The Porter Has No Interest in the Hero’s Party

We don’t have time to celebrate the death of the Demon King’s army. Even while hurriedly heading to the city, I was fixing my hair in the mirror. I needed to brush my front hair and shave my beard in advance to make a clean and attractive first impression when arriving at the city.

Mille, who was holding the mirror for me, asked as she watched me focused on grooming:

“Why are you grooming yourself, porter? We still have quite a way before reaching the city.”

“I need to prepare in advance. This gives the impression that I’m neat in my daily life. Women are very sensitive creatures who can fall for someone over such minor details.”

I said while shaving my beard. Without time to shave during battles or village travels, my beard had already grown rough and messy like a chestnut burr. When I lifted my chin to scrape off the messy parts, my rough skin was revealed.

Mille peered through the mirror and said:

“Your skin looks messy even without the beard, so wouldn’t it be better to just let it grow? You could grow it long like an Elf Elder and go around like that. Maybe stick some twigs in your hair too.”

“I mean no disrespect to the Elf Elders, but when someone with a decent physique like me grows a beard and sticks plants in their hair, people call them a beggar.”

Hearing the word “beggar,” the corner of Ashuria’s mouth slightly curved up, but she pretended not to laugh with a fake cough. Lena, clearing away nearby vines with her dagger, said:

“But Mister, you’re so enthusiastic every time we go to a village. You seem quite depressed when doing operations with us. Honestly, aren’t Mille, Ashuria, and I much prettier than those village widows?”

A person’s appeal isn’t determined by appearance alone. Certainly, the widows I’d spent passionate nights with recently, or the ones I’d failed to seduce, had appearances that fell short compared to our party members. But widows were valuable precisely because they were widows.

“You all don’t understand the charm of widows. Everyone, spending a night with a widow means embracing a jewel that someone had dedicated their life to, and making it shine again. It’s a noble and beautiful act, more so than anything else. I do this not just out of simple preference, but with a lofty mission and sense of responsibility.”

“So your conclusion is that you prefer other men’s women, right?”

Lena asked, tilting her head. I shook my head firmly and said:

“Her husband is dead. She’s not someone else’s woman.”

“Honestly, I don’t see much difference… but… if that’s what you say, I guess that’s how it is.”

The discourse on widows ended briefly with her simple conclusion. Mille was still holding the mirror with an expression of incomprehension, and Ashuria sighed deeply and looked at me. The hero, laughing softly, cleared a path for us to move forward, and on the country road we were traveling, the signpost pointing toward the city was crooked.

The City.

Unlike villages, the city had an orderly atmosphere from the entrance. Without needing to be told, we all rushed to our accommodation, organized our belongings, and scattered to do what each of us wanted. The hero disappeared, saying he had business with the noble governing the city, and Ashuria went to the church.

Mille vanished to explore the city, and Lena disappeared in a different direction, saying she had personal matters to attend to. I was whistling while combing my hair again in the mirror at the inn. The plump innkeeper, seeing me putting effort into my appearance, joked:

“My goodness, with all those women around you, who else are you going to meet?”

“My charm is so exceptional that I can’t just sit still. I’m going to the tavern.”

“Alright. I wish you luck.”

Even without his wish for luck, I was a lucky man. In the previous battle, the hero had achieved incredible results, gaining a foundation to expand territory, and I’d even obtained a private letter from the commander, giving us a chance to understand his tendencies.

If this pace continued, I was certain I would meet another beautiful woman in this city and spend a passionate night. Before leaving the inn, I held onto the door and asked the innkeeper:

“Innkeeper, do you have a liquor called ‘Dogref’ here?”

“Ah, ‘Dogref’, they sell that at the tavern. Ask there while you’re going. It’s expensive liquor, but I suppose you’re using it for ‘that’ purpose?”

The innkeeper made a drinking gesture with a lewd smile. I neither nodded at his question nor directly responded, just brushing it off with a casual laugh. If I indulged too much in such vulgar talk, I’d become vulgar myself. It was an unsuitable conversation topic for someone engaged in noble deeds like me.

“Have fun.”

The innkeeper waved his hand as he said that.

As I walked away, I loosened my clothes slightly to reveal the chest muscles under my shirt. Widows liked males who exuded wild charm. Only men with clean faces, tall statures, and yet untamed, formidable aspects could pass the strict test of widows’ chastity.

Opening the tavern door, I could see drunkards drinking in the late afternoon, a few women sitting with hopeful expectations to ease their loneliness, and servers busily crossing the tavern. The moment I entered, both the women sitting in the tavern and I exchanged glances, completing our mutual assessment. They subtly signaled by swaying their glasses or overtly crossing their legs, as if inviting me over.

But I didn’t rush over like an eager puppy who had found its master.

I went to the counter where the owner was leisurely wiping glasses, extended some money, and said:

“One bottle of ‘Dogref,’ please.”

The tavern owner seemed surprised that I mentioned such expensive liquor. He was clearly someone who took pride in running a tavern, and raising his eyebrows, he said to me:

“‘Dogref,’ you say. You know good liquor. Are you generally fond of alcohol?”

I nodded.

“I like it. I enjoy drinking it, and I also like sharing it with others. I’ve heard it has an incredibly high alcohol content. Even just smelling it can knock down those with low tolerance, right? My friend used to sing about how his wish was to drink this liquor.”

The tavern owner smiled more warmly at the mention of a friend. True drinkers are people who know that drinking together is better than enjoying something delicious alone. Through this conversation, I seemed to have earned the owner’s approval.

“‘Dogref’ is expensive, indeed. But it’s worth the price. If your friend had tasted it, he’d probably be singing about drinking only ‘Dogref’ now.”

“My friend was from the Empire. In a way, it’s fortunate he never drank ‘Dogref.’ He couldn’t quit alcohol, you see.”

The owner looked at me. His deep gaze scanned me before he spoke.

“…Would you like it packaged right away?”

“Pack it securely, so it doesn’t break even if it travels far.”

“Understood.”

After receiving the liquor, I moved to another seat. It was next to a woman in black clothes with intense eyes. She was sitting where she could clearly hear the conversation between me and the tavern owner, sipping from a small bottle by herself.

Perhaps she came from a fairly wealthy household, or couldn’t overcome the grief of losing a loved one? Her eyes reflected loneliness, and her breathing was thrilling, almost like moans. She crossed her legs and said:

“Are you traveling to see your friend?”

A pitiful story becomes an easy spice for creating empathy. Here, acting well was important. I needed to look melancholic without appearing on the verge of tears, keep my eyes as moist as possible, and continue the conversation calmly while slightly trembling my voice, pretending to be fine.

“Yes, that’s what happened. It’s a common tragedy born from war.”

“That’s a similar story to mine. I also…”

The woman pushed her glass forward as she spoke. Alcohol clinging to the glass trickled down. The drink that touched her fingertips headed toward her lips, rubbing her lower lip firmly as she flickered her tongue. She didn’t say anything, but I had to steady my breathing as if I’d encountered a snake spouting sweet words.

She didn’t finish telling her situation, but it was clear what vulgar meanings were implied in her fading words. She had lost her husband, and I had lost a friend. We exchanged more stimulating stories by meeting each other’s eyes rather than through conversation, scanning each other’s bodies with our eyes, imagining what pleasure we might give to one another.

From cooking to bedtime, imagination has historically been an important spice. Despite not even touching hands, our faces flushed, and the woman pushed away her glass and said:

“Would you like to come to my room? Let’s at least have a drink together.”

I nodded. With a charming smile.

The passionate lovemaking that continued until sunset could be described as an act that creates memories, then burns them away, leaving nothing behind. I was lying mindlessly in bed in my underwear, and the woman was nestled in my arms, caressing my chest.

My trained chest muscles tensed and relaxed repeatedly following her hand.

“My husband… went to war and won’t return now. He left me behind like this.”

In this moment, I was the hero. I was a counselor listening to her sorrowful story, and also a tuner who, with elegant skill, helps women find their own voice.

“I was really, really lonely.”

Her hand held me tighter. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead, and she inhaled my scent. Our eyes met again, and once more we pulled down the blanket to explore each other’s bodies.

“Ahng…! No…”

She clung to me more while making coquettish sounds, and I gripped her buttocks.

And then.

Bang!

The front door burst open, and a booming voice spread:

“Honey! I’m back! Work finished early!”

I froze in that position.

I looked at the woman with astonished eyes, but she avoided my gaze and only said in a small voice:

“He, he said he wouldn’t be back for another month.”

“…Didn’t you say he was dead?”

“I, I said he wouldn’t return, didn’t I!”

The woman couldn’t meet my eyes with her face flushed red. While we were having this brief argument, the husband was approaching us with rough footsteps.

“Honey! Are you in the room? Why aren’t you coming out!”

The man’s voice drew closer. I opened the window and jumped outside in my underwear. Just barely, I heard the bedroom door fling open and the man beginning to converse with his wife.

“Honey!”

“Oh, my…! Darling, you’re back?”

Phew.

Escape successful.