Chapter 35
Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 35
Chapter Title: Spit'll Fix It
Just slap some spit on it, and it'll be fine.
There are those kinds of friends. The ones who whine about being sick but refuse to go to the doctor.
The ones who complain about the pain but keep messing around with the sore spot anyway.
Whenever I see friends like that, I've got a stock response ready to go.
"You're not hurting that bad. Go to the damn doctor and behave."
They won't go to the hospital even when they're half-dead?
Fine, I get it. You think the hospital's your respawn point or something.
Most people head straight to the doctor the second they feel off. They pay their health insurance premiums on time—might as well get their money's worth.
From my perspective, toughing it out just means you're shooting yourself in the foot.
So, anyone who just says they're sick but skips the clinic? They're not hurting enough yet.
That's me right now.
The guy who'd been whimpering about the itch the whole walk there comes out of the clinic without so much as a bandage? Runs away when the doc asks to see the wound out of sheer embarrassment?
That ain't how someone in real pain acts. Anyone could see it.
"Father, are you okay?"
"...You?"
"I can bear it."
That's what she says, but her face tells a different story.
Charlotte's grimacing too. She looks seriously uncomfortable.
Her thighs are twisting together, and her hand keeps hovering near her butt. She's practically screaming that she wants to scratch.
Can't help but feel a little proud. Like we're in the same boat, you know? Builds a sense of camaraderie.
Some inner closeness, almost.
"...Me too."
Truth is, I'm right on the edge. Holding back the itch is torture.
Cold sweat's pouring down my back.
Feels like I need treatment ASAP, but I can't see a way out. No clue how to handle it—total blank on medical knowledge.
"Even so, showing that spot to the doc feels a bit..."
"...You're right. Having to bare my butt to some strange man... I could never. It's too embarrassing."
Charlotte agrees with me. And this is the girl who pulled that stunt yesterday?
Wanna call her out on it right now, but I don't have the energy.
"Let's look for a priest first. Might be one hanging around the village."
Would a backwater place like this even have a priest? Who knows. Gotta leave it to luck.
If yes, jackpot. If no, we're screwed.
I shuffled through the village in this awkward, lopsided gait. Taking a single step was a battle, but all that endurance training paid off.
"Eureka."
A miracle. There was an adventurer party at the inn—including a priest.
"P-Priest."
I clenched my butt cheeks tight and waddled over. No small talk—just straight to the point.
"I'll pay you. Full-power Recovery, please."
"Huh? Recovery?"
"I need a Recovery."
The priest eyes me warily. She was just about to head out—probably didn't want to waste holy power before a quest.
I pulled a leather pouch from my subspace. Offered an amount too good to refuse.
Her and her party's eyes went wide.
I nudged her side gently. Poke, poke—like, get on with it.
She cleared her throat a couple times and spoke up.
"It's not hard to cast, but you know what Recovery does, right?"
"Yes."
Holy spells have specific uses. Cure for curses, Recovery for diseases.
An itch has gotta be a disease.
I could haggle if I wanted. But nah.
I just wanted out of this itch now.
"Recovery."
The priest's holy spell enveloped me. A warm, cozy glow.
I focused right on my butt.
"N-No effect?"
Still itches. No change.
Not a disease? Or is she just bad at her job?
"I did cast Recovery."
"...No effect..."
"We can take this, then? That was the deal."
The priest snatched the pouch quick. It sagged heavy like a pair of balls.
"How much is it?"
"We hit the jackpot."
"Let's open it up quick."
The party was grinning ear to ear as they bolted from the inn. Fleeing me, basically.
Couldn't chase 'em. My ass was driving me insane.
"Charlotte, hold up."
I dragged myself to the counter and booked a room. Somehow made it inside.
Locked the door tight, then dropped my pants immediately.
Thank god for that slime transplant.
"Charlotte, hold up."
Let's rest first. She left the rest unsaid.
No need to explain why—obvious.
She figured Charlotte got it. Dyke's read was spot on.
I know exactly what you mean, Father.
From the perpetrator's view, not the victim's.
Charlotte had been watching Dyke closely. Ever since he started complaining about the itch, her eyes hadn't left him.
Same now.
"Ugh..."
Dyke shuffles upstairs like a dog desperate for a dump.
She stared at his back. Eyes locked on his ass.
Kept frowning until he vanished from sight. Acting like she shared his symptoms, fidgeting restlessly.
The second he hit the second floor? Expression wiped clean.
"......"
The innkeeper gawked at Charlotte standing stock-still in the hall. Freaked when her face changed.
Those killer eyes? Hands cold enough to cut?
Her face is a total mess.
Nope.
Just go upstairs and fuck him. What's she doing down here?
The ero innkeeper knew the game—she was a woman too, after all. Sold her wares to well-off adventurer guys and mercs.
Lots of experience. Knew that balls-over-brain look men get.
Charlotte's expression matched every guy she'd seen mounting her, pounding away in lust.
Guy rushes to a room all hasty. Leaves the girl behind doing... what?
Nostrils flaring, face flushed with excitement...
While the innkeeper grumbled inwardly about Charlotte, she stayed laser-focused on the second floor.
Dyke locked his door. Dropped trou to scratch the itch. Sensing it, Charlotte slipped out of the inn fast.
Headed straight for the clinic.
The doc looks puzzled when she returns so soon.
"That thing from earlier..."
"Name's Charlotte."
She cut right to it.
"Come with me in about ten minutes."
"This is driving me fucking nuts...!"
Scratching does jack shit. Infectious disease?
I grabbed a mirror on a whim, checked my own ass.
Looked perfectly fine. No visible changes.
No idea what's causing it.
All I could do was scratch.
Didn't last. Felt like tolerance was building—the itch got worse.
More I scratched, more it hurt. Bad trade.
"Aaaah..."
Wanna take a massive dump. Bet a thick log right now would feel orgasmic.
Lost in that dumb fantasy, trying to distract from my ass—
Knock at the door. Charlotte.
—Father. I brought the doctor.
"...The doctor?"
What good's a doctor if I can't show him my ass?
—I described the symptoms. He made some medicine.
"Medicine?!"
Medicine? Hell yeah.
I jumped up, yanked on pants, flung open the door.
"Doc, come on in."
Is this guy a god? Swear there's a halo behind him.
The old doc smiled awkwardly as he stepped in, clutching a vial.
"That the medicine?"
"...Yes, medicine."
He cleared his throat and continued.
"Itching in a specific spot, but... no major issues there, right? Barely even call it a rash—looks totally normal."
"Yeah."
Checked in the mirror earlier—zero problems. My hole was pristine.
Hives or something would've been less frustrating.
"Dunno the exact disease. But I can whip up a salve. Ingredients are simple, stuff everywhere."
He listed them off. Everyday crap around here.
Crazy how an easy fix for this hellish itch was that straightforward.
"You can really make medicine from that?"
"...Yes, but you missed the key step."
"Key step?"
"Chew it up real good at the end, mix with saliva."
"......"
I know grinding or boiling amps up potency. But chewing?
My eyes flicked to the vial in his hand. Instant revulsion.
Don't wanna moon an old guy, and sure as hell don't wanna smear his spit on my shithole.
"So that salve's...?"
"Luckily, I didn't make this one."
The old doc glances at Charlotte reassuringly. She shrugs, smug as hell.
"Got help from the lady here."
"......"
Happy? Sad? Pick one.
"...Thanks."
Itch is unbearable. Just apply it and think later.