I was looking back at my twenty-year-old disaster. I was skinny—not "runway model" skinny, but "I haven't seen a carb since the previous administration" skinny.
My face was a battlefield of acne, and my hair looked like a nest for a bird with depression. I was wearing a tunic that had more holes than fabric, tied with a piece of literal rope, and shoes that had three distinct windows for my toes to wave at the neighbors.
I stumbled to the window and looked out. This wasn't the sparkling marble paradise Venus lived in. This was a medieval slum. I got scammed! Damn it! I'm too old for this.
Dirt roads caked in horse manure. Dying oil lamps flickering in the wind. Carriage wheels creaking like dying ghosts. And the people... everyone looked like they were participating in a "Who Can Look More Miserable" contest.
I looked up at the sky, hoping for a sign, and found two moons staring back at me like two giant, mocking eyeballs.
"VENUS!" I bellowed, leaning out the window and shaking a bony fist at the stars. "YOU CHEATED! THIS IS NOT THE WORLD I HAD IN MIND, YOU DIVINE FUCKER!"
I mean, come on! She's the Goddess of Prosperity, and she drops me in the fantasy version of a Great Depression coal mine? I felt like I'd been sold a luxury cruise and ended up on a leaky raft with a hungry shark.
I turned back to the room and saw a dusty painting leaning in the corner. It depicted a group of miserable-looking kids. Right there in the front was me—the same hollow cheeks, the same pathetic posture. This wasn't a fresh start; it was a "New Game Plus" where the difficulty was set to Suicidal.
I marched down the creaky stairs of the empty orphanage, my stomach growling a protest that sounded like a dying walrus. Outside, slumped against a stone wall, was an old man who looked like he was 40% beard and 60% grime.
"Lad," he grunted when I approached. "You're awake. Figured the fever finally claimed you."
"Who are you?"
He rolled his eyes, "My name is Oru, what happened to you? Fever that could forget someone's name?"
I nodded. "I guess so," trying to sound manly but mostly sounding like a squeaky toy. "Tell me the truth. Who am I? Aside from a guy who clearly needs a decent meal."
He let out a wheezy laugh. "Lad, fever got you that much huh?" He sighed and continued. "You're Arthur. The Orphan. The beggar of the West Gate. You've lived in that shack since the Sisters died off. No magic, no mana circle, no prospects. You're the luckiest boy in the mud, purely because you're still breathing."
Wow I did not expect that.
"No magic?" I asked, my heart sinking into my dirty shoes. "No mana circle? Nothing?"
Goodbye easy-isekai-life!
"Boy, you couldn't light a candle with your soul if your life depended on it," Oru spat, looking at the two moons. "Now quit acting like the fever scrambled your brains. Go find some scraps. The night's cold, and the guards don't like beggars lingering after the bells."
I stood there, shivering in my rags, looking at my trembling, thin hands. This was my second life. No overpowered sword. No harem of elves. Just acne, starvation, and a goddess who probably blocked my number the moment I hit the ground.
"Venus," I whispered, my voice cracking with sass and desperation. "If I ever see you again, I'm going to leave a very nasty review on your altar."
The cold wind bit through my tunic, and I realized a terrible truth: I wasn't a hero. I was a statistic.
A spec of dust again…
******
However…
It took me exactly thirty-one days of stomach-churning hunger to realize that the universe didn't just dislike me—it was actively trolling me.
I'd spent my first month in Venhus playing "Investigative Journalist: Beggar Edition." The old library was a crumbling ruin that smelled of damp parchment and dead dreams, but it held the truth. This world wasn't just "ruled" by women; it was a straight-up magical matriarchy. Every beggar, every hunched laborer, and every guy scrubbing a sewer was male. Meanwhile, the women? They were the High Mages, the Priestesses, and the Queens. We weren't just the "weaker sex" here; we were basically the background NPCs in a world of Amazons.
I'd spent weeks trying to get into the inner city of Athens to find a temple—to find her. I had some choice words for Venus, most of which involved a lot of four-letter syllables. But beggars weren't allowed past the gates. If you didn't have a job or a noble sponsor, you were stuck in the mud.
So, I did what I did back in Queens: I hustled.
I landed an interview with a merchant named Mistress Helga. She wasn't high nobility, just a middle-tier weapon trader who needed someone to haul sacks. I'd scrubbed myself raw in a freezing river five miles away, terrified I'd catch pneumonia, but I refused to walk into that interview smelling like a fermented goat.
"You're scrawny, Arthur," Helga had said, looking at me like a cracked piece of pottery.
"I'm 'aerodynamic,' Mistress," I shot back with a practiced, pathetic grin. "And I can read, write, and do basic arithmetic faster than your current clerk can blink."
That did it. Literacy was apparently a rare "male skill" here. She hired me for one copper a day. It was the Venhus equivalent of a dollar a day in NYC, but it was my golden ticket. Today was the day we entered the city.
As we approached the Great Gate of Athens, my sass evaporated, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread.
The "Knight of the Rose" weren't just guards. They were towering, muscle-bound masterpieces of biological warfare. Clad in enchanted silver plate that seemed to cover only the "important" bits—leaving massive, rippling abs and sun-kissed thighs exposed—they stood like golden statues under the two moons' fading light. They were beautiful in a way that felt aggressive. Each one was at least 6'5", carrying claymores that looked like they weighed more than I did.
"Halt," one of them barked. Her voice was like a cello made of thunder. She stepped closer to inspect our cart. As she moved, the scent of rosewater and steel hit me. My heart did a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
Oh god. Oh no. Don't look at the biceps. Don't look at the breasts. I started to tremble. It wasn't just regular fear; it was the "Allergy PTSD." Back on Earth, a woman this close meant a trip to the ER. If her bare arm brushed my shoulder, would I break out in hives? Would I swell up like a balloon and pop right here in front of the most intimidating women in existence?
"The boy," the Knight said, her eyes narrowing as she looked down at me. She leaned in, her silver breastplate reflecting my terrified, acne-scarred face. "Why is he shaking? Is he diseased?"
"Just... just nerves, noble Knight!" Mistress Helga laughed, swatting at the air. "He's a country mouse. Never seen the glory of the Rose before."
The Knight grunted, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword—a hand that was larger than my entire head. She walked a slow circle around me. I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling my arms in tight against my chest. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me. I could feel the heat radiating off her. It was like standing next to a furnace. My skin started to prickle. Was that the hives? Or just my brain screaming in a frantic, high-pitched 'Stay away from me'?
"Move along," the beautiful guard finally said, bored with my pathetic display. "Keep your servant on a leash, merchant. We don't like twitchy ones in the Upper District."
As the cart creaked forward and we passed under the massive stone archway, I finally let out a breath I'd been holding since the river. The city of Athens opened up before us—white marble, floating fountains, and gardens that looked like they cost more than a small country. It was luxurious, beautiful, and absolutely terrifying.
"One copper," I whispered to myself, clutching the side of the cart to keep my knees from buckling. "One copper and a direct line to a Goddess. I'm going to find that temple, and then I'm going to tell Venus exactly where she can shove her 'prosperity.'"