Yomen's Monologue
You may be asking yourself,"Wait, how the hell are you in a house right now? Weren't you in the plaza juggling flaming death fruit yesterday?"
Well… I'll be honest with you. I think the stuff that happened in between was basically filler. You know the type—awkward walking scenes, a couple of "worldbuilding" moments, and me trying to negotiate for food without getting stabbed.So I skipped them.
…But you're too curious to let it go, aren't you?Fine. Here's the short version.
After my death-defying performance last night, I was technically homeless. My first plan was to sleep under a fruit cart and hope no one stabbed me for breakfast. But then I remembered—Gilbert has a house. Or… something that technically qualifies as one.
So, I put on my best sad puppy eyes and said,"Hey, Gilbert… buddy… pal… imagine how much funnier your life would be if I didn't freeze to death tonight."
He tried to say no.I countered with, "And imagine the free rent you'll get in heaven when your conscience is clear."
He said something about "boundaries" and "parasites."I said something about "friendship" and "I'll owe you forever."
…You know, standard negotiation tactics.
Eventually, he sighed, muttered something like "Fine, but you're sleeping on the floor," and let me in.
The Floor Incident
Now, when I say "floor," I don't mean a nice carpet or even smooth wood. I mean a patch of uneven stone with the personality of a brick wall and the kindness of a tax collector.
My back? Destroyed. My spine? Filing for divorce. My soul? Whispering to me at 3 a.m., "We should've taken the fruit cart."
But hey—beggars can't be choosers. And manipulators don't complain when the job's done.
The Next Morning
I woke up to the sound of Gilbert aggressively chewing bread like it owed him money."Morning," he said flatly. "You ready for the Adventurer Exam?"
"Ready?" I rubbed my eyes. "My back is broken, my cheat skill is on cooldown, and my breakfast is…" I looked at the sad piece of bread he tossed me, "…a war crime."
Still, I couldn't let him know I was panicking. Without my Clown Blessing, I'd have to rely on actual skill and luck—two things I wouldn't exactly put on my résumé.
Gilbert slung his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go. We've got one shot at this, and if we end up in a bottom-tier familia, we're dead within a year."
"Wow," I said, "love the optimism."
Inside, my thoughts were racing. (No blessing. No backup plan. And the only thing keeping me alive is a guy who thinks boundaries are more important than comfortable guest bedding. Fantastic.)
On the Way to the Guild Plaza
Aurala nd was… exactly what you'd expect from a bargain-bin isekai starter city.
Cobblestone streets? Check. They were uneven enough to twist your ankle if you weren't careful, but charming enough to make you forget your imminent hospital bill.
Buildings? Oh, you bet. Every single one had that "medieval but suspiciously clean" aesthetic, like they'd been built by a fantasy IKEA—half-timber, white plaster, and suspiciously identical wooden shutters.
The marketplace was the same story. Stalls full of bread loaves so perfectly golden they looked painted, fruit that had clearly been waxed by the prop department, and armor stands where the "steel breastplates" were obviously made of polished aluminum.
Signs dangled above every shop in an overly whimsical font—"Ye Olde Potion Emporium," "Mithril & Things," and my personal favorite, "The Generic Inn." (At least they were honest.)
As we passed, a bard on the street corner strummed a lute so badly I swear he was actively lowering people's aura. A group of adventurers brushed past us, their cloaks swishing dramatically in the wind… that wasn't actually blowing.
And the people? Oh, they were straight out of the "Fantasy NPC Generator." We had:
Gruff blacksmith wiping sweat from his forehead.
Old lady selling bread who absolutely knows ancient magic but won't tell you until volume three.
Random child chasing a chicken for no reason.
Gilbert, of course, walked like he belonged here. I, on the other hand, was trying not to trip on the cobblestones while staring at a "holy church" building that looked like it had been copy-pasted from every JRPG cutscene ever.
If a game developer had been tasked with creating "Generic Fantasy Starter Town #1," Aurala nd would be their magnum opus.
The Plaza – Adventurer Exam Registration
By the time we reached the Adventurer Guild plaza, it looked exactly like every bargain-bin isekai city I'd ever imagined—stone buildings with that "copied-and-pasted" medieval charm, overpriced stalls selling "authentic" swords made last week, and streets so clean you knew some poor sap had been whipped for letting dirt touch the cobbles.
And the people?Hundreds of hopefuls packed shoulder to shoulder—beastkin with enough muscle to bench-press me and my future corpse, smug elves in tailored leather, mages holding staves taller than my rent debt… and, inexplicably, a man in a chicken costume strutting like royalty. (Pro tip: if you can't immediately tell whether it's intimidation or insanity, it's best not to engage.)
The guild building loomed over the square, its wall lined with registration tables. The clerks behind them had the hollow-eyed look of people who regretted all their life choices but didn't have the aura to quit.
Gilbert scanned the crowd like a bodyguard. "Rule one—don't make eye contact with anyone who looks like they could fold you in half."
I glanced around. "Gilbert, that's ninety percent of the plaza."
"Exactly. Rule two—if someone asks about your familia, we're 'independent contractors.'"
"Why not tell the truth?" I asked.
He looked at me like I'd just suggested juggling live grenades. "Because the second they know you're unaligned, they mark you as prey. And while you may be clever, you're also… let's say, 'physically negotiable.'"
"Noted," I said, filing that away under Reasons to Become Terrifying ASAP.
As we moved through the line, I scanned the competition. Groups were already showing off—flourishing swords, conjuring fireballs, flashing enchanted armor. It was all mating display. I wasn't here to strut feathers; I was here to pass. The chicken guy two spots ahead of me? He was here to strut feathers. (And depressingly, I think he might make it work.)
Finally, I reached the table. The clerk didn't even look up. "Name."
"Yomen."
"Aura points?"
Gilbert slid the form over. "One thousand, even."
Her head lifted at that. "Exactly?"
I leaned in just slightly, lowering my voice to the kind of tone people instinctively trust. "Why overwork? Hit the goal, stop. The rest is wasted energy."
Her eyes narrowed, like she was trying to decide if that was efficiency or arrogance. She stamped the paper, handed me a wooden badge that looked like it had been carved by a hungover carpenter. "Candidate. East gate. Wait for instructions."
Gilbert and I stepped away. "You're in," he said. "Now you just have to survive the next twenty-four hours."
"That's the plan," I said easily, already mapping possible exit strategies in my head.
Inside, a quieter voice added: (Also the lie. Definitely the lie.)