Piss Salvo
In Origin World, relic grades were broadly divided into Normal, Rare, Unique, and Legendary.
Artifacts followed the exact same tiering system, but unlike ancient relics, modern craftsmen forged them in the current era. As the setting book succinctly put it: One should not expect modern artifacts to match the sheer might of true relics.
Considering the staggering disparity in performance, that was only natural. If I had to make an analogy, artifacts were off-the-shelf standard gear purchased from town merchants or generic NPCs, whereas relics were prized treasures wrested from the depths of perilous dungeons and uncharted wildlands.
Though the game nominally grouped them under identical rank labels, the further you progressed through repeated playthroughs, the rarer it was to ever touch an artifact. Once you knew how to acquire the necessary relics on schedule, there wasn't a single reason to burden yourself with inferior substitutes.
Not that every artifact was garbage. A handful boasted specs formidable enough to carry a player straight to the final credits, but they were either an absolute nightmare to farm or disgustingly expensive, so almost no one bothered.
"Hmph..."
The Legendary-grade relic, the Holy Guardian Fortress, looked remarkably plain for its exalted status. It was merely a slender chain necklace, devoid of eye-catching gems, intricate engravings, or ostentatious filigree. Fastening it around my neck didn't trigger any palpable surge of power, either. Even so, simply wearing it meant my mental resistance had just received an astronomical multiplier.
"......"
Wait. With this equipped, couldn't I clear that dungeon? Terabaon, the ducal capital, sat in the northern territory, meaning the Wyrm Mountains weren't terribly far away. I would have to pay them a visit before long.
The setting of Origin World was neither peaceful nor safe. Monsters ambushed human settlements at every turn; the demon race pulled their strings from the shadows, hellbent on wiping out mankind; and towering above them all reigned the Demon God, who ruled both beasts and demons in an overarching bid to conquer the entire planet. Layered on top of that cosmic dread were dark cultists worshipping the Demon God, cutthroats and bandits infesting every mountain pass and wilderness road, constant territorial wars between human realms, and countless other hazards.
To survive in a world like this, possessing the bare minimum martial capability to defend oneself was mandatory. After all, I had to stay alive before I could even dream of steering the protagonist toward the true ending.
Yet inside the body of Stanashila Aljen, I didn't harbor the slightest shred of desire to endure grueling training or discipline. In the end, that left me with only one viable shortcut: being thoroughly carried by broken gear.
Not that I planned on hoarding endgame BiS equipment. I had no intention of poaching the protagonist's destined fortuitous encounters—the very ones critical for subjugating the Demon God. That meant the relics I sought were the kind that were solid enough for immediate survival, yet too niche to justify a permanent slot in a late-game build.
"Hmm..."
To pull that off, I needed to conquer a dungeon. Going alone was an option, but bringing Vivian didn't sound like a bad idea either. Our youngest sister was one of the Default Heroines. If I cultivated a close bond with her, I might be able to subtly influence the protagonist through her down the line.
To be completely honest, that was literally the only play available to me, because I didn't know the protagonist's name, personality, or moral compass. That information hadn't even been included in the setting books. It made sense, considering the protagonist was a player-created character. The player chose the name, and their personality and values shifted entirely depending on player choices and playstyle.
When I had zero clue what kind of eccentric or lunatic was going to manifest in this world, drawing up some grand, convoluted support strategy was a fool's errand. Relying on our youngest, who was guaranteed to cross paths with him, was far more practical. My only mild concern was that Vivian's capture difficulty in the original romance routes had been rated 'Very Easy.' There was a real chance she might fall so head over heels for the guy that she'd tune me out completely. In the worst-case scenario, she might get eliminated from the heroine pool entirely... but there was no use borrowing trouble.
Besides, I didn't expect to succeed on this first run anyway. A few dozen loops? A few hundred? I would probably need that many regressions just to catch a glimpse of the ending. I had to steel my resolve and take things in stride if my sanity was going to endure. All I needed to do now was observe how far the Stanasila Duchy could survive, memorize every detail of the future, and map out the most efficient, rational route forward.
"Whew..."
Bleak as it was, the immediate task was preparing for a dungeon expedition to pad out my inventory. I didn't need to pack much, and coaxing Vivian wouldn't take much effort. The real hurdle was whether the rest of the family would ever grant permission.
Gulp.
"Phew... Alright. Let's get this over with."
"Lord Aljen. Are you stepping out?"
"Hm? Ah... yeah."
"I shall accompany you."
With Muriel executing a crisp bow and falling in behind me, I ambled toward the patriarch's office with unsteady, drunken steps. Anyone else might have put up a fight, but Urtega would probably give his blessing without much fuss. He was practically hands-off when it came to raising his children and placed immense stock in firsthand experience. And if Urtega gave the green light, the rest of the household wouldn't have any ground to complain.
"Stanashila Aljen. You are to attend the social gathering."
"What? Hell no."
The instant I crossed the threshold, his command flew at me, and I shot it down on pure reflex.
"......"
"Where is this coming from out of nowhere? You know damn well how long it's been since I set foot in one of those parties. Did you really think I'd start now?"
"...It is a necessary affair. Allow me to explain."
"Nah, I'm good. I already know it's some obnoxious headache tangled up in dirty politics. More importantly, Father, I want to take a trip."
"A trip? In times like these?"
"Feels necessary. Oh, and I'm taking Vivian with me."
"Why would you take Vivian?"
"Well... you know, sibling bonding? You'll let us go, right? Great, I'll take that as a yes."
"Halt. You insolent brat."
As I spun on my heel to walk right back out, his wrath-laced voice seized me in place.
"Travel is denied, Aljen. Are you even aware of your current predicament?"
"You mean the weird rumors spreading about me? I don't give a damn about that stuff."
"You will care. The entire estate is in an uproar because of it. Do you have any idea how many requests have flooded in from nobles and adventurers demanding an audience to see your face? How many invitations to banquets and high society gatherings are piling up? You will not set one foot outside until every single one of them is dealt with."
"Wait, why do I have to deal with that—"
"Because you brought this upon yourself."
I let out a scoffing laugh at the sheer absurdity.
"Father. Do you have any idea how shamelessly hypocritical you sound right now?"
"Yes. I am well aware."
"Unbelievable. I bust my ass keeping this ducal house from collapsing, and your reward is dumping desk work on me? 'Oh, he looks somewhat useful now, let's work him to the bone,' is that it? Man, this really breaks my heart..."
"Aljen. All I am asking is that you receive visiting nobles or attend social gatherings and banquets. That hardly qualifies as work. Real work is what sits before me right now."
With that, Urtega gestured toward the mountainous drifts of paperwork smothering his massive mahogany desk. Yeah, okay, the old man definitely looked like he was suffering.
"Or would you prefer to handle my duties instead? If so, I shall gladly assume yours."
"That's a bit much... Haaah. Regardless, my answer is no. Absolutely not. I'm not doing something that tedious."
"You do not have a choice. This is an order from the Head of the House."
"......"
Faced with his unyielding decree, I tipped back my bottle and chugged. I drank until the alcohol burned straight into my bloodstream. If Urtega intended to suppress my freedom using the authority reserved only for the patriarch, then I had no choice but to respond with the only countermeasure reserved for a good-for-nothing delinquent. Or rather, it was literally my only weapon. I was a pathetic, powerless wretch with neither martial strength nor sovereign authority, after all.
"Phew... Eldest brother was one thing, but Father, you're really pushing it... Why do both of you insist on being such suffocating, annoying bastards? Look, I. Said. No! How many damn times do I have to spell it out for you?!"
A torrent of alcohol surged through my brain, sweeping away reason and dissolving my judgment and inhibitions like morning mist beneath a scorching sun.
Zzzzzp! Flap!
I unzipped my trousers and hauled out my cock.
"...What in the world are you—"
"Choke on my piss, old man! Gahahahaha!"
The next instant, a pressurized, steaming stream of golden liquid arced straight toward Urtega's face.
Splaasssh!
He could have dodged it with ease—he was a ducal master, for god's sake—yet he took the blast dead-on. A delicious chill ran down my spine. Frenzied euphoria boiled in my veins, and endorphins flooded my system, delivering an illicit high so intensely thrilling it bordered on narcotics.
"Ahahahahaha! Do you understand my answer now?! Still not ringing a bell?! Then taste the piss salvo! Eeeheeheek!"
Swinging my hips wildly up, down, left, and right, I sprayed down the mountain of paperwork on his desk and coated the nearby bookshelves with an even, generous glaze, right up until the room reeked of dense, pungent ammonia.
"Phew... That's the stuff."
Shake, shake, shake!
After a crisp, thorough shake, I tucked myself back in, zipped up, and locked eyes with the thoroughly soaked Duke. He was dead silent. His eyes were open, boring straight into me, but his body remained completely motionless, like a statue.
"Ahem. Father."
"...Speak."
The voice that squeezed through his teeth carried a level of fury no mortal should be capable of producing. Every hair on my body stood on end.
"...Believe it or not, I'm still your son."
"I am aware."
"A precious child born of the woman you love, right? Your own flesh and blood."
"Yes."
"And haven't I just rendered a rather massive service to this family?"
"I acknowledge that."
"So, well..."
Scratching the back of my neck sheepishly, I tilted my bottle, drained the final dregs, and lit a cigarette, taking a deep, greedy drag. My fingers trembled as though savoring the last pull of smoke before execution.
"Pheeew... Yeah, well... as long as you leave me breathing, I won't lodge any formal complaints."
"How commendably modest. I shall grant your wish."
The next moment, a fist arrived from an angle I couldn't even perceive and pulverized my nasal bone into paste. Starting with that first blow, I took a beating so utterly savage that even a stray dog on a scorching summer day would have looked upon me with pity.
Right up to death's door.
I can state with absolute certainty: when it came to healing and restoration, this world was hundreds of times superior to the modern era. Compound fractures across the entire body, shredded musculature, ruptured internal organs... Anyone who experienced being turned into what was practically a dead slime, only to be patched up enough to walk again within two weeks, would wholeheartedly agree.
Gulp!
"Puhaaah... Ah, nothing beats booze after two dry weeks."
"...Lord Aljen. The priest explicitly instructed you to refrain from alcohol..."
"Now, now. Don't start on me too, Muriel. It's fine. I won't die, I won't die."
"Haaah..."
Muriel let out a long sigh at my shameless deflection. Sighing openly in front of me—compared to two weeks ago, this was a remarkable transformation. When we first met, she was as stiff and emotionless as a mechanical doll. But over the last fourteen days of nursing and tending to me around the clock, her rigid exterior had gradually softened, until she was now wearing her exasperation on her sleeve.
Had looking after me really been that draining? No, probably not. That was just her actual personality breaking through. I hadn't done anything besides politely asking for alcohol... Well, okay, I threw a few fits along the way... Wait, was that actually why?
"Lord Aljen. Your guests will begin arriving today."
"Seriously? That damn Duke. He's actually going through with it? Beating me within an inch of my life wasn't enough, he still wants to run his injured son ragged? What a bastardly piece of sh—mph. Mmph?!"
Muriel gently slapped a hand over my mouth. With a soft, intoxicatingly sultry smile, she picked up a piece of fruit with her other hand and slid it between my lips.
"...Muriel. You're getting awfully bold lately, aren't you? Gagging your master? Are you even allowed to do that?"
"Is that so? I wouldn't know."
"......"
Should I be pleased or annoyed? Honestly, getting mad at her behavior was tricky in itself. Her direct superior wasn't me; it was Urtega. She indulged nearly all of my requests, but her absolute loyalty belonged to the Duke.
"Mmm... Fine, do whatever you want."
"Thank you, Lord Aljen."
Watching her offer that meek, gentle reply, I took another swig of booze and struck a match to my cigarette.
Whooosh!
A sudden burst of flame flared up from the tip, making me flinch.
"...?"
Wait. Did the amount of mana in my body just jump... or was I imagining things? No, definitely not my imagination. It felt like it had expanded at least threefold... no, fivefold. Of course, going from one grain of millet to five grains didn't make me a powerhouse, but still.
Why the sudden increase in mana? Puzzled, I rifled through the setting books stored in my memory, but found nothing relevant. Did scraping by near-death trigger some subconscious awakening?
"Whew... So, Muriel. When does the first guest arrive?"
"In three hours."
"Yeah? Plenty of time for a nap then."
"Lord Aljen. Might it not be prudent to maintain the dignity and poise befitting one receiving guests?"
"Huh?"
I blinked at her blankly, then looked down at myself. Granted, being mummified in thick bandages from collarbone to shin wasn't exactly the quintessential picture of ducal hospitality.
"...Who gives a shit? Doesn't matter how I look. Who told them to come snooping anyway? If they don't like it, they can get the hell out."
"Lord Aljen."
"Muriel. You want a face full of piss too?"
"......"
"There's a limit to my generosity. Don't cross the line."
"Understood. My apologies, Lord Aljen."
Watching her quietly retreat, I let out a low sigh and tipped the bottle once more. A few hours later, the first guest who came to see me turned out to be an ostentatious, bloated pig of a man who looked like corruption personified.