The Tavern's Signboard Girl is the Saintess

In the corner of the tavern, I sank deep into the creaky wooden chair, alternating my gaze between the system window and empty air as I wrestled with my thoughts for a good long while. I've got a mountain of shit to do. For real... way too much.

My mind was a tangled mess. Back when this world was just data on the other side of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a monitor, none of this was worth agonizing over. But now, things that hadn't even registered as problems were turning into real threats to my survival, one by one.

Controlling the original protagonist, Dea, had been a breeze. Ramp up the lewdness by stripping in the streets or letting mercenaries have their way? A few clicks, done. In the game, even if Dea got violated hundreds of times, her "time" never ticked forward. Where the protagonist slept, if she ate on time, even how she handled her bodily functions—none of that mattered to the player. That stuff was just boring, unnecessary fluff that got in the way of the fun.

But now?

"...This is real."

Real time. Time flowed with chilling precision. When I'd first finished the tutorial in the king's audience chamber at the castle, shrugging off those beastly stares, the sun had been blazing brightly overhead. But now, peering out the tavern's dusty window, everything had changed. The sky was thick with a sticky crimson hue, the sun dipping low, and long shadows stretching through the city's alleys, filling them with dank darkness.

Night's coming... and it'll be even more dangerous.

The cold, crusted feel of semen stuck to my chest suddenly sent a chill down my spine. In this game world with no money or connections, sunset meant the predators' time had arrived.

That's when, lost in my despair-tinged brooding, a voice broke the silence.

"Hey, Saintess."

The tavern owner's gruff voice cut through as he absentmindedly wiped a cup. I jolted upright. His face still looked annoyed, but his eyes held something more human now—or maybe some ulterior motive.

"Got a place to crash tonight?"

"Huh? Oh... well..."

I was tongue-tied. A place to stay? As if the saintess kicked out of the castle like trash would have a reservation.

"Figured not. Makes sense—you came back from getting dragged around by those mercenaries looking like that. No wonder your head's not on straight."

He jerked his chin toward the stairs to the second floor.

"We've got an empty room upstairs. Streets at night are rough. A girl alone? You'll run into five or six more creeps like those guys."

He wasn't wrong. But I eyed him suspiciously. In this game, NPC "kindness" usually meant an even steeper price.

"Room cost... how much?"

He set down the cup with a sly grin.

"No cash needed. But..."

His gaze lingered on my face—not the ravenous beast eyes from before, but the cold calculation of a merchant appraising ripe fruit.

"Saw you hovering around that snoring geezer. Got business with Lucas, huh?"

He nodded at Lucas, still pretending to sleep with snores rattling out.

"Old man's got a tight lip—won't crack from a poke or two. Why not stay here and bide your time?"

"Stay... here?"

I blinked in surprise. I'd braced for him demanding my body, but this was way more normal than expected.

"Not free, though. Work here at the tavern. Think of it as room and board for part-time help."

"Work? Like serving?"

Seemed tame. My tension deflated—this was just a basic quest. I'd figured an eroge world meant hellish demands, but this was everyday stuff.

Wait, is the system nicer than I thought?

I let out a relieved sigh—right as a ominous red system window flashed with a blaring sound.

"Satisfaction...? Signboard girl?"

My brief relief plummeted into dread. Hunches like this never missed.

The system's "signboard girl" was anything but a normal part-timer.

"Hey, Saintess. You zoning out? In or out?"

He pulled something from under the counter and tossed it on the table. A dark brown apron and white-frilled uniform landed with a thud. At a glance, it looked like simple village diner wear—skirt to the knees, buttons up to the collar. No exposure whatsoever. Shockingly "normal" for an eroge world.

Huh? This quest might actually be fine...

I exhaled in relief, stroking the fabric. After the youngest mercenary's horrors, serving in this felt like heaven. Sure, the vague "satisfaction" metric nagged, but polite service should cover it, right? Wishful thinking, maybe.

"Sure. Got nowhere else anyway. I'll work here."

As I picked up the uniform, another system flash.

"Smart choice. Streets at night would turn that pretty face to mincemeat."

Bargus chuckled roughly, extending a callused hand.

"Name's Bargus, owner here. Can't keep calling you Saintess—what's yours?"

My real name, Sodohui, nearly slipped out. I bit my tongue hard.

This wasn't reality. I was stuck in this eroge heroine's body.

"...Dea. Call me Dea."

The game name slipped from my lips. No turning back now. The real Sodohui was gone—dead or vanished—and all that remained was the apron-clad saintess Dea, scraping by for bed and board.

"Dea, huh... Pretty name. Alright, change into that and come out. The guys are thirsty as hell."

He nodded toward the changing room. Clutching the uniform to my chest, I headed there. The fabric brushed my slightly plumper breasts—thanks to those EP investments—reminding ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me of their new weight.

Yeah, survive first. Got a bed, decent clothes... it'll be okay.

I pep-talked myself into the dim changing room.

Inside, I unbuttoned my current rags. Buttons popped free with a clatter, the filthy mess pooling on the floor. I scooped it up, opening the system window instinctively to shove it into inventory.

The nasty tag in the description made my brow furrow. Worse was the "nude" state below it.

"Ugh, gross..."

Crusted semen flaked off my chest like white powder, splitting with a sickening crackle. Scraping it away tugged at my skin unpleasantly, goosebumps rippling everywhere. Lingering sticky spots remained—no bath yet—but it'd have to do.

Deep breath. I grabbed Bargus's uniform.

"Right, just cosplay. No biggie."

I was a cosplay pro back home—after my life tanked, I'd survived selling risqué exposure shots on a shady SNS. Buttoned-up normalwear? Easy.

"Transformation complete."

I buttoned up quick, tying the apron ribbon tight. No mirror, but the snug feel screamed prim and proper—almost too tight.

"Alright, Dea. Or Sodohui. Play the 'normal' girl card to dig for info."

I strode out boldly. Stepping from the dim hall into the rowdy tavern hall, dozens of male gazes locked on me.

"Whoa, hey! Check her out!"

"Saintess in an apron? Hot damn!"

Crude cheers and whistles assaulted my ears. I flashed my practiced cosplay smile. But did they know? Under this prim uniform, beastly remnants still clung stickily to my pale chest. And that secret knowledge flushed my cheeks paradoxically.

Surface-level, the job was simple: Dash to yelling customers for orders, relay to Bargus at the counter. Grab steaming food or foamy beer from the kitchen, serve at tables. Done.

"Here's your dark ale and fries!"

I dialed up fake sweetness with a smile. Sure, dried semen scraped my skin inside with every move, but outwardly, perfect "signboard girl."

But the real issue...

"Eek?!"

Setting down a mug to leave, something heavy and hot thudded my ass cheek—then vanished. A weird eroge heroine squeak escaped me.

"Oops, sorry Saintess! Place is cramped—elbow bumped ya? Haha!"

A flushed drunk smirked, wiping his mouth with his hand.

Elbow? That was a fat palm groping my ass.

"...Watch it."

I swallowed rage and moved on. But this was just the start.

"More orders! Dea, over here!"

Approaching the next table, they blocked the path outright.

"Ow!"

Squeezing between tables, deliberate legs tripped me. Hands shot out instantly.

"Whoa, careful there!"

One "caught" my waist, fingers tracing my hipbone. Another "bumped" me, arm grazing my breast side.

These animals...!

Stupid to think normal clothes protected me. To them, it was wrapping paper teasing the nudity inside.

Damn, classic eroge. No matter how bundled up, these males itched to drag me into lewd scenarios.

Face burning, lips bitten, I headed to the next table.

Endure... just till I get info. Stack points, then crush their wrists!

Hours of enduring harassment, taking orders, serving—the thick roars and lechy laughs ebbed like a tide. Grease, stale booze, hot breaths hung heavy, signaling closing time.

I stared blankly at the last customer leaving, then slumped on a table. The frilled apron was a wrinkled mess from rough hands; my legs weighed tons.

"Phew... finally over."

A long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sigh escaped. Just hours of serving felt like war. Every order came with ass-grazing palms; every plate drop, sticky stares on my bound breasts. Selling smiles amid that drained my mind more than my body.

Clink, clink.

Bargus eyed me while wiping the last glass.

"Good work, Dea. Better than expected—the guys were losing it; I heard 'em in the kitchen."

"...Kinda backhanded praise."

"Hah, highest compliment here. Sales doubled thanks to you."

He closed the ledger, nodding upstairs.

"Skip cleaning tonight. You're beat, and you'd need tool lessons anyway. Tomorrow, I'll show you step-by-step. Rest up."

"R-Really? No cleaning?"

I blinked wide, fearing he'd change his mind. Floor littered with spills and crumbs, but I had no strength left for a broom.

"Yeah. But tomorrow, no slacking."

His sly smile nagged, but I just craved bed. Short bow, then staggering upstairs.

"Thanks... heading up."

Creaky steps shot fatigue through my soles. The second-floor hall was dead quiet, like the chaos below was a lie. At the end room Bargus indicated, my trembling hand gripped the knob.

Private room...

Quest reward or not, first personal space since this hell-game drop.

Inside: rickety bed, tiny window. Spartan to the point of bleak. No bath or toilet in sight.

Figures—medieval fantasy tavern won't have en-suites.

Recalled a worn door at hall's end—damp air seeping through a holey frame. Had to be the communal washroom.

"Haa... so gross."

I hugged myself. Under the uniform, skin reeked of boozy breath—and that persistent dried semen crusted my chest, sticky and rank. Every shift grated my nerves.

Bargus is cleaning downstairs ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now...

Sounds of hall-sweeping and dish-scrubbing drifted up. Even a quick merchant like him needed an hour for the whole floor.

"Now's my chance."

Wash quick, sneak back unseen. No pajamas—just tomorrow's uniform—but cleansing this filth was priority. And launder that "semen-stained" rag from inventory.

"Yeah, bath time! After today's humiliation, I deserve this luxury."

Fist clenched in resolve. A brief, uninterrupted respite. I cracked the door, peeking into the empty hall. Dim candlelight flickered as I grabbed a rag for a towel and crept to the washroom.

God, please let the water be warm.

Eroge world or not, these vivid sensations dragged me into real worries. I padded silently across the dark hall—toward the one escape for my weary body, fallen from saintess to tavern drudge in a single day.