He pressed [Accept], and his eyelid twitched as if he had opened a gate no regret could close.
He looked again at Selina, the waitress whose body was covered… barely. That tight shirt strangling her chest, as if her nipples were screaming with every step, and those hips that shook every time she bent to place a glass.
"The first touch, huh?" he muttered, tapping the table. "From beneath the neck to… the forgotten curve? Damn, even the instructions turn me on."
But something inside him hesitated. He was almost naked, boiling in sweat, and his member pressed against his pants like a stubborn child wanting to play immediately.
"Damn it, I'm in a strange tavern, surrounded by guards, don't even have a shirt… and I'm thinking of how to caress a killer's wife?"
He opened the quest log, trying to balance the odds. Every stage was unclear, and the rewards were tempting enough to feel like a divine trap. The sexual skill alone was madness-worthy, not to mention the D-Shard… another step along the path of desire.
But before he could take a single step in his wicked fantasy…
A familiar voice shouted behind him:
"You! The naked stranger!"
His body froze for a moment. He turned and saw the three guards who had welcomed him into the village, their faces stern, hands resting on sword hilts.
"Sh–shit…" he muttered, trying to cover his bare chest with the beer mug. "Here I am, in the middle of a tavern, looking like a beggar and a drunk, and now the guards are staring at me like I stole the princess."
Their leader approached—trimmed beard, narrow eyes sharp like blades.
"Relax. We're not here to cut off your balls," he said in a dry tone.
Eiron exhaled slowly, but didn't relax. "Nice… but the way you entered says the opposite."
The guard nodded toward the door. "The man you brought in… he's been saved. Seems he's someone important. And he wants to see you immediately… to thank you."
"Someone important?" Eiron repeated as he rose slowly, the mug still in hand. "Will he give me a shirt? Shoes? Or just a kiss on the forehead?"
No one laughed.
He took a breath, glanced at Selina for a moment, then smiled to himself—that arrogant smile that isn't said, but smelled.
"Well then, for this half-naked body… let's hope the gratitude matches the amount of flesh I've shown."
…
The medical building was strangely quiet. No screams, no groans, just the scent of herbs, sweat, and iron. Eiron entered with uneven steps, his body dripping, every muscle screaming with exhaustion… except one, which remained erect as if protesting Zarah's absence.
Before he could open his mouth, a transparent notification appeared:
[Side Quest Completed: "Price of the Red Beard"]
The man was successfully saved.
Rewards: +10 Special Power, +Reputation in Arlin Village.
"Reputation? I wonder how that'll help?"
One of the guards entered and motioned him into the back room. The air inside was hot, filled with herb steam and blood.
The man he saved—Commander Garon—lay on the bed. Despite his paleness, his muscles still hinted at a past of battles. His eyes opened slowly, and in a hoarse voice, he said:
"You… you're the one who saved me?"
Eiron raised his chin, placed his bare hands on his hips, and smiled as if he'd just stepped out of an epic saga… not a filthy alley.
"Yes. I did what my faith told me to. I can't ignore someone dying—especially someone with a beard that majestic."
Garon hesitated a moment, then burst into laughter—a sharp laugh that drained him a little. "Who the hell are you? And why… why are you wearing less than a beggar?"
Eiron took a deep breath and placed his hand on his bare chest like someone delivering a sermon:
"I'm a priest… from a special sect. We vowed never to corrupt our souls with the world's temptations… not even wear what might lure the heart away from faith."
Garon gasped lightly, eyes widening. "A priest?! I thought you were a mercenary or… a strange mage. That… that explains the light in your eyes! And the strange majesty you carry!"
Eiron stifled his laugh with effort. "The light? Yes… many say that."
Garon extended a trembling hand and grasped Eiron's arm as if touching something sacred. "I'll never forget your kindness. I'll ask one of my aides to bring you proper clothing. Things are a little different in Arlin. People here can't handle full bodily revelation."
"Ah, I understand," he said, gesturing to his bare waist, then added with a smile, "But be careful… if you dress me too heavily, I might lose connection with the goddess."
"I'll try to find balance," Garon laughed again.
Then he leaned in slightly, whispering:
"By the way… priest, is it really possible to recover from demonic poison… just by willpower and faith?"
Eiron answered with a mysterious look and a voice bordering on theatrical:
"Faith… with a little sweat, and a lot of bad luck, does more than you'd imagine."
Garon sighed in reverence. "Seems your presence among us is no coincidence. Arlin needs men like you."
"No—you need good wine, and a clean tavern." Then, to himself: "…and Zarah under the bed."
Just as Garon finished his inspiring words about faith and sweat, the door opened, and three men walked in wearing simple leather uniforms, with faint metal insignias on their shoulders marking mid-level ranks. On their faces: a bit of fear, a bit of curiosity… and a lot of accumulated exhaustion.
The first spoke—a young man with sharp eyes and a shaved head:
"Commander Garon… what in the shadows happened? We found you in a pitiful state."
Garon shifted slightly, cleared his throat, then said in a heavy voice: "Nothing worth mentioning. A minor injury… but there's something more important: the Spiked Wolves."
A moment of silence followed.
The second man spoke in a low voice: "Wolves? At this time?"
"Yes," Garon confirmed, staring into space as if seeing death approach. "I found their tracks near the northern fields. Three distinct signs… I haven't seen anything like them in five years. If we don't act, half the village will die before we smell the new year."
Murmurs rose. The third man, the most solemn, said: "But… who did this to you? Doesn't look like a wolf attack. More like—"
Garon cut him off, raising a hand: "Forget the details. I don't want to talk about that now… but listen, there's something worse than wolves. The Kingdom of Nova… that bastard prince, Aldran."
One of them bit his lip. "We heard rumors… that he made a pact to bring in a royal ghoul—a sex slave?!"
Garon laughed, a laugh full of scorn: "A slave? No, my friend. That ghoul was an extremely rare type, her blood soaked in ritual filth. He wanted her to enrich his body—or more precisely, his dick. Imagine being ruled by someone who cares more about his cock than his people."
The third man, overly serious, said: "Some said she wasn't just a slave, but part of a blood ritual… a mysterious entity was summoned from another world."
Garon waved his hand dismissively: "Whatever it was, I don't care. Nova abandoned us the moment the old king got sick. Since then, rule has belonged to Aldran's concubines and the court's lunatics."
He paused, then added in a tired tone: "We're alone here… no protection, no army, no supplies. If Arlin falls, no one will hear the screams."
All eyes were fixed on him… until one of them cleared his throat and gestured toward Eiron, still standing there—half-naked—pretending to be spiritually immersed while actually following every word with excitement.
"By the way, what about this man? He saved you, didn't he? We should reward him."
Another added, with a sly smile: "We have many slaves… we could give him the best one we have. That redhead… fiery hair, and a chest like a sacred ritual bowl."
Eiron's lips trembled, unmoving. Inside, he was celebrating. "Yes, yes! This is my heavenly reward! Finally, a system that rewards the right man."
But his joy didn't last.
"No!" Garon suddenly shouted. "He's a priest! We can't defile his purity with a harlot, no matter how fiery!"
Eiron's smile froze. Every part of him wanted to scream: "Damn you, you son of holiness!" But instead, with a tired smile, he bowed slightly and said softly: "Yes… my body is for the heavens, not for pleasures. May the goddess bless you, Garon. You understand me."
Garon replied proudly: "No, it is I who must learn from you, my brother in faith."
Eiron sighed internally. "Damn… my lies are a curse sometimes."
As everyone whispered about him with admiration, he tried to remember the name: Garon… Garon… something familiar.
Then suddenly, the truth slapped him like Zarah's backside: Garon is Selina's husband. The waitress. The one with the short dress… and the clever lip bite.
As the men began leaving one by one, one of them turned to Garon and laughed: "By the way, we haven't seen Selina in days. Your wife must be busy breaking hearts at the tavern."
Garon didn't smile. He just looked at him with a cold eye, then said in a heavy tone: "The last man who said something like that… now sips soup through his breath, after I cut out his tongue."
A moment of deadly silence followed. Even the fire in the hearth dimmed, as if it shivered.
Eiron, standing still, felt his soul being pulled from his limbs. "His wife? Selina?… Damn… damn this system!" He froze in place like a statue of doubt, and for a moment wished he had chosen a career in knitting instead of this madness.