Though Miyamoto Masami appeared to be a strong, capable woman, she was far from arrogant. Once convinced of Genya Ayumu’s competence, she showed him genuine respect—proof that beneath her cool, proud exterior lay no trace of snobbery or hollow pride.

Ayumu had assumed signing the contract would wrap things up, but Miyamoto then produced a personal seal and stamped it beside her signature. Only then did he recall: in Japan, a seal carried greater legal weight than a signature.

Personal seals arrived from China during the Kamakura period, spread widely in the Edo era, and were formally adopted for legal documents in 1873. In Japanese society, a seal is far more than a signature substitute. For critical matters—like signing legal papers—a seal is mandatory. A signature alone? Invalid. Unrecognized.

Because of this importance, every citizen must register their official seal with authorities. Lose it? Report to police immediately.

Japanese seals are typically small cylinders. Depending on purpose, one person may own several. Though types vary, three dominate daily life:

1. *Mitome-in* (Acknowledgment Seal): Often bears only the family name. Used for package deliveries or internal procedures at schools/workplaces.

2. *Jitsu-in* (Official Seal): Must be government-registered. Required for major transactions—large loans, real estate deals, personal registrations. Must display the full name; chips or wear disqualify it. Loss demands immediate police report.

3. *Ginkō-in* (Bank Seal): Applied for when opening bank or securities accounts. Designed intricately with special materials to deter forgery.

Clearly, Miyamoto had stamped the contract with her *jitsu-in*, engraved with her full name. But Ayumu, still a minor high school student, had no seal of his own.

“Ah—Mr. Genya is still in high school. You likely don’t have your own seal yet,” Miyamoto remarked after stamping both copies, suddenly remembering most teens didn’t own one.

“Mm.” Ayumu replied calmly. “How about I take the contract home tonight, get it stamped, and return it tomorrow?”

“I suppose that’s the only way.”

As a minor, Ayumu would need to use his legal guardian Genya Eina’s seal.

“Ms. Miyamoto, shall we begin Chinese lessons today?”

“Let’s cover a little now. I’ll practice on my own—you can check my progress tomorrow.”

Ayumu agreed. Truthfully, Chinese wasn’t overly hard for Japanese speakers—kanji provided familiar ground. Yet the same character could carry different readings or meanings in Japan versus China. Kanji weren’t fully equivalent.

Japanese writing blends kanji (Chinese characters), kana (syllabic scripts), and rōmaji (Romanized letters). Rōmaji transcribes kana; kana annotates kanji. Text may be written entirely in kana, but never in rōmaji for formal use. Think of Chinese input methods: rōmaji mirrors Pinyin input; kana resembles stroke-based input.

In short, Ayumu’s role was to map Chinese characters to common Japanese kana equivalents, and match Chinese pronunciations to rōmaji. Beyond his guidance, fluency depended on Miyamoto’s own practice, reading, and memorization.

“Let’s start with common Chinese phrases today!”

“Mm.”

...

Honestly, despite Ayumu’s rich life experiences, he had zero teaching background. His past self, Zhang Chufan, had been a bona fide programmer—worlds away from teaching. So he borrowed straight from old English textbooks.

Phrases taught today? “Hello!” “What’s your name?” “How old are you?” “Nice to meet you!”

Miyamoto noticed nothing odd. She studied intently, jotting down nearly every word.

Ayumu realized he couldn’t teach off the cuff—he needed proper materials. Paid well, he owed some responsibility. After a quick mental note, he decided: pick up a textbook before work tomorrow afternoon.

He glanced at the desk clock—8 p.m. already. Technically, lesson time was up, but earlier tests had eaten into it. He felt slightly conflicted: end now, or push a little longer?

Before he could decide, Miyamoto spoke gently: “Mr. Genya, you’ve worked hard. Let’s call it a day.”

After packing up, she drew four 1,000-yen bills from her wallet and offered them with both hands—a gesture of quiet respect.

“Ms. Miyamoto, today was under two hours. No need for the full 4,000 yen,” Ayumu said politely. Not out of guilt—just custom. Like Chinese New Year red envelopes: lips say “no,” heart already claims it.

“The testing time counts. Two hours, 4,000 yen. Correct.” Her tone left no room for refusal.

Ayumu accepted with a modest smile—though inwardly thrilled. First earnings of his new life as Genya Ayumu. Tonight demanded a celebratory feast!

“As you stand to leave—Ms. Miyamoto, are you learning Chinese for work?”

“I work at a multinational gaming company. Heading to China next month for business, possibly staying awhile. With more trips likely ahead, I wanted to prepare.”

The moment Ayumu heard “China,” his eyes lit with longing. Miyamoto wasn’t surprised. Someone so fond of Chinese culture would naturally yearn to see it. Envy? Expected. Not envying her would’ve been strange.

“I’ll bring you a souvenir, Mr. Genya.”