Sometimes Getting Recruited is Worse Than Being Kicked Out
‘Thanks for slaving away for our party for six years, you worthless shit.’
‘Contract’s over, so go drown yourself in booze and drop dead for all I care.’
‘Don’t you dare come sniffing around my women anymore. Porters are all thugs and lowlifes—just like they say, not a word of it’s wrong.’
The hero punk who fired me while mocking me like that wouldn’t shut up. I just stood there dumbfounded, listening, and he poured out every vile word he could think of. Even though I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong to him.
His name’s Adamanthon. He had a habit of calling me a thug or a lowlife, but good luck finding a bigger scumbag than him. It wasn’t just that he treated people around him like emotional toilets to dump his feelings into. The real problem was he was a psycho who’d slap his hand on his sword hilt the second he opened his mouth.
Who’s the one calling porters arrogant? Isn’t it the heroes—relying on brute strength and acting like gangsters—who are supposed to be the main fighters, not the support?
‘Don’t even think about collecting your back pay. Contract’s done, right? Oh, and make sure you pay back that 100,000 gold for the hydra bone by year’s end. Miss it by even a day, and I’ll rip out your organs on New Year’s.’
‘Listen to me, you rat. If you don’t want to end up chased down by our family and dying without a trace. Getting rid of one little porter’s no big deal.’
Threatening murder right in the middle of the capital’s bustling streets. What a grand hero.
The only thing that miserable bastard had over me was one thing, honestly. His innate combat prowess thanks to his Hero Aptitude. Well, in a world where aptitude is everything, that figures.
So-called ‘golden aptitudes’ let even idiots thrive, while us ‘dirt heap aptitudes’ scramble desperately for work just to scrape by.
Adamanthon came from a long line of heroes, so he had money, solid backing. Connections to noble social circles and the Sun Church through family, too. Most heroes were like that.
The kind of guys who’d stay unscratched no matter how much spite someone like me harbored. What a shitty world.
Then that obnoxious, sleazy prick’s lips twisted like slime, morphing into soft, velvety doll lips.
‘Tan Bantai.’
And he said something similar. No—something that’d hurt way worse, for sure.
‘You’re not needed anymore. Don’t follow me.’
Long ago. Back when we were kids. The blue-haired hero lady Tena’s declaration of expulsion.
I knew it was a dream, but the shock still stabbed deep into my chest. That faint voice echoed like the blade of betrayal from years past, still lodged in my heart. It hadn’t been pulled out yet.
Unfair, but inevitable. A hero’s sword can only be drawn by a hero. Not something a lowly porter like me could handle.
“May all you heroes we’ve served have good fortune... Damn those hero bastards...”
A porter’s job is to support the party. So this sleep-talking was way off from my usual professional spirit.
But hey, if I’ve gotta vent somehow, even in my dreams.
With all this rage and poison bottled up inside me. If I’m blackout drunk like this, I’m probably collapsed in some stinky cheap inn room or a filthy alley bar no hero would ever set foot in.
No way my noble ex-party members would come looking in a dump like that, so when else am I gonna curse them out?
As I wandered between dream and reality, tormented, a clear voice brushed my ears.
> ...We wish good fortune to all the heroes we've served. Our Cross-Continental Train will depart at 11 a.m. today...
“...What?”
Sounded like something that shouldn’t be coming from a bar alley. But the hangover hit first, slamming me back down before I could process it.
“Ugh... fuck...”
I prefer isekai stories over expulsion ones. Isekai wipes away even the fact of getting kicked out.
Wake up reborn, touch the aptitude orb and see Hero aptitude pop up. Smooth sailing till you croak of old age. That genre.
No more bowing to psycho sword-swingers. Plenty of porters get stabbed by heroes when shit goes sideways on trips.
And hangovers from the old body? Left behind. Pure, guilt-free pleasure.
But this booze-soaked, aching body was still that of Tan Bantai, holder of the Porter Aptitude. Unemployed, owing 100,000 gold, with nothing but my balls and healthy limbs.
The sunlight streaming through the window was unusually hazy, stinging my eyes. As I rubbed my tired eyelids, realization dawned.
This ain’t an inn bed. Or some dirty alley corner.
My ass was shaking. I’ve traveled the world as a porter, but never seen a bed that vibrates you awake...
Wait. What’s that presence?
“You finally awake, you moron?”
I freaked, tumbling off the chair onto the floor. Only then did I realize I’d been lying across train seats.
The young woman across from me snickered.
“Pathetic.”
Thank god it wasn’t swaggering gangster-hero Adamanthon or those two bitches who framed me. Her low, clear voice—nothing like that hero pig’s snort—put my heart at ease.
But ‘moron’ almost made me think it was them for a second. I tamped down my conditioned fear and spoke.
“Who are you?”
“Your escort. Who else? Your brain’s pickled—don’t even know where you’re headed?”
“Escort...?”
The unfamiliar girl sneered again, venom in her expression. Rude for strangers. She looked a few years younger than me, too.
Which meant she had some backing, like that thug Adamanthon. My pro porter eyes automatically scanned her details.
Clean features. Long limbs. Maybe from a wealthy martial family. No sloppy posture. Muscles toned solid under that not-too-thick frame—hidden by fine clothes.
Sharp canines flashed in her mocking smile. Uncommon orange-gold hair caught my eye.
I froze.
“No way...?”
My gaze drifted to the chair. A tail slipping from behind her ass, stretching across the seat. Fluffy fur with bold predator stripes...
“You’re... a Tigress?”
“Keep talking. This is fun.”
Tigress—the fierce warrior tribe living sparsely in the eastern White Peak Mountains. The beast in human form bared her fangs in a savage grin.
I crumpled like a crushed, empty can.
“What, ‘normal human’? Got beef with my origins?”
“No, no! Why would I?”
Tigress. Barefoot defiers of gravity, leaping sky-high to rip manticores apart barehanded. Insane folk. People speak of them with awe and fear: souls born with tiger spirits.
True or not, they’re as strong as carnivores... and infamous for brutal assaults.
I shrank into the corner to avoid offending her. Why the hell was a Tigress alone with me in some unknown train car...?
> ...One menu per cabin will be assigned. Today's lunch menu on our Cross-Continental Train is...
Cross-Continental Train, huh. Alone with a Tigress in the same car...
My mind went blank. What continent were we crossing?
“Hold on. What the hell’s going on here?”
“What’s with the ‘hold on’?”
“Where are we? Where’s this train headed?”
The Tigress girl shrugged.
“On a moving train. Crossing the central continent to the west. Took you long enough. Here, put this on.”
She rummaged in her backpack and chucked a fuzzy lump at me. Ow, stings. I barely caught the thing slapping against my chest.
“Kek. What’s this?”
“You only know questions? Can’t tell by looking?”
A headband with a ponytail wig. Magical runes etched inside—definitely some enchanted artifact.
“Put. It. On.”
“Why would I wear some mystery magic tool...?”
...She told me wordlessly why. I gulped at her claws digging into her palm and obeyed without a peep.
“Put it on before someone comes in, dumbass. It’s not harmful.”
Common knowledge: No simple inscription on a headband builds a spell that hurts people. I repeated that to myself, trying to calm down.
Ignoring that sometimes shit happens outside common sense.
The second I flipped it on—ponytail sprouting from my nape—the train attendant opened the door.
The warrior’s face instantly shed its menace.
“Order for lunch?”
“Yes. Two egg salads should do.”
Her feral edge gone, replaced by a calm, sultry smile. Tail tucked away quick. She could pass for some noble lady.
The attendant tilted her head at my pale face.
“Any discomfort, lady?”
...Me? Lady?
“What’d you call me?”
“Nothing’s wrong, nope. No issues, so don’t worry.”
The Tigress turned, smiling at me. I read the invisible killing intent.
Three, two...
“No... problems.”
With her professional spiel about calling if we needed anything, my one hope—the attendant—left. Like a ship passing a castaway on a deserted island before I could scream for help.
“Enjoy your trip. Cabin 3-2-2, two ‘ladies’ egg salad.”
I flinched at her relaying the order. Too stunned to even grieve my rescue ship sailing away.
She called me a lady? Attendants aren’t blind.
“...What’d she say when she left? Two women, right?”
“Said two women clear as day. You heard it.”
“No, I’m pretty cute and all... but not that girly.”
The Tigress burst into rude laughter.
“You’re kinda pretty, yeah. But that was the artifact’s doing.”
“This headband?”
“Yup. Makes people see you as a girl. Perception distortion magic or whatever. Hard-won from a dungeon.”
“...Why do I need that?”
Her orange-gold smile widened. Jewel-yellow eyes curved in mockery. Like a sated predator watching prey flee to a cliff, not bothering to stop it.
Dread crawled up my spine.
“You’ll need it where we’re going.”
“I’m fucked.”
“Watch your mouth in front of ladies... Nah, no need. They’ll all see you as one.”
Novels starting with ‘I’m fucked’ are everywhere. Mostly the kind people read to forget their fucked realities.
Why do folks in fucked worlds love fucked openings? Dreaming of a world where ‘fucked’ is special? Or escaping daily fuckery with extraordinary fuckery?
Either way, it’s ‘cause the world’s boringly, universally fucked.
And now, I’m wondering. Did I get isekai’d into one of those novels?
My old boringly fucked life feels forgotten-level fucked now.
“What’re you thinking?”
“Huh?”
“Spacing out already? You gonna manage?”
The Tigress escort’s name: Esen Taiga. A-rank fighter in my new party I’d drunkenly signed on to.
“Uh...”
One more ‘huh?’ and she’d snap my neck—her face said it. Clutching the contract I’d thumbprinted in my stupor, I answered quick.
“I’ll work harder than anyone in this world.”
“Damn right. With 100,000 gold debt and 20,000 upfront.”
Esen munched a sausage snack.
“Not just hard—fucking ace it. I’m worried about your adaptation especially. Y’know.”
“Which part?”
“Girl-dominated workplace phobia.”
The boss lady nodded at the camp. Hundreds bustling about. Nothing like my last four- or five-man party.
Humans hauling stew—women. Dwarf smith patching gear in the field forge—woman. Sweat-soaked bunny beastkin tossing her top, cackling—woman. Elf archer fanning her chest with her sleeve, surrounded by giggling pals—all women.
No doubt any man watching would flinch and look away. They acted like it went without saying.
Of course. Everyone—without a single exception—was female.
...This real?
“In our Special Monster Extermination Unit party, you’re the only guy. You sure you’re okay with that?”
Words failed me. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking.
Yeah. Me too. I’m pretty damn uneasy about it.