Porter: Johann 38
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I ignored his advice and plunged into the alley. The deeper I went, the thicker the sinister aura grew.
Living here—eating and sleeping in a place like this—would make anyone's killing intent boil over.
Darkness Radar.
I scanned the surroundings. The radar pinged with a swarm of beggars and homeless folk. None of them were worth my attention.
But I kept probing relentlessly, and soon enough, I caught a suspicious movement.
Waiting behind that bent alley corner. With an aura like that...
High chance it was a hero. I deliberately strode forward, feigning vulnerability.
Shwick!
The moment I neared the alley mouth, a hand blade shot out from the opposite side, aimed straight for my temple. Any ordinary person hit by that would drop dead on the spot.
But I'd seen it coming. Dodging was as easy as pie. I just shifted my foot back a hair, letting the strike whistle past. In the same motion, I shot out my left hand and clamped onto his wrist.
"Kgh!"
A cry of pain echoed back. There was no strength in his grip. His body must've been wrecked beyond repair. Life in the gutter had drained every last drop of his vitality.
He tried to wrench free and bolt, but I wasn't letting go. I didn't attack, though—just yanked his arm, dragging him closer.
I locked eyes with the rag-wrapped figure. Cleared my throat and kicked off the act.
"Hero!? Is that you, Hero!?"
Only then did recognition dawn on him. His eyes went wide, and in an instant, raw killing intent flickered in his pupils. Before he could erupt, I beat him to it.
"Hero! Do you have any idea how long we've been searching for you? What the hell happened!?"
Throwing on the pretense first threw his rage off balance. The fury twisting his face faltered, like a starving wolf suddenly zapped. He slumped, all energy drained.
Up close, I could see just how broken he was. His wrists were skeletal, his face gaunt enough to show cheekbones. The unkempt beard caking his mouth made him look like a bandit.
The burst veins around his eyes and the tremors in his hands? Withdrawal symptoms from drugs, no doubt. He was hooked bad on that white powder.
"Porter..."
He finally croaked out words. The anger had ebbed a bit.
"You look like hell. We've got a lot to talk about, Hero."
"Hey... got any money?"
I barely stifled a laugh.
"Money?"
"Yeah. Sorry to hit you up outta nowhere, but I need it bad for something."
"I've got some, sure..."
"It's a lifelong favor! Just a loan, please!"
The hero slammed his forehead to the ground. No pride left—not even a shred. Hard to believe a man could sink this low.
"Get up. If you need money, it's yours."
I pulled out a few silver coins. He lit up more than that one-eyed beggar had.
"Heh heh! This'll get me through today..."
Drool dribbling down his chin—anyone could see he wasn't right in the head. It was like watching a sitcom unfold.
With the cash in hand, he navigated the twisting alleys like he owned them. He ended up at the information guild.
"Wait here a sec."
He ducked inside and was back quick, pocket bulging. Drugs, obviously.
"Hero. What happened? Tell me everything. Everyone's worried sick."
He nodded gravely at my words. I already knew his story inside out, so I half-tuned out his explanation.
"Tried getting my arm healed at the church. But they said it was impossible."
"Damn... I see."
"The loss hit me hard. Couldn't face the priest or mage... so I ran."
He skipped the murders he'd committed. No mention of hustling punches for drug money, either. Last scraps of his pride, I figured.
"Everyone's waiting for you... but going back like this? Not realistic."
"I'm done. My life's over here. Thanks for finding me. Head back. Don't tell the others."
"You good just staying like this? Place feels off lately—real sketchy."
"Sketchy how?"
"Some beggar mentioned it. Mystery punchings spiking. Even happening in broad daylight outside now—total chaos. Guards are on high alert, hunting the perp."
He swallowed hard.
"Sticking around here's risky. Let me set you up with a room."
"You? A room?"
"Yeah. Somewhere quiet—no priest or mage running into you. Clean up there, then come back. You're not the type to end like this, Hero!"
"Uh... thanks, but why the hell you being so nice?"
I flashed a grin.
"'Cause we're comrades."
*-*-*
Comrades were a hell of a thing. The hero knew it better than most. Sticking with the mage and priest? Nothing scared him then.
To feel that golden-age bond again through a guy he despised? Ironic as fuck.
"That porter kid... might actually be a decent guy."
He fiddled with the heavy drug packet in his pocket, checking the map. The porter had drawn it—pointed to an inn on the village outskirts.
"Remote spot like this? Guards won't show easy. Perfect."
Even after hero life toughened him to the streets, beggar existence—no real food, no washing—had worn him ragged.
He missed soft beds and cozy ceilings. Awkward sleep positions haunted his dreams with memories of old inns.
He moved carefully. Had to dodge guards' eyes—especially with drugs on him.
Luck held; no patrols. The area was dead quiet. Prime spot for the inn.
He glanced up at the modest building. Outskirts meant fewer people. Unlike the bustling fountain square, you could walk for blocks without seeing a soul.
Places like this demanded extra caution. Crowds were best for hiding. For a fugitive like him, it wasn't all upside. But beggars couldn't be choosers.
He hustled inside. Cozy, upscale vibe—not some dive in a bad spot, but a premium joint banking on seclusion.
Door swung open; eyes met the counter girl. She started a polite smile that soured at his stench.
"Eek!"
Her grimace burned his cheeks red. He muttered low.
"Heard you rented a room under Johann."
"Oh, right. Room 201."
She managed composure, slid the key across the counter. Protocol said hand it over, but his rags and reek killed her service spirit.
"Shower's in the room."
He snatched it, head bowed, and bolted upstairs. Snicker from behind.
Fucking bitch...
Killing urge surged. The stigma scar buzzed hot.
Drugs made reining in emotions tougher. Side effect he knew, but quitting? Impossible.
First things first: shower. He scrubbed days of grime clean.
Sewer stink clung deep; took furious scrubbing to polish his skin.
"Sniff! Sniff! Good enough?"
His nose, dulled by the funk, couldn't tell. If it lingered after this, tough shit. He sighed, flopped onto the bed.
God, how long since a real bed? Feathers cradled him soft. Tears pricked—pure bliss.
"Even shit this small was luxury..."
Rock bottom taught life's value. Flew high, fell hard. And he was still dropping.
"......"
Melancholy hit. Hand drifted to the drugs unconsciously.
"No!"
He yanked it back.
Craved it like mad. But touching it again? Straight to inescapable hell.
Gut said this was his last shot at comeback.
Up he got, out the door. Trembling hand barely turned the knob. Withdrawal kicking in.
White powder's hit fast and brutal. Any ache, and it called. Distraction was key.
"Food first."
Some porter cash left. Down to the inn diner: stew, bread, two meat dishes.
Realized he hadn't eaten since last night. Drugs killed hunger till now. Awareness unleashed a roar.
"Food's up."
Friendly old cook served. Hero shoveled with his one good hand.
Utensils? Fuck it—hands only. Priest would've fed him. Mood soured again.
Shoved it down, belly full. Emptiness eased a notch. Win.
Full stomach brought sleep. Dreams might dodge the pain. Insomnia from addiction lately, but now? Deep slumber awaited.