Now, why am I in a hotel, apparently late for a trip? Well, it’s… a story.

  ===================================================================================================================================

  Around December last year, my family received a letter. A crisp fancy letter that said that we had been randomly selected, among a group of 20 individuals from the country, mostly students, by a certain corporation called the Red Curtain to attend a certain event.

  No catch, no strings. Just a simple cultural exchange program where everything, from flights to food, even the accommodations would be fully paid for. The only requirement was that we had to be in Japan by the 12th of April.

  Is it simple to understand? Yes.

  Is it oddly specific? Yes.

  Is it strange? Very.

  That night we received the letter, Mother called our father in Singapore and explained the contents to him. That call turned into a video chat, which turned into three hours of non-stop discussion between the two of them.

  The letter said we had a month to decide on whether we wanted to attend or not. No pressure, just a mysterious all-expenses-paid trip dangling in front of us like a game show prize. If we did decide to accept the invitation, more information would be given to us, such as the exact time and place.

  And we would be treated to an entire week of activities with our Japanese counterparts, who would also be students. I could easily guess that they would be just as confused and curious as we were.

  Normally people would be ecstatic to be offered a chance to go to a different country. For free, no less. New sights, new food, new passport stamps. What’s not to love? However, there were just too many red flags.

  For one thing, the letter mentioned every one of us by name. Not just ‘Dear Family’ or ‘To Whom It May Concern’. No. It listed all our names, in the correct order, spelled properly, even the kanji.

  And the biggest one? None of us—not me, not my mother, father, or brother—had entered anything. No competition, no raffle, no suspicious online quiz promising “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Our names were chosen from where, exactly?

  It felt less like a lucky draw and more like someone had been paying attention. Too much attention.

  It was the kind of invitation that sounded generous until you started asking questions or so we believed. Both our parents, with their web of connections, past and present, asked around about the company and the event.

  The name of the corporation came up clean. Positive, even.

  It was a well-established group involved in finance, trade, tourism, and even research and development. The event, however, was a different story. No mentions in articles, newspapers, or social media; not a whisper online.

  Just a polished letter and a deadline.

  Our parents took an entire week to decide before giving an answer. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, apparently, but in the end, what tipped the scales was the future, our future. That, and the fact that it would look impressive on our résumé — or so Mom said.

  Apparently, mysterious invitations from international corporations are the kind of thing that makes admissions officers and hiring managers raise their eyebrows, in a good way. Who knew.

  With our reply set and sent, all we had to do was wait for a full week. And like clockwork, the reply came on time. Same envelope, same crisp paper, even the same time the first letter arrived right at our doorstep, down to the minute.

  When we opened it, everything was exactly as promised in the first letter. The details of our departure, route, plane tickets, visa, and even the hotel we were going to stay at. Every bit of it was laid out with unnerving precision.

  The letter stated that we’d be staying in a luxury five-star hotel called The Western Cape. It promised a grand vista of the city and its surroundings, perched somewhere in Meguro City — specifically, it is located in the southwestern part of the greater Tokyo metropolis and about two hours' drive from Narita International Airport.

  We were to be greeted at the airport by a guide, though no name was given, and then driven to the hotel via private shuttle buses, presumably one with tinted windows and air-conditioning set to “polar expedition.” Any details about the event would be given once we arrived at the hotel.

  Naturally, my father — like any father who cared for his family — was on the phone within the hour right after my mother contacted him about the contents of the second letter. He contacted the hotel directly, right after a simple google search for their number.

  His tone — precise and polite in the way most angry Japanese people might ask a query — was met by a Japanese hotel staff, possibly even the manager, who was just as polite and seemed completely unfazed.

  Yes, the event was real. Yes, preparations for the event were underway. They even had our room numbers assigned already.

  And, after some prodding and two “Please hold” moments that were probably filled with elevator music, the staff gave the name of the organizer of the event.

  Konrad Friedrich von Liechtenstein-Hohenzollern.

  That was a name that sounded like it needed a salute, a horse, trumpet fanfare and its own coat of arms just to be said out loud.

  Both my parents were very surprised and of course unsettled. Who wouldn’t be? Simply because the fact that this whole mysterious event was proving more and more authentic by the moment. If I also had to guess, they were having the kind of surprise one experiences when the line between fiction and reality blurs.

  Like the words “Is this even real?” turned into “This is real” at Mach speed.

  My parents are fortunately also well-informed — so much so that they know Liechtenstein is a country in Europe, albeit a small one.

  What they didn’t know was that the name Hohenzollern is the last name of a formerly royal German dynasty.

  Real, historical, iron-and-blood royalty. Former royalty but royal, nonetheless. Which meant the organizer had connections not only to a country but to royalty as well.

  My parents thought long and hard, another full week in fact, before deciding. Then one night while calling my mother, my father theorised that maybe it was one of our long-silent relatives who had entered our names into whatever strange lottery this event was drawn from.

  Maybe it was a harmless fluke where we really did get lucky.

  My mother could only agree with his theory simply because they had no other theories to go on and it was as good as any.

  I suppose the possibility that we were all about to be kidnapped by an international syndicate and our organs harvested and distributed across the black market never crossed their minds, royalty or not, but I digress.

  All avenues of inquiry were thoroughly exhausted and every possible question had been asked. And at this point all queries were given plausible answers, despite them being given with disturbing confidence.

  Their decision, then, was final.

  For the record, when I was asked whether I wanted to go or not, obviously my answer was no. I still have to sleep, and my MMR might drop. I might miss a raid. Don’t they know how much I have sacrificed!?

  Sigh.

  It can’t be helped. We — and I mean both my brother and I — are dutiful sons who follow what our parents command us to do.

  Most of the time.

  Whether that is to take out the trash or dive into mysterious events, that might even lead to an international syndicate taking out our kidneys.

  And as parental instructions go, it wasn’t a matter of consensus, but of inevitability. Like gravity, or the climate. You don’t get to ask a typhoon to stop raining on weekdays instead of weekends. You simply suck it up and bring an umbrella.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  In my case, only the essentials, waterproof suitcase, an umbrella, my cell phone, one gaming laptop, a pair of headphones, a 3DSs and two 50-watt portable solar panel.

  We also asked three of our uncles to watch over my two corgis while we were away. Can’t have them running around destroying everything I own just because they’re bored now, can we?

  As I said in the previews chapter, we live on a large plot of land, a family compound with 5 houses, with enough space for 4 more. That meant the doggos will never run out of running space or the ability to bark at nothing, especially at night.

  They also tend to wage territorial wars with the proverbial stray cats. They do these things on occasion and often lose to the cats, but such is life.

  But considering that the climate of our country is hot and humid most of the time, we gave our uncles one non-negotiable instruction: Please manage the house air-conditioning, especially during the morning.

  This was to make sure that royal woofs don’t die of overheating. We also asked them to take care of our grandparents, but that was already a given, since they are already old and one of them is blind.

  And then the last thing we needed to take care of was school.

  Both my brother and I were in college at the time. He is in his fourth year of civil engineering, the kind of course that turns students into part-time carpenters and full-time caffeine addicts.

  I, on the other hand, was in the final year of mechanical engineering. It’s a simple enough course I suppose.

  A few more sleepless nights, possibly a stress-caffeine-beer-induced screaming match against an engine, and one thesis defense — and I’d be out of that institution.

  If you’re wondering why we seemed too young to be deep into college, it’s because of the country’s old education system.

  There is a new one now, but during our time it was ten years of basic education—that was six years of elementary and four years of high school—and then congratulations, you’re sixteen or seventeen and in university.

  It's a system that believed in starting young and stressing early. In my brother’s case, he skipped a grade.

  Well, at least we get to drink beer early. Fun fact, getting drunk seems to numb the stress.

  Another fun fact, it’s an unspoken rule or tradition in the country that if you were in college, you could drink beer.

  We both started college at around that age, and though we were both smart and pretty good with calculus and all the fancy math titles and numbers, that didn’t mean we had our priorities straight. At this point in our lives, well, we were still children.

  It was ourselves against the world — well, World of Warcraft — or Ragnar?k. But still the same.

  So, when this whole situation, event, thing, suddenly appeared, mysterious free trips, royal names, free luxury hotel bookings, and all that jazz, it found us in the middle of lab reports, unfinished sketch plans, and project deadlines.

  In other words, we couldn’t care less because we had other things to worry about. We had exams and raid schedules, and hunts, even guild wars to survive. Not to mention the banner rate-ups that we would miss.

  We had to explain that we would be gone for a period of two weeks to our dean. She wasn’t thrilled. Our dean looked at me with a familiar mixture of concern and suspicion on her aged face.

  She and my mother were old friends, which meant the scrutiny came with history.

  Unfortunately, I may have — developed-- — a reputation. Well, I mean, I may have accidentally launched a small engine — vertically — among other things. But we were outside on the field, so no one got hurt. That was an accident. Anyone could have done it.

  Eventually she sighed, possibly the kind of sigh that suggested she'd seen and known too much or that she was too tired to care. It’s either one or the other.

  She told me to check with my other professors and make sure my deadlines don’t implode on me. After that, she then signed our forms with a smile, but with the air of someone eagerly granting parole rather than permission.

  Jesus Christ, lady — not like we’d be China’s problem.

  “Bring me back a souvenir.” she added as my brother and I were leaving her office. A pasalubong in Tagalog.

  We nodded, grateful. And with the permission form signed, it was official. We were going to Japan.

  ===================================================================================================================================

  And that, dear readers, is how I found myself in the capital half-dressed, fully confused, and racing against the clock like I owed it money. Well, 29 minutes 36 seconds is a respectable time to get dressed, if I do say so myself.

  We live in the northern part of the country. Not just north—north enough that any attempt to get to the capital involves a ten-hour bus ride, if we are lucky. It apparently also involves traffic, three existential crises, road construction, road rage and even the odd minor road accident.

  Why not fly from where we are to Japan, you ask? Because apparently, our region has everything except an international airport. That, and good Wi-Fi. And stable electricity. One good gust of wind, and my monitor often goes black.

  Mountains? Yes. We live in a valley, so we are surrounded on both sides. Goats, cows, chickens? In spades. Global air access? Nope. Negative. Not even close.

  Then why not fly to the capital city? Surely there must be great metal birds, that soar through the sky, bypassing traffic and questionable decisions made by every motorist on the road, delivering you expediently to the capital?

  Well, yes, there are. But you see, our mother is — how do I put this delicately?

  Economically strategic.

  Financially cautious.

  Okay, she's a bit stingy.

  Why spend extra for comfort, speed, and leg room when you can get real cultural experience complete with stiff necks and leg cramps?

  Might even get lucky and have a deeply philosophical conversation with a baby wailing that the earth is flat, and you were the only two passengers on the bus. What fun.

  Then again, the price for one plane ticket is something like four times the price for one bus ticket. So probably, to her, the idea of paying for an hour’s flight when a ten-hour bus ride exists is ludicrous, maybe even borderline heretical.

  So, there we were: me, my brother, and our mother, preparing to check in to a hotel room for one night in the capital city, a day before departure.

  A final moment of calm before — whatever this whole mysterious episode turns out to be.

  Our father had already gone ahead and travelled to Japan, where he scouted out the hotel. Which I am sure sounded very official and spy-like, but I think he just went ahead to check the Wi-Fi speed and whether the pillows were firm.

  When he called last night, yes, apparently the hotel was just as fancy as advertised. A huge crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling of a wide lobby. Bellhops in actual uniforms that didn’t look like cosplay.

  Toilets with as many buttons as our remote. Which is a very Japanese thing. Real luxury.

  Well, I’m glad he’s having fun. Meanwhile, I threw up 3 times on the bus ride down to Manila. The combination of motion sickness, cold, and the scent of the bus’s air freshener doing wonders.

  The plan was simple enough to follow: wake up early, and then by 10 am, eat out, get takeout to eat before the plane ride, and then by midday we should arrive at the airport.

  Well, we did manage to arrive there. At around 12:30. Which still counts as midday — ish, if you squint hard enough.