SS: Adventures of Protag-kun Volume II

The sun had barely begun its ascent, a thin sliver of light peeking over the horizon like a loading bar stuck at 3%. My eyes fluttered open to the familiar ache in my back—a daily reminder that my “hero’s bed” was a lumpy straw sack that smelled faintly of moss and regret.

“Ignite,” I whispered, voice hoarse from sleep. A flicker of flame sparked above my palm, no bigger than a birthday candle. It danced for a moment, then fizzled out like my self-esteem.

"Even after all this, I get a pathetic flame," I muttered. “Where’s my protagonist buff?”

I sat up, joints creaking like a poorly animated cutscene, and turned to Allen. He lay still, his breathing shallow but steady. I reached out, fingers brushing his wrist, performing my daily health check like a worried party cleric. No change. No miracle. Just survival.

“At least one of us is pulling their weight,” I grumbled, grabbing the pail and slipping out of the room.

The hallway greeted me with the soft creak of old wood and the sight of Monica, her hair a chaotic storm of bedhead. She used to radiate chaotic fujoshi energy—always trying to ship me with Allen like we were the stars of her favorite BL drama. But after the orc attack, that spark had dimmed. Now she moved like a background NPC with a trauma debuff.

It was much easier to talk when Allen was around. This only made me panic as we awkwardly stood next to each other. Social interaction was still my greatest enemy.

“I’m going to get water,” I blurted, voice cracking like a poorly dubbed anime character.

“Thanks again, Protag-kun,” Monica yawned, limping toward the outhouse like a zombie.

The outhouse was a shared community bathroom. Basically a tiny wooden box—smaller than my closet back in Japan—with a bucket that doubled as a toilet and a test of dignity. Still the fact remains true, biological needs trump pride. 

I fled downstairs, the café still cloaked in pre-dawn quiet. The scent of yesterday’s stew lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of magical lanterns flickering to life. Outside, the town was waking up.

A group of warriors marched toward the main gate, swords slung over shoulders, shields gleaming in the morning light. Their armor clanked with purpose. One of them—a tall man with a beard that could house a family of sparrows—looked at me and said something like, “Fit ye on aboot this hoose?”

I blinked. No subtitles. Just vibes. I shrugged and kept walking.

It was frustrating that I couldn't join on their adventure. Jealousy stabbed at me, sharp and hot. That was where I belonged—on the front lines, slaying monsters, earning EXP. Not fetching water for an NPC.

At the well, I filled the pail, the cold water biting against my fingers. The chill grounded me, a reminder that this world didn’t care about my protagonist complex.

As I turned to leave, I overheard another warrior speaking: “Ic wille feorh beorgan.”

“I… want to… save lives,” I translated, piecing together the words like a puzzle. “Exactly! I want to save lives!”

The words echoed in my chest, a flicker of pride warming the frostbite of my self-doubt. Maybe I couldn’t cast fireballs or wield legendary swords yet. But I could learn. I could adapt.

Slowly, painfully, I would earn my place in this world.

Even if it started with a bucket of water.

After collecting enough water, I returned to the room, jaw clenched like I was preparing for battle. The pail hit the floor with a dull thud, a splash of cold reality. In this world, water wasn’t just a resource—it was a reminder. A symbol of my current station: errand boy to a wounded NPC.

I dipped a cloth into the pail and began Allen’s sponge bath with all the enthusiasm of a disgraced knight polishing his own armor.

“You should be grateful, you know,” I muttered, voice low and bitter. “This is not something a protagonist should be doing. I’m a hero, not a healer.”

The cloth, warm from the water, glided over bruises and welts—battle scars that told stories I wasn’t part of. I was supposed to be the one earning those marks. Instead, I was the one tending to them.

“I could be out there fighting,” I mumbled, my voice rising with each word. “I could be mastering magic, wielding legendary weapons, unlocking hidden skills. Instead, I’m stuck here… washing you.”

I paused, staring at Allen’s unconscious face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t respond. Just breathed.

It was the kind of fantasy every guy joked about—being bathed by a harem of beautiful women. But here I was, the one doing the bathing. To a man. In silence. In shame.

“Just you wait, Allen,” I said, forcing a smirk. “One day, I’ll be the hero. And you’ll be my trusty sidekick.”

The words rang hollow.

By midday, the sun beat down on the cobblestone streets outside, but inside the café’s kitchen, the air was thick with steam and the scent of spiced root broth and honey-glazed monster meat. I stood in the clattering hellscape of forgotten food and sticky grease, armed with nothing but a chipped sponge and a fading sense of dignity.

I wanted to scream: I am a hero, not a servant!

But the only thing that heard me was a pot that refused to come clean.

This world’s pub food was a constant source of confusion. The menu was a chaotic blend of Old English, fantasy dialects, and culinary madness. I couldn’t tell if I was scrubbing a stew pot or a cauldron used for summoning flavor demons.

“Madam, git ma ale!” a patron barked from the dining hall.

I flinched. The language barrier was a cruel joke. I was on my third chipped plate of the afternoon, and the sink was starting to feel like a cursed dungeon.

“Why is it that in every isekai light novel I read, the one I travel to doesn’t speak Japanese?” I grumbled, voice drowned by the clatter of dishes.

I was supposed to be slaying monsters, not scrubbing pans. I was supposed to be leading a party, not washing their leftovers. I was supposed to be special.

Instead, I was just tired.

Just yesterday, I overheard the head chef and owner—a stern-faced man with a cleaver that looked like it had seen more battles than I had—grumble something to Mei. “He… clumsy… maid,” he said, each word slicing through the air like a critical hit. I didn’t catch the rest, but those two words were as clear as a full-screen notification.

I was being threatened. Not by monsters. By unemployment.

When we first arrived in this town, we were already drowning in debt—Allen’s healing had drained our coin pouch faster than a cursed item. The girls had agreed to work anywhere that offered lodging, and somehow, they found this café. I wanted to do something heroic. Something worthy of a protagonist. But with only Japanese in my skill tree, my options were limited to “dishwasher” and “emotional baggage carrier.”

They had bowed their heads to the owner to get me hired. I hadn’t even earned it.

He looked at me the same way my parents used to when I talked about isekai and anime—like I was a walking disappointment wrapped in delusion.

I feared I’d earn the title “Klutzy Maid” before I ever unlocked “Hero.” This was supposed to be my grand adventure. My chance to finally be special. But I was just as useless here as I was back home. And the universe? It was laughing.

I sighed and picked up another plate. “I am a protagonist,” I muttered, as if saying it out loud could overwrite reality. “I am not a maid. I will not be defeated by a plate.”

I attacked the grime with the fury of a low-level warrior trying to solo a raid boss. My arms ached. My knuckles stung. The plate gleamed—clean, radiant, like a legendary shield forged in the fires of domestic despair.

Then I dropped it.

It shattered on the stone floor, a thousand tiny shards of failure. I stared at the wreckage, the familiar wave of self-loathing washing over me like a cursed debuff.

“Hey, don’t worry about it!” chirped Monica, breezing into the kitchen with a tray of dirty mugs. Her maid uniform somehow looked like cosplay—cute, confident, and completely at odds with my own crumpled existence. “It happens to every maid!”

“It doesn’t happen to heroes,” I muttered, voice barely audible. “And I am not a maid.”

“But you are!” said Miyu, skipping in with a plate of leftover food. Her smile was too bright for this greasy battlefield. “If you work hard enough, I'm sure you can be a great maid!”

“A great maid?” I scoffed. “I’m a hero. I’m supposed to be fighting monsters.”

“Well, you’re fighting a mountain of dirty dishes,” Mei said, appearing with a towel and a wry smile. “It’s the same thing, right?”

“No, it’s not!” I snapped. “Monsters don’t break when you drop them!”

“But they do when you hit them with a sword,” Monica added, eyes twinkling with mischief.

I stared at the broken plate. Then at the three of them. Then back at the plate. Maybe this wasn’t the quest I wanted. But it was the one I had.

Just then, the owner walked in—grumpy as ever, his eyebrows furrowed like they were trying to escape his face. He picked up one of the freshly cleaned plates, inspecting it like it was a cursed artifact.

It shattered.

A thousand tiny shards of failure scattered across the stone floor, each one a reflection of my crumbling pride.

Even without Mei translating, I understood him perfectly.

“What kind of maid are you?” he growled, voice gravelly and low. “If this continues, we won’t have any more plates to serve people!”

I stared at him. Then at the slate. Then back at him.

My face burned. Not from fire magic. From humiliation.

“I… I am a protagonist,” I whispered, the words barely escaping. “I am not a maid.”

But the universe didn’t care.

With the final chime of the town’s clock tower, the evening shift ended. The café emptied, leaving behind the scent of stew and the echo of exhaustion. Everyone collapsed into their respective corners of fatigue.

My muscles ached. My fingers throbbed. My soul felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.

I was a hero, damn it. I was supposed to have unlimited stamina, a passive buff called Plot Armor. I was supposed to fight through the night, not scrub through it.

Instead, I was a sad, tired, overworked protagonist stuck in a maid uniform that smelled faintly of dish soap, onion and despair.

While Monica took her turn giving Allen his sponge bath, I retreated to the girls’ room—my new classroom, apparently. The chalkboard loomed like a final boss.

My first quest: master the alphabet.

Miyu, five years old, was my classmate. My humiliation knew no bounds. I, the great hero, was being taught how to write at the same level as a child who still thought Cinnamon the hamster was a magical beast.

“Here’s an easy one, Protag-kun,” she chirped, cheerful as ever. “Let’s try spelling the word Gohan in English.”

I took the chalk, channeling all my remaining strength into the stroke.

‘Lice.’

Mei sighed, grading my work with the patience of a saint and the tone of a disappointed school nurse. “No, Protag-chan. It’s rice. R-I-C-E.”

“It’s the same thing!” I protested, pointing at the slate. “They’re both four letters! They sound the same!”

“No, they don’t,” Mei said, shaking her head. “One is food. The other is a parasite.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Why is this so hard? I’m a hero! I’m supposed to have a high intelligence stat! I’m supposed to be a master of all languages!”

“Maybe you just need more practice,” Miyu said, patting my shoulder with the kind of sincerity that only five-year-olds and anime heroines possess. “We can do it together!”

I looked at the two of them—Mei with her gentle smile, Miyu with her boundless optimism—and felt something shift inside me. A strange mix of gratitude and shame. They were trying to help. I knew that.

But their kindness was a mirror. One that reflected every crack in my self-image. I was a hero who couldn’t write his own name. A protagonist who couldn’t pass a basic language check. A shut-in who was still a shut-in—even in a fantasy world.

Author's Note: If you get the chance, re-read SS: Adventures of Protag-kun Volume I again. I worked hard in refining everything to make this smoother and better for the readers to enjoy. Also if you can, give me a like and comment.