, there was a complication.
This entire event was unusually particular in its design.
Because of the nature of the project, having facility employees serve as escorts was undesirable.
Postponing the event was also something they wanted to avoid if possible.
Most importantly—
The organizers preferred that the escorts be people with no meaningful connection to the children.
Today was merely an introduction.
A meet-and-greet.
The actual event would take place next Saturday.
And what exactly was scheduled for next Saturday?
Put simply—
‘Old Enough to Go Shopping Alone.’
“So the role of the workers,” I summarized, “is to safely deliver both the letters and the children carrying them to these long-armed, long-legged benefactors, then bring the children safely back afterward.”
“Heh heh heh. Long-Armed and Long-Legged? Those are yokai, you know.”
Director Shiroza chuckled warmly at my joke.
Personally, I didn’t think it was much of a joke.
Wealthy old people who spent their money creating elaborate adventures for children to entertain themselves sounded close enough to supernatural creatures.
Calling them monsters seemed entirely reasonable.
Even Oba-senpai had looked surprised after hearing the full explanation, suggesting he hadn’t known the details beforehand.
Though honestly, knowing the details probably wouldn’t have changed the wording of the job description much.
Next Saturday, the children would embark on what was essentially a field trip.
An adventure.
They would travel to the homes of these benevolent yokai and personally deliver their thanks.
Alone.
Or at least, they would believe they were alone.
The children would navigate to their destinations using their own efforts.
They would overcome small obstacles, make decisions, and complete their mission.
The benefactors wanted to enjoy that journey as entertainment.
They wanted to witness the children’s growth.
To watch them struggle.
To watch them succeed.
To watch them become proud of themselves.
Unfortunately, this was the real world.
Sending children out by themselves came with risks.
Anything could happen.
And so workers were needed.
People who could watch from the shadows.
People who could secretly photograph and record the children’s progress for the clients.
People who could intervene if danger appeared.
People who could protect them without ruining the illusion.
That was the true nature of the Light Job.
And the reason the pay was so high.
The money wasn’t for delivering letters.
It was for guaranteeing the children’s safety.
“I see,” I said.
“The children believe they’re reaching the destination through their own efforts. That’s why familiar staff members won’t work. Hiring near-strangers is more convenient.”
“Exactly,” Director Shiroza nodded.
“The ideal situation is for the workers to appear as if they just happened to be nearby and happened to lend a hand.”
“Haha.”
I laughed dryly.
“What a pain.”
Still.
People were free to spend their money however they pleased.
If someone wanted to waste enormous amounts of time and cash creating a personalized children’s adventure, that was their business.
As long as money changed hands, supply and demand remained intact.
“The real problem,” I continued, glancing toward Oba-senpai, “is the lack of personnel.”
I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
This senior who constantly appeared broke.
This senior who looked perpetually irresponsible.
This senior who somehow ended up recruiting workers for a highly unusual operation.
Now that I thought about it…
Had he really been the right person for the job?
“Exactly!” Director Shiroza sighed.
“I specifically asked Oba-kun to make proper arrangements.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Oba-senpai protested immediately.
“I worked hard, okay!? I really did recruit people! It’s just… well… everyone suddenly had urgent plans…”
The excuses began flowing freely.
I tuned them out.
Instead, I started constructing a solution.
A plan.
Because a perfectly ordinary college student had to be prepared for unexpected developments.
Why?
Because every perfectly ordinary story was packed with abnormalities.
In textbook light novels, unexpected complications were practically mandatory.
At a school festival, a key performer collapsed from illness.
On the way to fulfill an important promise, a traffic accident occurred.
During a tournament to determine the strongest student in the academy, a mysterious intruder appeared halfway through.
The probability wasn’t one hundred percent.
But it was close enough.
Nine times out of ten, something went wrong.
Which meant that abnormalities weren’t exceptions.
They were expectations.
And the ability to deal with them was the minimum qualification required of a perfectly ordinary protagonist.
A perfectly ordinary college student like me had no reason to fail.
“Oba-senpai’s mistake can’t be helped,” I declared.
“Therefore, I would like to propose three possible solutions.”
“Hmm?” Director Shiroza leaned forward with interest.
Since Oba-senpai seemed too stunned to contribute, I addressed the director directly.
“First. We cancel or postpone the event.”
The director immediately grimaced.
I continued.
“The children’s safety cannot be guaranteed. Naturally, they will be disappointed, and the benefactors may be disappointed as well. However, no reasonable person would object if safety is the justification. Explanations can be provided. The children can be persuaded.”
“Mmm…”
The director stroked his chin.
“From a practical standpoint, that’s probably the correct answer.”
Of course it was.
It was the safest option.
The most sensible option.
The least exciting option.
Nobody would lose anything.
But nobody would gain anything either.
The children would be disappointed.
The benefactors would be disappointed.
The event would disappear.
A thoroughly unremarkable solution.
Which was precisely why the director disliked it.
As expected.
So I moved on.
“Second.”
I raised another finger.
“If any method is acceptable, I can secure additional personnel.”
Director Shiroza blinked.
“You’re surprisingly confident. Do you have connections?”
“A few.”
Two.
Possibly three.
Depending on how desperate things became.
“However,” I added, “every option would come at my own expense. I’d prefer not to use them.”
The first options involved mobilizing the Nekoyanagi Clan or calling in a favor from the Inugashi Clan.
Neither appealed to me.
Modern-day ninja families were not an ordinary solution.
And I valued my ordinary life.
The alternative was asking Meiko, Takesuru, or Kuwajima.
But they had their own schedules.
Dragging them into this with almost no notice wasn’t impossible.
Just undesirable.
And there was a high chance they wouldn’t even understand what a “Light Job” was.
Which left my final proposal.
The true proposal.
“And third.”
Director Shiroza smiled.
“And what is your third idea?”
I smiled back.
“We refine the event itself.”
“Oh?”
The director’s eyes narrowed with interest.
“Let’s be honest. ‘Old Enough to Go Shopping Alone’ is outdated.”
I folded my arms.
“I don’t particularly care what the Long-Armed and Long-Legged benefactors want. What matters is creating something better.”
Something more enjoyable.
Something more memorable.
Something that would satisfy both the children and the clients.
“If we redesign Saturday’s event into something genuinely exciting, then everyone wins.”
“Oh ho?”
Director Shiroza’s eyes sparkled.
There it was.
The reaction I wanted.
Because this had been my real objective all along.
When an irregularity occurred, you didn’t merely solve it.
You used it.
You transformed it.
You turned it into something greater than the original plan.
That was the secret of being perfectly ordinary.
When an actor dropped out of a school play, the overlooked heroine suddenly received her chance to shine.
When someone arrived disastrously late to a confession, the waiting heroine’s devotion became all the more moving.
When an unknown challenger invaded a tournament, bitter rivals joined forces to defeat a stronger enemy.
An irregularity wasn’t a problem.
It was an opportunity.
If something unexpected happened, then you rebuilt the event itself.
You surpassed the original plan.
You aimed for an even better ending.
That was what a perfectly ordinary college student did.
Director Shiroza was staring at me now.
His eyes gleamed.
He had realized it.
He knew this final proposal was the one I truly wanted.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“Tell me this idea of yours.”
I grinned.
“Gladly.”
“I’ll give you a presentation you’ll never forget.”
“Uh… Gouto-kun?”
Oba-senpai looked increasingly uneasy.
“Are you absolutely sure bringing you here was a good idea?”
I appreciated him.
Truly.
If I wasn’t careful, I might accidentally laugh.
Not only had he presented me with a way to earn money—
He had also handed me an irregularity.
A challenge.
An opportunity to become even more ordinary.
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Job Description
Comment: The fact that this is a Light Job in the first place is already an irregularity.
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Irregularity plus irregularity equals normality.
Perfectly reasonable.
Nothing strange about that.
Besides—
This entire mess had been your recommendation in the first place, Hallucination.
Now then.
This was becoming interesting.
During the Childhood Friend Derby, Inugashi’s rampage had sent the event wildly off course.
But this time would be different.
This time, I would ride the chaos instead of being dragged along by it.
I would master this irregularity.
And turn it into something far greater than anyone had planned.