Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Hassan is Finally Free
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The receptionist who had vanished somewhere returned just as I was starting to feel bored, left alone at the counter.
"Mr. Hassan, do you attend services at any temple? Which of the Twelve Gods do you worship?"
She sat down at her desk and asked out of the blue. Attend services at a temple? It reminded me of a blind date asking which religious event I was planning to go to.
"I don't go to any temples."
The only worship in my life was the church I went to in the army because they gave out canned pineapple. If I dug deeper into my memories, that and the neighborhood church I tagged along to with a friend for Christmas presents might be it.
Of course, those had nothing to do with actual faith.
If I thought of other religious acts, it was following my father—who had a pathological obsession with ancestral rites every holiday—to clean graves and pay respects.
Not that I felt any gratitude toward grandfathers I'd never met.
It was just doing what my muscle-bound dad ordered. If I didn't, I'd get beaten painfully and have my allowance taken away.
But that's just normal for any Korean, right?
As I was lost in those thoughts, the receptionist's face turned red like a ripe apple.
"Huh? You don't attend services!?"
She let out a sharp shriek.
"You don't go to any temple? And yet you receive grace? That doesn't make sense!"
She looked like she thought I was lying. Not that I could blame her for not understanding.
This world I'd been rolling around in for two years was like the Dark Ages, with primitive superstitions and religions deeply intertwined with life, inseparable.
People offered sacrifices or devotion to the gods they served and received corresponding blessings or grace in return.
Give and take.
Simpler than Earth's profound talk of salvation or enlightenment, easy to grasp. But I hadn't given to any god.
I'd just taken, so it wasn't surprising they couldn't understand. Truth be told, I had my own doubts about these new abilities.
...And I had two of them. One was a suspicious grace that didn't even register on the status display.
What the hell is "Blessing of Chaos"?
It even felt a bit scary.
"You don't serve any god? That's impossible. Do you know what this grace does? There's nothing more reliable for inferring abilities than knowing the god's name."
"Oh, about that—. Could I see your hand?"
"My hand?"
At my question, the receptionist clutched her hands tightly in front of her chest and gave me a suspicious glare.
"Why my hand? Y-you're trying to do something weird! You filthy Samaritan bastard!"
No way, for real?
Even I'd feel a bit resistant if a strange foreigner named Hassan suddenly asked for my hand. But calling me a filthy Samaritan bastard? Damn it.
Still, I'd gotten used to being insulted for my looks, so it didn't hurt anymore.
"You were curious about my grace. Just put your hand here—."
"You're trying to touch me while I'm confused! I know you're hitting on me just because I'm pretty!"
This bitch—I wanted to smack her.
It was the third time I'd seriously wanted to hit a woman, after my little sister and Elfriede. But I couldn't.
Clank.
Shing.
I could feel the temple guards—armed with swords and gleaming armor—watching us sharply.
If I let anger get the better of me and swung, those brutes would drag me away, hing hing...
"It doesn't hurt or anything weird, so just let me see it."
"Hmph... Fine, go ahead then."
With half suspicion and half curiosity in her eyes, the receptionist extended her right hand toward me.
I decided to hold back my anger. I didn't want to make this weird atmosphere worse.
Thud.
The white back of her hand extended to me. For a desk receptionist, it surprisingly had quite a few small scars and calluses.
In a world where everyone had to fend for themselves, soft, pretty hands on women were rare. This was normal.
"Then I'll hold your wrist for a sec."
Worried she'd scream sexual harassment, I warned her first. Then I lightly placed my index finger on her wrist, visible through her white blouse sleeve.
Minimizing contact—just my fingertip.
Would this even work? I wondered.
Ding.
『Name: Daphne Lv. 6
Status: Indigestion』
Luckily, a fingertip on the wrist was enough.
Amazing.
"...What are you doing?"
"Ms. Daphne, is your food not digesting well?"
"H-how do you know my name!? And how did you know about my indigestion!"
"This is my grace..."
"Got it! You're a stalker! I've felt someone following me for days! It was you! Guards! Guards! Grab this guy! Quick! Before he runs!!"
Shing, clank, clank.
"H-hoee—."
*
"No, I mean, I just learned it today. I don't even know who that woman is, and it's my first time in this city!"
"Liar! You groped my hand!!"
Slap!
"Gek—!"
Daphne slapped my cheek without mercy as I sat tied to a wooden chair. The sincere smack stung so bad even I teared up a bit.
"Damn! That fucking hurts!"
"You're the one in the wrong, and you dare curse!?"
Slap, slap—.
In the secret underground prison of the temple, the sharp smacking sounds continued. My face was past hurting and starting to feel warm.
If I put a raw egg on my face now, would it cook? I thought stupidly as she kept talking.
"What are you? Did the Minerva Guild put you up to this? Who keeps stalking and harassing me!!"
Daphne was completely unhinged. Getting hit with this inexplicable hysteria, I felt like I was going mad too.
"Geometry! Guaaak!"
"Y-you bastard! What right do you have to struggle! Showing your true colors, you filthy barbarian!"
"Daphne, enough. Your voice is carrying all the way upstairs."
Clank—.
Someone entered the cramped underground prison. The soldiers guarding beside Daphne straightened up, so he must be high-ranking.
"This guy's a Minerva Guild spy? Whew, he's a big one. Doesn't fit the spy type."
"This guy's a total creep! A filthy Samaritan bastard! Beat him black and blue!"
"Got it, got it, so go back upstairs. You're needed there—don't slack off."
"You creep!"
Slap—.
After one last slap on my cheek, Daphne stormed out of the underground prison.
Only after her shadow fully vanished did the man turn to me.
Eyepatch over his left eye. M-shaped forehead with most hair gone, bushy orange beard. Scars all over his face.
He wore plain leather clothes but looked extremely seasoned and shrewd.
Shorter than me by a head, but the aura he exuded was no joke—reminded me of my dad.
"You're the Minerva Guild spy? And Daphne's stalker?"
"Dahuk, I fucking don't even know what that is."
I protested loudly my innocence.
Women could ruin a man's life with just their voice and tears, without evidence!
Even in my world full of CCTV and gadgets. In this barbaric one? Forget it.
"I heard the story from the guards. You groped and fondled her hand."
"No, no, I swear! I just lightly touched her wrist with one finger! I'm fucking innocent!"
"Yeah, looks that way. Untie him."
At the man's word, the guards quickly removed the restraints and chains binding me.
Oh—.
This was normal, but in this world, normal was rare, so I felt dazed.
"You believe me?"
"No, how could I trust a hick barbarian like you? But I distrust Daphne even more. She's... a bit off. Mentally. She's soaked in Chaos's love, that's all."
I didn't get it, but at least I was free. Lucky. I rubbed my sore wrists—skin scraped raw from how tight they'd tied me—and furrowed my brow. Bastards.
"Anyway, come to my office, Hassan. Your innocence isn't fully proven yet. We can clear it up there."
The one-eyed man's office was in a remote corner of the guild building.
A spacious room in a secluded spot. Filled with junk, stuffed beasts, rusted armor, dusty old books.
More warehouse than office.
Maybe it actually was.
"Have a seat."
At his words, I looked around. Damn, no chairs—just junk. Where?
So I cleared some stuff and sat on a flat box. It creaked and wobbled but worked as a chair.
"I wouldn't sit there. That box holds something cursed to hell."
Shing.
I didn't buy into superstitions like not writing names in red pen, but this world's curses were real. Like the "Dusar's curse."
So I sat on the bare floor.
"Hassan, average stats over 2. Total 7. Samaritan with grace. Doesn't believe in any god? Never attended any temple services?"
The man's single brown eye looked down at me. Pretty oppressive vibe—like getting chewed out by Elfriede.
"This paper doesn't lie. You have grace—that's fact. It happens sometimes. Elves, Samaritans, weird foreigners like you."
Shh—.
He squatted in front of me and extended his wrist. More like a thick beam or pillar than a wrist—solid bone.
I could feel its toughness and knuckles without touching.
"W-what?"
"I heard touching the wrist reveals info. Not just for women, right?"
Ah—I got what he meant. He was giving me a chance. Easier for me that way.
Of course, if I didn't meet his expectations, that forearm would become a bat smashing my head.
Tensing up, I placed my finger on his wrist.
Ding.
『Name: Baltma lv ??
Status: Hangover》???》???》???』
What? Question marks?
I was puzzled by all the question marks. Could this happen? Aside from the name, no real info.
"Why, not working? You didn't lie, did you?"
Still suspicious, the one-eyed man—probably named Baltma—clenched his fist with a crunch.
"Know my name?"
"Baltma... Baltma, right?"
"Yeah, good guess. But anyone in this city or coming to Mars Guild would know it. Anything else? With Daphne, you even knew her indigestion."
Other than question marks, the only thing was "Hangover" in status.
"You look like you have a bad hangover."
"What?"
He furrowed his brow in disbelief, looking so menacing I flinched.
"I have a hangover?"
He sniffed himself.
"No booze smell. And you still say I have one?"
"But you definitely do."
Silence fell after my words. Under his increasingly suspicious gaze, I had to trust what I saw.
Ah. Anyway, he has one. He must.
Awkward silence stretched.
"...Fuck, how'd you know? Even my wife doesn't notice—this odorless booze. If they catch me drinking on the job, I'm screwed."
Muttering like a soliloquy, Baltma rummaged through junk and pulled out a glass bottle.
Purple liquid like wine sloshed inside the clear bottle.
He popped the cork and chugged it. Didn't you just say no drinking on the job? Crazy bastard.
"Want a sip?"
"N-no..."
"It's booze made by steeping tiger hornets in wine. Only real connoisseurs know—great for men. ...Lately, I can't face the night without it."
Muttering info I didn't want, he took more swigs. But his attitude toward me had softened, easing my mind a bit.
"Anyway, I get you're not lying. I have a rough idea which god gave you that grace."
"Oh, really?"
The thought of a hint about my ability made the stinging on my cheek fade instantly. Still uncomfortable, but better.
Click—.
At my question, Baltma capped the bottle and answered.
"The 'amateur' word before the grace bugs me a bit. But the one who grants graces for handiwork talents and oracle-type info appraisal? Only one god."
"Who?"
[Author's Note] Thanks always for the favorites and recs ooooh!! Kyaaah!! Oop oop!!
Wah, coupons already even though only a few chapters out ㅠㅠㅠ
Halredim-nim, thank you!! No idea where you are, so bowing east west south north!!!!!!!