Hunting MILFs in a Trash Eroge

Even in his cold, indifferent manner, he could feel it—the weight of admiration, the flickering of awe in every gaze.

He already knew how this would unfold.

Even as he made his audacious request—demanding a better house for his family—the outcome had already been written in their reactions.

They would support him, back him completely, without question. And they did.

This was similar to what always happened whenever Stanley appeared in the game.

He had always been able to pull off absurd, childish stunts, act in ways that were reckless or even outright foolish, and yet the world around him seemed to bend in his favor.

They would sing praises of his name until any foolishness he committed was overshadowed by the weight of admiration.

A smirk ghosted across Damien's face.

He didn't understand why he was suddenly enjoying a similar privilege.

Perhaps it was the completion of the event, and the power he showed that compelled the villagers' awe. Whatever it was, it worked in his favor.

If the world treated him like Stanley, let it. He wouldn't fight it; he had no reason to.

He turned his gaze back to the village chief, his eyes flashing with a strange glint.

'Now… what are you going to do, village chief?' he thought, cold amusement coiling through his chest.

The villagers' opinions, their unwavering support, had made the man's next words inevitable.

He didn't need to act yet; the scene was already unfolding before him like a carefully arranged stage.

As expected, the chief's face twisted into a frown, the deep lines of his wrinkled face pulling sharply downward.

His lips pressed tightly together, the tension almost visible in the way his jaw muscles pulsed.

He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then exhaled slowly, as though preparing to speak against his very instincts.

"You… all are right…" he began, each word slow,, forcing himself to confront the sheer weight of the villagers' collective judgment.

Then, forcing a smile that barely reached his eyes, the chief continued, his voice tight, almost brittle: "As the village chief… I should certainly reward a promising child like Damien Cross… who saved… the village today."

"What better way to do so…" the chief added, his teeth clenched subtly behind his lips, "…than to help them secure a new house?"

The villagers' reaction was instantaneous and deafening.

Cheers erupted like a tidal wave, laughter and shouts of approval filling the street.

"Yes! A new house for Damien!"

"Of course! He deserves it!"

"Finally! A proper home for the hero of the village!"

Damien allowed himself to observe, the faintest hint of satisfaction curling the corner of his mouth.

Meanwhile, the village chief's face remained twisted as though he had been forced to bite into a sour fruit.

His lips pressed tight, his eyes flicking between the crowd and Damien with a rage simmering in his eyes.

Every cheer, every declaration of support, were like sharp needles pricking his heart.

Brad was also infuriated, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.

He was still furious about how Damien gave him an upper cut, and now, he was watching the villagers cheer him up.

Apart from that, Damien was now an elite student of the academy, while he wasn't even sure he would be able to enter the academy.

Apart from students with unique classes who were allowed direct entry, the rest would have to go through a gruesome examination.

If they passed, they would enter, and if they failed, they would have to try again the next year.

Brad didn't have any confidence in him being able to pass the examination, which made him even more jealous of Damien who gained a direct entry because of his class.

As for the village chief, his expression remained bitter for several seconds.

Yet after a long, strained moment, he forced another smile onto his face—a smile so fake and painful it looked like it had been manually glued on.

He turned his head toward Damien, lowering his posture just slightly, doing everything he could to appear approachable, reasonable, even friendly.

"So…" he began slowly, stretching the word as if buying time for his bitterness to settle beneath his voice. "You're an elite student of the academy now…"

He carefully softened his tone, as though speaking to someone whose favor he desperately needed but hated asking for.

His eyes flicked toward the villagers for the briefest moment—measuring their expressions, scanning their reactions, ensuring not a single person would think he was being rude or dismissive.

The last thing he wanted was more people turning their backs on him.

Then he sighed—a long, deep exhale filled with regret, resentment, and the quiet acceptance that he could no longer treat Damien the way he used to.

With a stiff gesture, he reached out and pulled Brad closer by the arm.

Brad's brows knitted instantly, confusion and irritation mixing on his face as he stumbled forward to stand beside his father.

The chief cleared his throat again, his voice trying—and failing—to maintain an easy, conversational tone.

"Brad also plans on getting into the academy," he said, patting his son's shoulder with forced gentleness. "I'm wondering if—"

"Okay."

Damien cut him off immediately.

The chief froze.

"Good luck to him," Damien finished calmly.

His voice wasn't particularly rude, but it was brutally dismissive.

The kind of response one gave to a stranger, not the village chief.

A response that clearly said: I am not interested in your son. I am not interested in helping him. I am not interested in continuing this conversation.

Brad's eyes widened, a spark of embarrassment and rage flashing in them.

The village chief's face twitched violently—so hard his left eyelid trembled in a rhythm of pure disbelief. His jaw clenched, then loosened, then clenched again.

He inhaled sharply, trying to force the irritation back down his throat, but Damien didn't give him the time.

He had been trying to convince Damien to help his son also enter the academy.

Since he was now an elite student, he felt he should surely be able to help in a way, even if it a was just by dropping a good word for Brad to the higher ups of the academy.

But Damien dismissed his idea before he could even complete it.

He didn't wait for him to say anything else, before turning around, walking away.

The villagers instinctively parted, giving him a clear path.

But then—

Damien stopped.

Slowly, he turned back around, meeting the chief's gaze with a calm, almost innocent-looking smile.

It was the kind of smile that appeared gentle at a glance but carried enough underlying sharpness to cut anyone who looked too closely.

"About the house," Damien said lightly.

The chief's heart dropped.

"It's best it's ready by evening."

The old man inhaled sharply, choking on nothing.

Evening?! That soon?! He hadn't even accepted the idea fully and Damien was already setting a deadline?!

Damien pointed casually at the wretched building beside him—the house he and his family currently lived in.

"I wouldn't want to endanger me and my family's lives… sleeping here…" Damien said with a soft sigh.

His voice lowered just slightly, and suddenly—effortlessly—his expression shifted.

His brows knit together.

The corners of his lips pulled downward faintly.

His shoulders dropped in a subtle gesture of defeated helplessness.

A perfectly feigned sad expression.

His exhale was gentle, pitiful—soft enough to stir the sympathetic hearts of the villagers and squeeze at their emotions.

And it worked instantly.

"Oh my goodness, he's right—this house is a danger!"

"He's been living here this whole time?!"

"How could we let this happen?!"

"That's terrible…"

"We should've helped them more…"

"We really treated him badly in the past…"

Voices overlapped, rising with guilt, worry, and protectiveness.

Several villagers placed hands over their chests, visibly shaken.

A few looked down in shame, remembering all too clearly the moments they had insulted or mocked Damien and his family.

Now that he had saved the village, every past act of cruelty suddenly weighed heavily on their consciences.

Some even muttered:

"We owe him far more than a house…"

"We need to fix this immediately."

"Chief! The house must be prepared fast!"

"By evening—yes, by evening is fine! We can all help!"

Then the pressure turned.

As if guided by a collective instinct, the villagers turned toward the village chief, urging him almost aggressively.

"Chief, he's right, that place is dangerous!"

"We must hurry and prepare a better home!"

"As the chief, you must agree—surely you'll help the boy who saved us all?"

"It shouldn't take long with your support!"

Each voice stabbed deeper and deeper into the old man's pride.

The village chief's entire face had flushed deep purple—an angry, suffocated sort of purple that made him look like he was moments away from either fainting or exploding.

The veins on his neck bulged visibly. His jaw flexed so hard it nearly cracked.

If looks could kill, Damien would have died a thousand different ways on the spot, every single death painfully creative and fueled by the chief's humiliation.

But Damien didn't flinch.

He simply held the man's gaze, still wearing that same mild, almost polite smile.

The village chief felt dizzy.

The pressure of the villagers watching him, expecting him to agree, expecting him to act like a benevolent leader…

It was suffocating.

Even Brad's face had darkened. His fists tightened so hard his nails dug into his palms. His teeth ground together audibly, fury shaking his shoulders.

But nothing either of them said mattered.

The villagers had spoken, or rather, Damien had spoken.