Porter: Johann 31
"The wound has completely healed. It seems like..."
A monk in splendid robes with a kindly face examined the hero's arm with pitying eyes. In truth, there was no need to even check such a wound.
Too much time had passed since the loss. The arm had fully healed, making recovery impossible even with the most powerful spells. The best they could do was attach a prosthetic.
"W-what did you say?"
The hero's face stiffened like he'd just heard a death sentence for his family. He hadn't misheard the monk—it was just his mind rejecting reality.
"We can attach a prosthetic, but adapting to it will take one or two years of consistent rehabilitation. Expecting your full combat prowess to return is..."
...unlikely.
The monk trailed off, but the hero could guess the rest. A hollow expression spread across his face.
Combat power wasn't the issue. He'd already grown stronger surviving death's door. What mattered was escaping this disabled state.
In fact, the hero already knew. Even in Wanderer's Village, the odds were slim.
Still, he'd clung to a thread of hope coming here. A blind faith that this place could heal him. Now facing reality, his future was a miserable dead end. Utterly inescapable.
"Judging by the scar, it was a massive injury, yet you survived. That's heavenly luck. The only explanation is divine grace."
The monk offered hollow comfort that didn't touch his heart.
The hero staggered out of the treatment room.
His head spun. Dizziness worse than any fever. The monk's verdict echoed in his ears.
"Live the rest of my life as a cripple...?"
Phantom pain flared. Like his arm burning in fire.
Even as the pain made him curse the world, he couldn't sob. The urge to cry sank into his heart's darkness. Negative emotions swirled in his mind. The air tasted bitter.
"What do I do now..."
The mage waited outside the church, errands done. What to tell her?
Confess he'd live as a one-armed cripple forever?
Or joke that a prosthetic would make him look fine?
Either way, disaster awaited. He could easily picture the monk's disappointed eyes on his empty sleeve.
Suddenly, the image resurfaced: the monk convulsing through Johann's body. Clearly a nightmare, yet why torment him so vividly?
One bad thought bred another.
No woman would choose a one-armed cripple over a man who sparked jealousy even in other guys. Not even a priestess.
"Damn it!"
He couldn't face her.
The hero fled from her. Desperate steps like fleeing a killer. He was running from fate itself.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! I'm the one fated to slay the Demon King and marry the priestess—why me!?"
He was the world's center.
He'd gained the stigma, become the hero. Sharp combat sense earned him praise among peers. He partied with the priestess he'd secretly admired.
At some point, certainty struck: he was the protagonist. Everything prepared for him.
His future was guaranteed.
But now? What a joke.
His life had plummeted into the gutter.
Where did this twist begin?
Everything spun. So he ran mindlessly. No thoughts allowed.
Thud!
"Ow! Hey! You cripple! Where're you looking!?"
He collided with a passerby mid-sprint. A rough-looking man with a knife scar on his cheek.
"Damn. What rotten luck..."
The man cursed, apples from his spilled basket rolling everywhere. Violent impulse surged uncontrollably in the hero.
"The old man's gonna chew me out again..."
Wham!
"Gaaack!"
He kicked the man full force. The guy groaned like a beaten dog and collapsed.
His neck snapped back too far, tongue lolling out. Instant death. No holding back.
"What?"
"H-he's dead?"
Onlookers buzzed. Realizing his deed, the hero covered his face and bolted. Voices chased him.
"Murderer! Someone's dead!"
"Mark! Snap out of it, Mark!"
He ran like flames licked his feet. Their calls felt like reaper's beckoning.
Run, run, run. He'd never sprinted this hard in a dungeon.
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!"
Only in a narrow, filthy alley devoid of people did he stop. Gasping for air.
"Damn..."
He looked up. Cruelly blue, clear sky. Life's irony.
Everything crumbled.
His moral superiority as hero. Golden future assured. Beautiful lover smiling at him.
"Heh... heh...! Kuk! Kekeke...!"
Laughter burst out. Emotions fully unhinged.
"Kuhahaha! Haha! Hahahaha! Hahahaha!"
Tears came with the laughs. If God existed, he'd ask: why this cursed fate?
"Good thing I didn't toss it..."
He pulled a small packet from his pocket. Never touched drugs in his life.
Yet his hands unwrapped it steadily. Bitter herbal scent wafted. A handful of powder inside, plus rolling paper.
Like rolling a cigarette, he packed, rolled tight. Fingertip flame lit it. Lucky to be a hero handy with fire for smokes.
"Heh. What a pathetic loser I am."
He puffed the white smoke. Virgin lungs to tobacco, yet no aversion.
Surprisingly smooth. First drag like plain air.
White smoke filled his lungs, calming his mind. Soothing, not awakening as expected.
Pupils dilated slowly. Muscles relaxed, body eased. Worries faded. Mind and body drifting apart.
"Bro. Weird druggie in our turf?"
Thug voices nearby. He barely cared.
"That guy's smoking white stuff. Must've pissed off One-Eye the old man. Even I feel sorry for him."
"White drugs! They say it feels amazing! Why won't that old peddler sell to me?"
"Shut it, kid. He only trades for useful tools. That guy's a stigma hero, looks like. Even one-armed, handy labor for the gang. That's why he got hooked."
"You ever tried white drugs, bro?"
"Never crossed my mind. You can't imagine how terrifying it is."
"That guy's gone look—must be some potent shit."
"White drugs' horror ain't just addiction or highs. It's poison that slowly shreds your sanity."
"Shreds sanity?"
"Rumor says it bores holes in your brain. Cognition drops, reason gone, ends up a monster chasing base urges like appetite and lust. Gangs use those addicts as slave labor to grow."
"Whoa! Never touching that."
"Yeah. And steer clear of guys like him. White addicts see red. We avoid."
"Right. Dodge shit 'cause it's scary? Nah, 'cause it's filthy."
The hero's fate tilted slowly toward ruin.
I'd assigned eyes on the hero. Curious how he'd act. If his arm got fixed, I'd sabotage somehow.
My worries were unfounded. Even the church gave no hope. His despairing face at the healer's words? Masterpiece.
The hero's doom was set. Mentally cornered already.
During carriage trips, flaunting affection with the priestess shook him. Jealousy ploy built invisible walls between mage and hero. He'd isolated himself in the party, knowingly or not.
Priestess and mage oblivious. Meticulous gaslighting to ignite his madness—had to stay secret. Foolproof design.
"His utterly wrecked look is gold."
Hero's reaction exceeded expectations. Killing that heckler? Even I didn't predict that. More broken than I thought.
"And now drugs. Rock bottom."
No need to see him as rival anymore. Just plan his finale.
"Broken men are useful anywhere. Got a fine pawn."
No special grudge against the hero. Understandable he'd try kicking me out—male instinct.
His sole sin? Stealing the mage's heart.
"Porter!"
The mage called suddenly. We headed back to the inn.
"Yes? You called?"
"Twice! Ignoring me for daydreams?"
Her grumpy tone was cute, a bit sulky.
"Sorry. Thinking dinner."
"Didn't peg you for a glutton. Like the priestess."
"That much?"
"I'll cook tonight. Can borrow the inn kitchen. What do you want?"
"Lunch was pricey. Keep it cheap."
"Max results from min ingredients? My specialty. Even matched the hero's picky tastes."
A crowd loomed ahead like thunderclouds. Mage tilted her head.
"Crowd up there. What? Incident?"
"Yeah. Robbery maybe."
"Oh! Body on ground...? Real deal! Chills. Mugging in such a crowd? Ballsy criminal."
I nearly burst laughing at her words.
"Totally. Must be a black-hearted bastard."
"Steer clear of scum like that. Wanderer's Village too crowded—trouble. Anyway, dinner? Spill."
She chattered like a bird. We dove into serious dinner debate.