Our return to the Inn is, predictably, a social disaster. We don't even get three steps inside before the place falls silent, all the low-level adventurers, off-duty guard types, and world-weary barmaids turning as one to gawk at my new companion. If Garius's monstrous stature and scorched armor weren't enough, his invisible aura sucks all the joy from the air like a black hole of awkwardness.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announce, voice warbling between mortification and pride, "please welcome my new, uh, bodyguard. He's not a health code violation or anything. He's with me."
Garius stands at full, terrifying attention just inside the door, hands neatly clasped behind his back like he's about to recite an oath or declare a duel. The silence stretches dangerously, until Old Man Thresh, who runs the bar and is widely believed to be half-undead himself, finally clears his throat and shouts, "Best keep that thing away from the taproom, kid!"
"Noted!" I chirp back, flashing my best imitation of a reassuring smile. My cheeks are probably the color of boiled shrimp. I grab Garius by the elbow—an action akin to seizing the arm of a stone statue, but with more palpable menace—and hurry him up the stairs before anyone works up the courage to either mob us or call in a priest.
Inside the relative safety of our rented room, I slam the door and sag against it, shaking like a well-used maraca.
"That went great," I mutter, then whirl on Garius. "Okay, so, you said you want to serve me? Wonderful. You can start by…uhh…sweeping up?" I see his helmet tilt, as if this is either the best or worst idea he's ever been given.
Without hesitation, Garius stalks to the far corner, produces a hand broom and dustpan seemingly from nowhere, and begins cleaning the floor with clockwork precision. Each pass of the broom is crisp, professional, and somehow deeply frightening. I watch, transfixed, as he lines up the dirt into neat pyramids before scooping them away.
Then, because my life cannot be allowed to have more than two minutes of normalcy, the system chimes in—displaying a translucent blue window directly over Garius's head:
[New Quest Available! Quest: Exterminate hive of Orcs 5 miles out of town using Garius as your companion. Reward: 900xp, health potion, possible new summon. Failure: Garius The Cursed Knight kills you and eats you.]
My face goes numb. I have to read it three times before the words make any sense. I glance at Garius, who pauses mid-broom, glowing cinders of his gaze flicking toward me expectantly. There's a weird, awkward silence, as if he's waiting for me to give the word on whether we are about to die together or just clean some more.
"Uh, Garius," I say, "how do you feel about killing orcs?"
He rotates his helmeted head a full, unnatural ninety degrees, then answers in a voice that scrapes like stone on glass. "Orcs are a lesser breed of demon-kin. I will exterminate them with efficiency and relish, Master Kamen."
"Right," I say. "That's…good. I guess that's what we'll be doing, then."
I flop down on the edge of the bed, half-expecting it to collapse under me, and study the quest notification with increasing unease. The rewards aren't bad, but the failure clause is what really sticks out. Specifically, the part where my newest minion apparently reverts to cannibalistic chaos if things go sideways.
"Just kidding," the system chimes in, voice dripping with digital mirth, "Garius won't kill you or eat you. In fact, there isn't a bad option for the failure."
Blood rushes through my temples, leaving a hot, humming sting behind my eyes. "Fuuuuccckkkk yoooouuuu," I enunciate majestically, opening my arms to the invisible ceiling, letting the vowels drag like nails across a chalkboard for the benefit of any higher power—digital or otherwise—lurking behind the system notification. If my life is going to be a joke, I might as well deliver the punchline with gusto.
Garius, broom still in hand, halts his cleaning and stands at something approximating parade rest. "Is there an adversary present?" If I squint, I swear I hear a hint of hopefulness in the gravelly echo of his voice.
"Nah, just the universe," I mutter. A fresh wave of embarrassment stings my cheeks as I realize he's standing there, broom at the ready, waiting for his next command. "You're doing great," I tell him, and immediately hate myself for saying it like he's a toddler using the potty for the first time. "But, uh, maybe hold off on the cleaning for a bit. We've got orcs to kill."
He bows stiffly, which is absolutely as terrifying as it sounds. "It shall be so, Master Kamen."
I spin back to the system notification still lingering above my vision. The text flickers, as if the system is enjoying itself a little too much. I glare at it, willing it to catch fire. It doesn't, but I do get the faint impression it's smirking at me.
"Don't think I don't see you back there, giggling like a cheap horror movie ghost," I say aloud, pointing an accusatory finger at nothing. For all I know, the system is powered by the spectral remains of failed adventurers who likewise got trolled into oblivion.
The system responds with a polite *ding* and a bonus pop-up: [Sarcasm detected. Quest location updated to local map. Good luck, meat puppet!]
I close my eyes. "Please kill me," I whisper to the void, but nobody obliges. Least of all Garius, who, if anything, looks almost disappointed at the lack of immediate bloodshed.
I haul myself off the bed, stretching my limbs until they pop, and stomp over to the small desk by the window, where last night's meal (bread, cheese, and regret) awaits my return. I sweep aside the crumbs and prop open my battered quest journal, flipping through the endless barrage of side missions, fetch requests, and barely-veiled suicide contracts until I find the latest entry:
[Primary Quest: Exterminate the Hive. Objective: Terminate all Orcs in the designated hive 5 miles southeast of Aridia. Optional: Investigate the cause of the infestation. Reward: 900xp, health potion, new summon slot, and the undying gratitude of the local constabulary. Failure: You will probably die, but at least you'll be famous for five minutes.]
There's even a little hand-drawn map, complete with a cartoon orc skull and a helpful "You are here" icon labeled with a sad face. I stare at it, jaw clenched, until the words blur together. Then I snap the quest journal shut, jam it in my pack, and turn to Garius.
"Grab your sword," I command. "We're going orc hunting. And if the system asks, I'm not doing it for them—I'm doing it because I really, really need the XP."
Before he can respond, I stride to the door, pulse pounding, and throw it open. The corridor outside is mercifully empty. I lead the way down the stairs, ignoring the muttered prayers and frantic gestures from the inn's other occupants as we pass. I can practically feel the rumors already metastasizing: the weird kid and his demon knight, off to do something spectacularly reckless.
Outside, the sun is a bruised orange, promising a day of blinding heat and no mercy. I shield my eyes and activate the quest tracker, watching as a glowing arrow superimposes itself over the desert horizon, pointing directly toward our impending doom.
I glance at Garius, who is now trailing one respectful step behind me, sword strapped to his back, eyes glowing with anticipation. "You ever fought orcs before?"
He considers. "Not since the Battle of Ghrond's Deep. The carnage was… cleansing."
I nod, pretending I know what that means, and start trudging through the sand toward the waypoint, boots crunching on brittle weeds. Behind and above, the system hums contentedly, a digital god with an appetite for slapstick tragedy, already scripting my next embarrassing death.
"Fuck it, let's go kill some orcs," I mutter, and open the quest log to see where it said the hive of orcs is.
It's less a map and more a crayon fever dream, a series of loops and squiggles that vaguely resemble the footpaths outside town if you squint sideways and suffered a recent head injury. The arrow drags me southeast, through a scattering of saltbush and the occasional goat corpse, until we're well beyond the range of kindly neighbors or plausible rescue.
The first sign of trouble arrives about twenty minutes out, midway up a low ridge where the sand crusts into sharp, glassy flakes. Garius halts without warning, the motion so abrupt that I nearly slam into his armored back. "Master Kamen," he intones, "we are being observed."
"You sure?" I ask, scanning the ridgeline. Nothing but yellow sun and dry wind, until I catch it—a faint shimmer at the edge of a boulder, like heat distortion but meaner.
"Positive," he rumbles, then shifts stance, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. It's subtle, the movement, but the threat in it is louder than any warhorn. I try to mirror his confidence by yanking my own sword free, which sticks for a moment in the scabbard. I wrestle it out with both hands, totally blowing any intimidation factor.
The shimmer resolves into an orc after a few seconds—tall, wiry, the color of sun-cured leather, with tusks jutting at a cartoonish angle from an underbite you could use as a mining implement. It's got a spear, and when it sees us, it doesn't do the usual orc thing (which is "yell and charge"). Instead, it cocks its head and considers, like we're a puzzle it can't quite solve.
Behind it, three more shapes ooze out of cover and spread out, forming a ragged semicircle, just far enough apart that I can't tag them all with Sword Hail unless I get stupid. Which, to be fair, is very much my brand.
"System. Analysis," I whisper.
The system overlays a comic-strip summary across my vision:
[Orc Scout: Low-level. Fast. Likes ambushes.]
[Orc Brute: Medium beef. Will hit you with a rock for fun.]
[Orc Witch: Do NOT let her chant.]
[Orc… child?]
I blink. Sure enough, there's a smaller orc, maybe the size of a toddler, clinging to the back of the Brute. It's holding a bent spoon like it's a magic wand.
Garius doesn't wait for my next bright idea. "Permission to engage, Kamen?"
"Uh, yeah," I say, and before the words leave my mouth, he's off. The Cursed Knight moves like a landslide, fast and implacable; his blade whirs with that ghostly blue fire, and the Scout barely gets a yelp out before it's reduced to a heap of ex-orc.
The Brute, not nearly as quick but twice as stupid, bellows and barrels straight at me. The impact bowls me onto my ass, which is rapidly becoming a recurring theme in my life. I use the momentum to roll sideways, skittering across gravel, and lash out at its ankles with a desperate sweep. The Juggle Sword vibrates in my grip, and—miracle of miracles—it actually nicks the Brute enough to spray the sand with green-black ichor.
From the corner of my eye, the Witch is winding up a chant, her hands weaving through the air. She's painted with swirls of ochre and bone, and the way her eyes glow suggests whatever spell she's cooking would absolutely wreck my day if finished.
I plant my feet, point the tip of my sword at her chest, and yell, "Sword Hail!" The magic surges; the blade doubles, then quadruples, then fills the air with a staccato hailstorm of half-real steel. The Witch shrieks as the blades converge, her spell sputtering out like a candle in a monsoon. The barrage leaves her crumpled in a heap, only a few twitching fingers outside the ring of impact.
The Brute, meanwhile, recovers just as the orc child falls off its back and starts wailing. The sound—raw, phlegmy, way too loud for something with a baby's ribcage—makes me freeze. I've fought monsters and men and even my own dignity, but nothing in any training manual prepares you for the guttural heartbreak of an orc kid in distress. The Brute hears it, too; its eyes glaze from "murder" to "protect" in one heartbeat, and suddenly it's not about me at all. It scoops up the child, lumbers backward, and sets its feet like a wall.
Garius is at my side a second later, sword at the ready. "Should I finish it?"
I hesitate. The Brute isn't attacking; it's shielding. The kid stares at me over its parent's shoulder, spoon still clutched like a relic. It blinks away snot and tears, equal parts terrified and furious.
System, I think, any nonlethal options here?
There's a pause, then:
[You could try negotiating. Or you could offer food. Or you could run. But where's the fun in that?]
"Hang on," I say, raising my hands. "Let's not slaughter orphans today."
The Brute doesn't understand Common, but it gets the vibe. It holds its ground, watching my every move, daring me to step closer.
I carefully set my sword down and rummage through my pack for anything remotely edible. The cheese is suspect, but the bread's still in one piece. I break off a hunk and lob it underhand, bouncing it in front of the Brute. It sniffs, then scoops up the food, pushing a piece into the kid's mouth. The wailing stops, replaced by raspy, cautious munching.
There's a moment—a weird, silent communion—where everyone just stands there, processing the new reality. I'm breathing like a punctured bellows, covered in sand and orc blood; Garius is visibly vibrating with unspent violence; the orc and its child are eyeing me like I might explode.
The system, because it cannot resist, interrupts:
[You have shown mercy. +2 Empathy, -1 Ruthlessness]
[Brute and Child will remember this.]
[Cheese was a poor choice, but they'll live.]
I almost laugh, but instead, I step back and let the Brute retreat, kid bundled protectively in the crook of its arm.
Garius watches them go, posture rigid. "Mercy to orcs is a new tactic, Master."
"Let's call it a pilot program," I say, dusting myself off. "Besides, the quest said exterminate the hive, but it didn't say how."
We spend the next hour following the map's squiggles to the orc den, which turns out to be a shallow cave peppered with trash, bones, and the accumulated misery of a dying clan. Most of the orcs are already dead—starved, sick, or victims of their own infighting. The place reeks of desperation and old grief. I count a dozen corpses, but only one or two living orcs, both so decrepit they don't even react when Garius dispatches them. It's not a fight; it's mercy. If I feel anything, it's relief when it's over.
On the way out, the Brute and its kid are nowhere to be seen. I hope they made it clear of the town, maybe to some friendlier wasteland. There's a part of me that wants to chase after them, offer a ride, or at least better cheese, but I know there's a limit to my hero points before the universe decides to balance the ledger.
Quest completed: [Exterminate the Hive.] XP surges through my veins, a raw, electric jolt that leaves me a little dizzy.
"Anything good?" Garius asks, as if he can see the screen.
"Level up, new summon slot, and—wait—what's a 'Goblin Accountant'? I've got a new possible summon and it's a Goblin Accountant?"
Garius shudders. "The most accursed of all."
I blink at him, then at the sky, then at the system prompt. "Bring it on," I say, deadpan and victorious. "If anything can scare my enemies, it's a goblin with a ledger and zero fear of the taxman."
We trudge back to Redfra as the sun dies behind the hills, a little lighter in spirit and with one less haunted cave to worry about.
That night at the inn, nobody questions Garius's presence. They just slide us an extra loaf of bread, nod at the blue flame glow, and keep their heads down while we eat.
I don't sleep as I look at my summon list and see the Goblin Accountant, a second passes before I summon him.
The goblin materializes at the foot of my bed like a tax audit come to life. He's about three feet tall, green as swamp scum, and wearing a perfectly tailored vest and tiny glasses on the tip of his piggish nose. His hands clutch a massive, dog-eared ledger. He doesn't say anything, just looms in the darkness beside my mattress, breathing slow and judicious like he's tallying every one of my bad decisions and compounding the interest.
"Kamen Driscol," he intones, in a nasally accent at once British, Brooklyn, and medieval peasant. "You owe, as of this quarter, one hundred and forty-three debts of gratitude, three favors to living parties, and a truly heroic number of outstanding snack IOUs." He licks a clawed fingertip and flips a page. "Also, the hotel bill is late."
I sit straight up, sheets bunched in my fists, and stare down the goblin. "I just killed an entire orc hive. Give me a day before you repo my dignity."
The goblin bows deeply. "As you wish, Master." He clicks an abacus with professional offense. "Do you require any bookkeeping, spell management, or sarcastic reminders of your own mortality?"
Kira's voice cuts through the open doorway, thick with sleep and exactly zero patience. "Kamen, why is there a goblin in my room? Please tell me this isn't some new kink. Also, it's two in the morning."
I glance back at the goblin. "You do birthdays?"
"Not unless there are presents to inventory," he says, then turns to Kira with a practiced, customer-service sneer. "Good morning, miss. May I interest you in a comprehensive breakdown of your boyfriend's itemized flaws, or would you prefer the abridged version?"
Kira glares at me. The goblin smiles, all teeth and well-adjusted trauma.
This is how my life is going to be now: a haunted knight with panache for emotional labor, a literal bean-counting goblin assistant, and two friends who have seen enough of my shtick to qualify for hazard pay.
I flop back down and pull a pillow over my face. The inn settles into its usual cocktail of snores, distant barfing, and very soft, very polite argument between Garius and the goblin over the optimal technique for shining a sword. I drift off imagining them debating the finer points of inventory management, and for a rare moment, I feel almost content.
The morning brings a bucket of cold water to the face (thank you, Caleif) and a stern reminder from Kira that today is the actual festival. The Festival of Sun and Song; Redfra's main event, the day everyone supposedly stops fighting, drinks until their teeth rattle, and if you wake up naked on a roof, you only have to apologize once.
I stumble downstairs, where a breakfast spread of eggs, flatbread, and something I sincerely hope is cheese awaits. Garius sits in the corner sipping tea with his helmet on, and the goblin accountant has already set up a card table in the hallway, offering tax advice to any villager foolish enough to make eye contact.
"Big plans today?" Kira asks, mouth full of bread as she refills her own mug. She's wearing her "formal" armor, a set of etched silver plates that somehow makes her look both terrifying and elegant.
I gesture to the world at large. "The plan is to survive without a public incident. Maybe go light on the sword juggling this time."
Caleif snorts, planting herself beside Kira and reaching for the last strip of bacon, which she nabs by outpacing my reach with unsettling grace. "You say that like you control the chaos now. Didn't you wake up with a new minion last night?"
"Technically, he's a consultant," I reply, glancing at the goblin, who is now auditing the tip jar. "And if I'm lucky, he'll unionize before he starts blackmailing me."
Kira grins. "He probably already has a dossier." She points to the crowded wall outside the inn, where festival banners hang limp in the heat, and groups of townsfolk pile tables with homemade liquor and painted pastries. "We're expected at the stage for the Opening Toast. Try to look sober, or at least don't break anything expensive."
I make a noncommittal noise and shovel in more eggs, willing myself into competence. The festival is a sea of human madness, with musicians tuning up on overturned crates and children darting between kegs like ankle-high bandits. Rian is already at the epicenter, barking orders in a voice that could strip paint, and every time I make eye contact he points to an unfinished job as if daring me to say no.
I get roped into moving barrels, then stacking discarded weapon props for the mock duels later. Garius helps by standing guard, which is like having a panic attack in plate mail, but nobody questions it and the task goes quickly.
By midday the entire town square is a riot of color, ringed by drunks, jugglers (sigh), and enough cooks to fuel a minor insurrection. I find a quiet moment on the edge of the stage, watching as Kira and Caleif get roped into a drinking contest with the mayor's daughter and, at some point, what looks like a ferret wearing a tiny bow tie. I must be hallucinating from sunstroke or sleep deprivation, but at this point I just go with it.
Then an armored hand taps my shoulder. I turn to see Garius, helmet off for the first time. His face is gaunt, a map of scars and years, but his eyes are clear and haunted in a way that makes me think of old dogs and condemned houses.
"Master Kamen," he says, voice softer without the helmet to rattle it. "Am I… doing well?"
I stifle a laugh—it comes out strangled, almost sad. "You're doing great, Garius. In fact, you're the best bodyguard I've ever had, and possibly the first person here who hasn't tried to kill me at least once."
He nods with the formality of a condemned man receiving his final meal. "I am glad to serve. When you do not need me, may I sweep the upper hall?" For a second, I catch the flicker of something like hope. Maybe the tiny joys of routine are all he's got left, now that the haunting's over.
"Yeah, buddy. Sweep the hell out of it." I clap him on the shoulder, and he steps away, posture lightened by degrees.
The rest of the day is a blur of singing, shouting, and the kind of communal brawl that only passes for affection in desert towns. Our trio wins the drinking competition, probably because none of us can actually get drunk anymore (system immunity has weird side effects). We juggle, but only balls, and even when I trip and send one rolling into a pie, everybody just laughs.
By nightfall, the glow of lanterns and the hum of satisfied villagers make Redfra feel almost like a real town again. Caleif hands me a mug of cider and drags me to the dance square, where the movements are crude but the music is infectious. Even Garius and the goblin accountant are pulled in, the latter doing a shockingly competent shuffling two-step with Kira.
For a single, perfect moment, I forget the death quests, the haunted swords, the ceaseless barrage of impossible expectations. I'm just a guy, arms around my friends, feet in the dust, laughing so hard my vision blurs into streaks of light.
And when Caleif kisses me in the confusion, soft and sudden, I decide that maybe—just maybe—failure isn't the only thing waiting at the end of all this.
The Goblin Accountant materializes silently beside me, his sudden presence causing my heart to skip a beat. "So, one kiss," he states in his scratchy voice, "that would equate to 500 silver pieces, or by Caleif's version of pay; a solid 3 hours of uninterrupted sex."
My breath catches abruptly, and I begin to choke on the air as his words sink in. The unexpectedness of his appearance combined with his brazen calculations leaves me momentarily speechless. "God damn it," I manage to sputter between coughs, "if you pop up like that again, I swear I'll put a bell on you."