Can't Return Home
The phrase "they look just alike" hinted at family ties. "We'll smash you" implied threats and robbery. The circumstances led me to a sinister conclusion.
They'd stolen weapons from Bilena Nitro's family and were using them to attack Bilena and her party members. And our party's "scientist" seemed to have pieced it together even faster than I did.
It was like lighting a fuse on an explosive. Enraged, Bilena snatched Morgan Tomco's gun and opened fire. It was definitely impulsive. But no one could really blame her for it.
If Morgan hadn't wanted to hand over her gun, she never would have. Her face had gone stone-cold as she practically offered it up. And even if Bilena hadn't fired that impressive first shot, a fight would have broken out eventually. Those guys weren't in the mood to let us off easy.
"I'll kill you all—!"
"Try it!"
The first shot whizzed past Garam, who had ducked low, and smashed into the golem behind her. The golem wobbled for a moment but quickly regained its balance, then charged toward us in huge strides, following Garam's rush.
Esen and Garam's fists crossed paths. The golems' swinging swords clashed with Islune Storm and Reni's blades. Nenya and Nidroga turned toward the male Tigresses, advancing with staff and fist at the ready.
Bilena tossed the gun back to Morgan and let out a roar as she hoisted her signature flamethrower. In the midst of this brutal melee, Monica gritted her teeth, holy healing light gathering in her palms.
But there was nothing I could do. In close-quarters chaos like this, a porter often just got in the way. Of course, I couldn't just stand idle.
As I desperately racked my brain for any way to help, shoving my hand into my bag—
"I can no longer tolerate such insolence."
The rock beneath my feet sank with a squelch. The moment 'Huh?' flashed through my mind, the spot I'd been standing on turned into a full-blown pit.
Habit and experience saved me once again. My hand shot reflexively to the front pocket of my bag, yanking out the grappling hook in a blur and hooking the grapple onto the floor.
Clinging to that millimeter contact point between hook and stone, I dangled in midair, peering down at the void below. Darkness so deep I couldn't even make it out lapped at my ankles like a chill wave. A bottomless chasm, untouched by light.
I'd never encountered or even heard of a trap like this—no warning whatsoever. No hunter sets a snare without clues. Not when family and friends could get hurt. Even monsters and demons followed that basic rule.
Which made this even harder to understand. Why this...?
"...The demon lair must be collapsing!"
"Damn it, the porter fell!"
Morgan threw herself forward and grabbed my arm. I steadied my pounding heart—nearly overwhelmed by shock—and was just starting to climb back up with her help when—
A thick arm burst from the darkness, seizing my throat.
"Know your place, sinner who defies the natural order."
——————
"Stand him up."
Someone hauls me to my feet. It's a miracle anyone can steady me on this shaking floor. Survival instinct fights off the dizziness, and I realize the grip on my nape feels familiar.
Adamanthon always grabbed me like this when he was venting his rage. My body moved before my mind could catch up. The principle that lifting force beats pressing force applies to flesh too.
My elbow, loaded with all my strength, smashed into Adamanthon's face. He, who was trying to stand me upright per someone's orders, lost balance instead, spraying blood from his nose as he toppled backward.
But he's a Hero. Raw strength, combat skill, even the gods' blessed luck—qualitatively superior to a non-combatant porter like me. The only edge I had over him in a fight was running away.
I spot an open door to a torch-lit chamber. A faint breeze whispers through. No idea where we are or what floor of the demon lair, but one thing's clear: escape the Adamanthon I just luckily flattened.
He'd kill me for sure. I bolted for the exit.
Until the ceiling started crashing down. I glanced sideways. A hulking bald man in black priest robes released his hand from the ceiling, grinning.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"...Shit."
Apparently, that bald guy's hand had been holding up the ceiling in this pillarless room. The moment he pulled away, the entire ceiling hurtled down to crush me.
I threw my arms and shoulders up to brace it. A heavy thud reverberated through my spine, followed by a rumble and a cloud of dust.
Adamanthon, muttering curses as he stood, took a thunk to the head from behind and flopped down again. The bald giant, head bowed low, shook his head at the sight.
Then his bulging eyes turned to me.
"This is a trap devised by demon craftsmen long ago, targeting 'bearers' like you."
"What?"
"To keep those born into the slave's toil of hauling goods from standing beside 'world-savers'—the Heroes. To bar their filthy hands and feet from the great history that decides the world's fate."
Bearers, slaves who move goods. Probably means porters with Porter Aptitude. Way back when Hero parties were founding nations, porters symbolized the slave class, or so I'd heard.
But more than that stale insult, what bothered me was what he was sitting on. Hunched to my height under the low ceiling, he was crushing my backpack like a stool.
You fucking asshole. Occupational pride ignited my fury.
"...Hey, mister. I don't know who you are, but that's not a—"
"Gunter Baldenhart."
"Oh."
I couldn't bring myself to ask him to get off my bag. His grin—ghostly, baring teeth—radiated thick, stew-like malice.
The instincts of someone who'd lived as the weak whispered: One wrong word, and you're dead.
"There was once order in the world, Porter Bantai. Once—"
"You bastard, my forehead... my nose...! I'll kill you!"
The bishop fell silent, interrupted. Adamanthon shut up too. For a second, I thought he'd snap the kid's neck on the spot.
Lucky or unlucky, Gunter just shook his head slightly and let it go. Shockingly, Adamanthon didn't retort—unlike his usual self.
"Once, Heroes were great humans bestowed with mission and history. Loved by the gods, leading the vanguard, revered by all as kings, and finally, shapers of the world's fate. Special ones. Not anymore. What are Heroes now?"
"...Can I even answer that?"
Gunter eyed me with admiration. Then he slapped a hand to the ceiling and lifted it higher than my height.
"Of course not."
...Treating a porter like dirt right off the bat was the hint. I tensed, staring at his pot-lid hand. The ceiling's weight was immense—even reduced to 1/10th by my Porter Aptitude.
Without it, shrugging off that slab one-handed would be trivial. Squashing my head like a tomato? Easy.
"The world treats them as mere leaders of mercenary scum, hireable for cheap pay. Ungrateful if they don't settle for pennies without turning warlord. They drive Heroes into the jaws of death, deem their aid an obligation, thank them briefly if they die, then forget. Keeping their petty, vulgar lives beneath notice."
...Why rant about Heroes to me, a non-Hero? As I struggled to hide my bewilderment, Baldy Baldenhart droned on, lost in his worldview.
"That's not right. The gods grant aptitudes to set order, distinguish heights of men—separating shepherds, dogs, and sheep. Heroes are the gods' premier shepherds. They must stand highest among men, closest to the sun. That is the station of sovereigns, heroes, generals, history-makers."
Hero supremacist. His tone screamed he'd puppet any Hero to build a puppet state. Not your average lunatic.
"I see."
The moment I replied, Baldenhart released the ceiling. The crushing weight slammed back onto my upper body. I stifled a scream, holding firm.
"And among Heroes, there are elites. The azure Hero, Tena Everlight, bears a grave mission—a great human."
...What?
"She must not be distracted by fornication and adultery with a slave. That would defy order. As my god's fist, I will sternly correct the Hero's deviance."
"What the hell are you?"
"The sanctuary and friends the azure one prepared for her death's aftermath—for you—are the same. Those on the holy crusade must leave no attachments. Their corpses will turn Tena Everlight's deviance into the sole path of noble martyrdom."
"What do you want? Who the fuck are you?!"
"You are a porter. You cannot stop me. You can do nothing."
Gunter shook his head. "I'll handle you last, Bantai—already caught. For daring to exceed a slave's station and disrupt order, you'll feel heavy grief. For presuming to suck noble blood for bliss, you'll witness their bodies one by one. Stay and watch, Adamanthon."
The bald man finally lifted his ass off my bag, scuttling on all fours like a demon through the low door.
"I'll return before his strength fails and he dies."
Even after his footsteps faded, words wouldn't come. Not fear of his return. Not ignorance of his madness.
I knew, and that terrified me. The guy who'd caused havoc in the Dragon's Nest—lord-guarded—and escaped alive. Now invoking Tena's name, vowing to slaughter our party.
Judging a Hero party raiding the lair to protect people as sinners, crawling in to casually steal their lives.
"...Regretting it? Damn. Without the artifact, it's obvious. You really are Tan, huh?"
Adamanthon's vermin voice barely registered. I pictured Esen and the sisters' corpses. Bilena and Nidroga stiff and cold, motionless Morgan and the twins silent.
Party members were stronger than me. They'd hold out. I clung to that, but anxiety clawed my heart. And worse...
"The sanctuary and friends the azure one prepared for her death's aftermath—for you—are the same. Those on the holy crusade must leave no attachments. Their corpses will turn Tena Everlight's deviance into the sole path of noble martyrdom."
"What?"
"What the hell does that mean? Tena prepared her party and friends as some inheritance for me after her death? Holy crusade? Martyrdom? What bullshit is this? I haven't seen Tena in years. What the fuck is going on?!"
"You're dying anyway. What does it matter if you know?"
Adamanthon kicked my leg from behind. Then panicked, realizing the danger. My knee buckled in pain, and the ceiling grated downward with a growl.
"...Adamanthon, big trouble."
"What, you retard? You're fucked. I'll kill you myself. A mere porter screwing me over?"
He ducked low, shoved his face close, breath reeking. "Thought rumors of you whoring around would suffice, but those idiots at One Sun can't write a proper article, so you're still breathing. I'll finish what they couldn't. Hang you like a dog after hunting season."
You sicced One Sun on me.
"Adamanthon, I said big trouble. I'm at my limit. I'll drop the ceiling soon."
His smugness drained to pallor; he bolted for the entrance. I stalled him verbally.
"If you leave me, I'll let go. Ceiling falls faster than you run. We'll both die or get crushed."
"You dogshit—"
Still hypersensitive to his own harm. "And Bishop Gunter Baldenhart said to keep me here. Disobey his orders?"
Bullseye. His body stiffened like he'd heard Gunter directly.
I coaxed the low-IQ Hero-in-sheep's-clothing step by step. Gunter wanted me punished porter-style. I had to stay like this till he returned. A little help, and I could hold the ceiling.
"...Suspicious."
"Ever known me to lie about porter work?"
"...No."
Rage surged. He never bought Moriba and Mindina's flimsy frame-up. What grudge made him rant about hanging me? Sunsstorm family's pimple on pretty skin—a lunatic.
"Just a little help, bro Adamanthon. For old times' sake."
I spat the words I hated then and now. "You know I respect you tons."
Raised surrounded by honest elites, Adamanthon was suckers for praise. Only two ways to make the brat obey: Tomco or Gunter's overwhelming force, or sweet-talk.
His hand slowly pressed the ceiling. I dove to the floor in a flash.
"You fu—"
Adamanthon released and lunged, but I scrambled through his side gap. Snatching my bag, he knelt screaming, bracing the ceiling.
I grabbed the dented bag, half-prone, and braced too—fearing his incompetence. Both drop, both crushed.
But Adamanthon, used to offloading loads, ditched it instantly and crawled at me.
"Retard."
Bilena gave me just the tool for this. Inspired by that bastard himself.
I pulled the flashbang lantern from the side pocket, flicked it on, and blinded him. Harsher than sunlight, it seared the Hero's eyes.
He collapsed howling instead of killing me. As the rumble hit, he panicked, propping the ceiling again.
I kicked the heavy bag outward and rolled free. Sweat-soaked, I shouldered it and stood.
Adamanthon, eyes squeezed shut, ground his teeth, heaved the ceiling up, and rose. Heroic strength indeed. Decent porter material—if someone boosted his IQ to average.
Standing on two legs. Tomco's shots should've taken them. Prosthetics?
"You bastard... if I catch you...!"
No time for threats. I turned without a sneer. No time to tussle.
Gunter said I could do nothing, stop nothing. But why? If true, this room was designed to isolate porters. A demon fortress for invasion—with a dedicated porter-drop room?
Fucking bald prick. I'll show you what a porter can do.
I'm an A-rank porter. Porter means one who bears loads. A-rank means no one mocks us at our job— a duty.
If golems and Tigresses had finished our party, Gunter wouldn't have left for support. They're still fighting. They need me.
"And..."
He's a Hero too. No leaving a strong foe at your back. I halted my sprint, grabbed a stone ruin shard from the floor.
"Die."
I hurled it overhead, aiming for Adamanthon's balls. Arms busy with the ceiling, legs exposed—the deviant Hero ate another sad shot post-Tomco.
Pain wasn't the last in his eyes. Terror hit first, realizing he'd be crushed. Scream and thud echoed as I sprinted.
Toward my party, fighting without their porter.