Chapter 7: Looking for an Orphanage

Taking care of a traumatized little girl was harder than I imagined. It wasn’t just the crying or the silence. It was the way Nira looked straight ahead, like she was still trapped in the burning wreckage of her village, hearing her mother’s last words on loop. She didn’t speak, didn’t move much, and most troubling of all, she didn’t eat. I tried coaxing her, but it was like talking to a wall. Eventually, I had no choice but to possess her again just to force some food down her throat.

Not that the food was worth the effort. The bread was hard as stone, and the stew had the flavor profile of wet cardboard. If this were cuisine in a fantasy world, then I wanted my ghostly stomach removed permanently.

Was this really worth it? That question haunted me every time I looked at her blank expression. I could’ve walked away, just like the farmer. I had done more than most people would. No one would blame a dead guy for moving on. But deep down, I knew that was just a lie I was trying to feed myself. The farmer had a family to return to, mouths to feed, and a home to protect. What did I have? Some regrets? A dead-end tabloid job? A couple of bitter memories and a whole lot of unfinished business?

I tried pulling the “parents” card. I imagined my mom, sitting in the small living room back on Earth, yelling at me for even thinking of abandoning a child. I imagined my father, solemn and disapproving, arms crossed in silence. Even in death, I could hear their voices echoing inside my skull. That guilt kept me going.

She would’ve starved by now if I left her.

But I couldn’t keep this up forever. I needed a plan. A place that could take her in. A church, an orphanage, or a decent family… someone, anyone. Yet, looking around this city, I doubted my chances. This wasn’t a society with luxury to spare. Moreover, a little girl with no name and no family? She’d probably end up sold, or worse. If she were a boy, maybe a blacksmith or soldier might take him in. But girls didn’t have many prospects here, not in a world that operated on survival first.

It had been several days since we arrived in Enmar. I found an abandoned cottage at the edge of the city, tucked between a broken wall and a grove of half-dead trees. It was barely standing, but it was dry and quiet. That morning, I knelt beside her and said, “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to explore a bit more and see if I can find help.”

She didn’t answer. She hadn’t said anything in days.

I left her nestled on the rotting mattress and made my way back toward the busier part of the city. The roads were uneven, laid with cracked stones and thick with the scent of smoke, dung, and roasting meat. Enmar was built like a wheel, with the castle at its heart and everything else radiating out like spokes. It had charm, in a grimy, realistic sort of way. Not exactly the fantasy wonderland novels would promise.

I headed to the local inn, a two-story wooden building that leaned slightly to the left, its sign creaking on rusted hooks. Inside, the atmosphere was lively despite the economic gloom. Drunks laughed like idiots, and mercenaries swapped tall tales. I lingered in a quiet corner, listening idly to their conversation.

Near the bar, a man in dusty armor slumped against his stool, mumbling about burned villages and dwindling jobs. Another responded with a grunt, saying the Adventurer’s Guild had started pulling back quests due to a string of missing parties. Sounded like things weren’t going well in the business of heroism.

Then came the idiocy.

Two men at a table were in the middle of a heated debate… over feet and ankles.

“I’m telling you, it’s the ankles,” one argued, slamming his mug to emphasize his words. “The way they curve into the leg… It’s elegance, my friend!”

“Elegance?” the other scoffed. “Elegance is in the toes. The shape. The arch! Lady Lydia’s feet are a masterpiece.”

“She’s a nun! You’re going to hell.”

“And you’re not? You’re drooling over Irene the Adventurer like a starving dog!”

“At least she shows her ankles! That skirt should be illegal!”

“What’s so great about ankles that everyone can just see… That’s why nothing beats feet. It’s because the mystery is part of the allure. You can’t tell me otherwise. I’ll bet you’ve never even seen Lydia’s feet.”

“Oh, but I have. And I’ll tell you how... if you buy me a drink.”

“Bah, pervert!”

I stared at them in stunned silence. They were genuinely, passionately arguing about beauty, and their standard was feet and ankles. These guys were purer than most people on the internet back home. Not a word about cleavage or thighs or anything else. No, just feet and ankles.

To each their own, I guessed…

After a few more minutes of their ridiculous back-and-forth, I finally caught their names. The feet enthusiast was Fin, a low-ranking adventurer judging by his worn cloak and lightweight leather armor resting at his feet. His companion, the ankle aficionado, was Keith, a city militia guard on break… or maybe off-duty entirely. They were dressed in casual clothes, which felt strange given how they still carried themselves like they were on patrol or mid-quest. Maybe this was a holiday or a weekend, if such concepts even existed in this world. Whatever the case, the inn was more crowded than usual, and the ale flowed freely.

Keith slammed his mug on the table with dramatic flair for the second time, his cheeks already slightly flushed. “Come on, what’s a mug’s worth to you compared to a chance of seeing… true beauty in the flesh?”

Fin exhaled like a man on the edge of temptation. “Stop trying to corrupt me…”

Despite the complaint, he gave in with an exaggerated groan. “A mug for my friend here!” he called out, waving at the passing waitress.

She approached, hips swaying and eyes sharp as daggers. “Hopefully, you boys are behaving yourselves,” she said with a smirk, replacing Keith’s mug with a brimming tankard.

Keith took a long gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a satisfied sigh. “Now that hits the spot.”

Fin leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “So, what do I need to do to see Lady Lydia’s feet?”

Keith raised an eyebrow, wearing the smugness of a man who held a treasured secret. “When she does laundry at the abbey courtyard, she sometimes washes clothes barefoot. That’s your chance.” Then he grinned, leaning back with a dramatic flourish. “Now, if you want to know the ‘when’ specifically… you’ll have to buy me another drink!”

Fin groaned and waved him off. “Bah~! I’ve had enough of your hustling, you ankle-freak.”

Entertaining as it was, I had more important things to do than eavesdrop on two grown men debating the hierarchy of bodily aesthetics. I approached Fin from behind. With a steady breath and sharpened focus, I activated my possession ability.

Over the past few days, I’d gotten better at this.

The familiar sensation of slipping into someone else’s skin rippled through me. My vision blinked once, twice, then a third time. When my eyes cleared, I was Fin. His body was healthy enough, though my legs felt oddly sore, probably from a long day of walking or standing. I rolled his shoulders to get comfortable.

Keith, oblivious to the swap, clapped me on the back with a grin. “Come on, friend! What’s another drink when you get to see a kind of beauty few men even dream of witnessing?”

I paused, weighing his words with a flat look. Sure, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be? But I had better priorities. Namely, Nira. The little girl didn’t have time for me to ogle nuns.

“You know what?” I replied, settling Fin’s hands on the table. “You’ll get that drink. But I want something in return.”

Keith blinked, confused. “Huh? What’s the ask?” I glanced at his tankard, which had been bottomed out. It seemed Keith was quite a fast drinker.

I signaled to the waitress again, who raised a brow before refilling Keith’s tankard with practiced speed. “Another for my friend here,” I said. “Put it in my tab, please.”

The waitress scoffed and then walked away.

Keith laughed. “You’re being awfully generous all of a sudden. What’s the catch?”

I leaned forward and kept my voice low. “It’s personal. I want to know what you can tell me about the orphanages in this city.”

His grin faded into something more reserved. He scratched his chin, clearly intrigued, but not suspicious. “That’s… a bit of a sharp turn from feet and ankles. You alright?”

I nodded, choosing not to elaborate. “Just… tell me what you know.”

He took a long pull from his drink, then wiped the foam from his lips and leaned closer. “Alright, Fin… if you’re serious, there’s only one place I’d recommend. The Church of the Silver Promise, northeast corner of the city. It's a pretty recent thing, and the closest thing Enmar will ever have to an orphanage. Take in war orphans, street kids, and the like. Lady Lydia oversees it. But be warned… she’s a stickler for rules. If you’re gonna show up, don’t be drunk or covered in grime.”

Lydia, huh? So not just a nun, but also a caretaker? That was interesting. Keith wasn’t finished.

“There’s also the Old Quarter,” he added, frowning. “Some say there’s an underground orphan trade there, but I wouldn’t mess with that lot. Thieves’ guilds, brothels, worse things. Stay on the righteous path, eh? Also, watch out for the Twinfist Gang, they are a bad bunch...”