Chapter 4: Meat Shields Don't Make Good Yaoi Material

Allen exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the crisp evening air like smoke from a dying thought. The campfire crackled beside him, its flames flickering with hints of violet and gold—echoes of the twin moons overhead. One moon hung pale and serene, the other bruised violet, casting a surreal glow across the clearing like a watercolor dream. It should’ve felt cozy. Safe. But the warmth did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.

Monica had promised to be back by sunset. Sunset had come and gone.

He shifted on the log, gripping his makeshift spear. It was barely more than a sharpened stick, but it gave him something to hold onto—something that felt like control in a world that refused to play by tutorial rules.

A sudden rustle in the tall grass snapped him upright.

Protag-kun jolted awake, eyes wide with panic. He scrambled behind Allen like a frightened squirrel, clutching his cloak with trembling fingers. “G-goblins!” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can sense their malicious intent! Their aura is... pungent!”

Allen didn’t move. His mind, already dulled by fatigue and worry, refused to entertain the idea. The rustling was too light, too rhythmic. Not the heavy, clumsy footfalls of a monster. He was already tired of Protag-kun’s constant dramatics.

From the grass emerged a tiny, orange creature with twitching whiskers and beady black eyes. It sat up on its hind legs and began to meticulously lick its paws. A hamster—or at least a very close approximation of one. Its fur shimmered faintly, as if dusted with starlight.

“Relax,” Allen said, lowering the spear. A small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s not a goblin.”

“Don’t be fooled!” Protag-kun hissed, still clinging to Allen’s back like a panicked koala. “It’s a trick! A mimic! A goblin in disguise! Stab it! Stab it now, before it gets the drop on us!”

Allen shook his head. “It’s just a hamster, man.” He stepped forward, knelt down, and held out his hand, palm up.

“No! Don’t do it!” Protag-kun wailed. “I tried to tame one with my beast master magic two days ago! That little demon has no honor! It peed on my hand and then stared into my soul. That unholy golden stream still haunts my dreams!”

Ignoring the warnings, Allen gently stroked the hamster’s fluffy belly. The creature squeaked in delight, rolling onto its back like a tiny, enchanted plushie.

Then—a louder rustling.

Protag-kun yelped and scrambled higher onto Allen’s back, limbs flailing. The hamster darted away, vanishing into the underbrush like a summoned familiar returning to its pocket dimension.

Allen, trying to keep his balance, looked up.

Monica emerged from the shadows, a triumphant grin lighting her face. A basket full of strange, glowing mushrooms was slung over her shoulder, each one pulsing with soft bioluminescence—lavender, teal, and a suspicious shade of rave purple. Behind her, two figures followed, their faces obscured by the dim moonlight.

“I’m back!” Monica chirped, raising a fist like she’d just cleared a side quest. “Sorry, I got a little sidetracked on my gathering run.”

She paused, eyes widening as she took in the scene: Allen flustered, Protag-kun trembling on his back, and the lingering scent of hamster panic in the air.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.

“Oh! Are we… interrupting something?” she whispered, one hand rising to cover her mouth as she suppressed a giggle. The glowing mushrooms in her basket pulsed in sync with her amusement.

Allen flushed, his face turning a vivid shade of crimson as he pried Protag-kun’s fingers from his shoulders one by one. The self-proclaimed hero clung like a barnacle with abandonment issues, but Allen finally managed to shove him off, sending him tumbling onto the mossy ground with a soft, undignified thud.

“Hey!” Protag-kun yelped, scrambling upright. He jabbed a finger at Allen, eyes wide with righteous fury. “That’s not what a meat shield is supposed to do! The protagonist must be protected at all costs!”

Monica blinked. Her grin stretched slowly into something far more dangerous—like a fangirl discovering forbidden lore. “Meat shield? Protagonist?” she echoed, voice trembling with glee. Her gaze flicked between the two boys, and she took a reverent step back, clutching her glowing mushroom basket like a holy relic.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “You were re-enacting a scene from Impenetrable Meat Shield: Forbidden Bonds! I’m so sorry for interrupting your moment!”

Protag-kun froze. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again in silent horror. He staggered backward, putting a solid five feet between himself and Allen, as if proximity alone might summon yaoi demons from the underbrush.

“Are you…” he whispered, eyes wide with existential dread, “one of them? A fujoshi?”

Allen’s face became a mask of mortified silence. The embarrassment settled on his shoulders like a weighted cloak woven from secondhand fanfiction. He buried his face in his hands, groaning in defeat as Monica’s voice—high-pitched, mischievous, and far too delighted—needled into his ears like enchanted glitter.

Protag-kun, meanwhile, was backing away further, his eyes darting toward the two strangers who had followed Monica. They stood just outside the firelight, watching the scene unfold with a mix of confusion and detached amusement, like NPCs waiting for their dialogue cue.

“Please tell me I wasn’t isekai’d into a BL game,” Protag-kun whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of genre panic.

The situation had gone from strange to surreal, and Allen wasn’t sure if he was emotionally equipped for whatever came next. Even if this was a BL game, Allen had zero interest in being anyone’s romantic route—especially not Protag-kun’s.

Desperate for normalcy, he lifted his head and gestured toward the campfire. “Everyone, come on in. It’s getting cold.”

The fire flickered in response, casting warm light across the clearing as if trying to restore narrative balance.

Allen turned to Monica, his expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “And for the record, this is Protag-kun. He’s not my ‘yao-friend.’ I found him abandoned in the forest.”

Monica raised an eyebrow. “So you adopted him?”

“He’s not a cat. I just felt bad,” Allen admitted, switching to English with a weary sigh. “And he’s useful. I’ve been using him as a poison taste tester. Fortunately, he only speaks Japanese, so he won’t—”

A soft voice interrupted, melodic and clear, like a wind chime caught in moonlight.

“If that’s the case, it’s all right,” the taller stranger said, stepping into the firelight. “The both of us know English in addition to Japanese. So for now, let’s keep things in Japanese.”

Allen froze. The blood drained from his face as the cardinal rule of isekai echoed in his mind:

Never assume anyone is a monolingual country bumpkin.

The taller stranger stepped into the firelight, her features emerging from the shadows like a portrait come to life. Long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in gentle waves, framing a serene face that radiated calm—almost maternal, despite the youthful glow in her eyes. Her faded denim jacket shimmered faintly at the seams, enchanted threads catching the firelight like stardust. It looked vintage, but carried the aura of boutique sorcery.

Beside her, the smaller figure—a child no older than five—darted forward with the unfiltered enthusiasm only children and summoned familiars possess. She knelt by the fire and gently scooped up the orange hamster, cradling it in her tiny hands like a sacred treasure.

“That’s my hamster,” she said, looking up at Allen with wide, earnest eyes. “His name’s Cinnamon.”

Allen blinked. Cinnamon squeaked in agreement and gave a salute—tiny paw raised, cheeks puffed with pride.

The older girl chuckled, stepping closer. “I’m Mei,” she said, bowing with practiced grace. “Those who know me far and wide refer to me as the ‘Forever 17’ Hong Kong pop idol sensation. I spent a few years in Japan—picked up the language, the culture, and a deep appreciation for convenience store onigiri.”

Her voice had a melodic lilt, like she was always half-singing. As she spoke, the air around the campfire shimmered subtly, as if her presence bent reality just slightly in her favor. The glowing mushrooms in Monica’s basket pulsed in sync with her cadence, casting soft lavender halos across the clearing.

Allen and Protag-kun were transfixed. Mei’s aura was magnetic—equal parts elegance, mystery, and unintentional chaos. Every word she spoke felt like it belonged in a glossy magazine interview or the opening monologue of a magical girl anime.

"And now, sweetheart," Mei said, turning to the little girl beside her, "it's your turn to introduce yourself."

"I'm Miyu," the girl chirped, giving a small wave. "I'm her daughter."

Allen smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

“Cute kid,” Protag-kun added, nodding.

The boys nodded along, still lost in the magical haze of Mei’s introduction. The fire crackled gently. The twin moons hovered above like silent witnesses. Even Cinnamon seemed to bask in the moment, tail flicking with pride.

Then their brains—lagging behind like a poorly optimized RPG—finally processed the words.

Her daughter.

Allen’s smile froze. His mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. A single breath escaped him in a silent gasp.

Protag-kun’s eyes widened to near-cartoon proportions. He made a small, strangled sound—somewhere between a hiccup and a scream—and took a step back.

They stared at Mei. Then at Miyu. Then back at Mei.

The math wasn’t mathing.

“Forever 17,” Allen and Protag-kun whispered in unison, as if repeating it might make it true.

Mei just winked. The fire flared briefly behind her, casting her silhouette in radiant gold.

The campfire crackled quietly, its glow casting long shadows across the clearing. The flames danced in hues of amber and violet, flickering in rhythm with the twin moons overhead—one pale and serene, the other bruised and brooding. The earlier chaos had faded into a contemplative hush, the kind that settles in after too much laughter and just enough existential confusion.

Allen, still mentally reeling from the “Forever 17” revelation, passed around the modest meal he’d gathered: roasted roots, a handful of berries, and a suspiciously gelatinous mushroom that pulsed faintly in the dark like it had opinions. The mushroom emitted a soft hum, barely audible, as if it were judging their life choices.

The silence stretched, thick and awkward, broken only by the soft rustle of Cinnamon climbing up Allen’s arm. The hamster perched on his shoulder like a tiny, oblivious mascot—tail flicking, cheeks puffed—completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding beneath him. The group—now five humans and one disturbingly capable rodent—ate in silence, each processing their own version of reality.

Monica cleared her throat, breaking the quiet with theatrical flair. “Okay, so. On my walk, I found something... interesting.” She pointed north with a flourish that suggested she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. “About an hour from here, there’s a massive clearing. And in that clearing? An army of orcs.”

She paused dramatically, then took a bite of a purple mushroom that glowed faintly like a nightclub rave. The mushroom pulsed in sync with her chewing.

“Apparently, it’s their mating season,” she added, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The whole forest smells like sweat and desperation.”

Before anyone could respond, Miyu squeaked at Cinnamon, who was nestled in her lap. The hamster squeaked back—clearly in conversation. Then, without warning, Cinnamon hopped down, waddled a few feet from the fire, puffed out his cheeks like a balloon, and spat out something that hit the ground with a wet, echoing thud.

An orc.

A full-grown, eight-foot-tall orc, deceased and glistening in the firelight like a freshly waxed avocado. The moss beneath him recoiled slightly, glowing red in alarm.

Allen and Protag-kun stared, jaws slack.

“Did that hamster just... spit out an orc?” Allen asked, voice hollow.

“Oh, right,” Mei said, as if remembering a grocery list. “We were all given gifts when we got summoned here. By a minor god named Kon. Fox ears, shrine maiden outfit—very aesthetic.”

She went on to explain how they met Kon, a minor deity with fox ears and a penchant for dramatic entrances. Kon had bestowed upon Mei the Fountain of Youth, preserving her appearance as a perpetual seventeen-year-old. Miyu received a Kitsune’s Pearl, allowing her to understand and speak with animals. And Cinnamon, the tiny creature of chaos, was given a magical item—Hermes’ Messenger Bag, which he could store in his cheeks to collect and transport an almost endless amount of items.

“Was that the same god you met?” Allen asked, the puzzle pieces clicking into place. He turned to Monica.

Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Remember those lockets? Kon gave them to us.”

The conversation soon turned to Protag-kun. If everyone else had met Kon and received gifts, why hadn’t he?

As soon as the question was asked, Protag-kun began to sweat profusely. He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between the fire and the orc. After a long pause, he admitted he had seen a girl with fox ears—but when he tried to approach her, she screamed something in a foreign language and vanished in a puff of smoke.

Mei tilted her head. “Kon doesn’t speak Japanese. She speaks Celestial Common.”

Protag-kun tried to mimic the sounds he’d heard, a strange jumble of syllables that sounded like, “Suh-tuh-ran-juh duh-un-jeh.”

Allen and Monica exchanged a glance. They knew exactly what Kon had said.

“Stranger Danger.”

They decided to spare Protag-kun’s feelings and keep that little secret to themselves.

But as they returned back to the orc laying before them, its immense form dominating the clearing. As Allen and Protag-kun inspected the dead beast, they couldn't help but notice its massive form and impressive 'lower horn'. Both boys' faces fell, a look of profound, shared depression settling over them. They stared down at the ground, a familiar feeling of inadequacy creeping in.

Mei, ever the perceptive one, stepped forward and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Hey, now," she said softly, a warm smile on her face. "Don't get down about it. Everyone's special in their own way."

Allen nodded slowly. “Yeah. Some people summon orcs. Some people are the orc.”

Cinnamon squeaked in agreement.