Chapter 9: A Washed Up Idol's Forgotten Dream

Recovery had become routine.

His legs no longer trembled when he stood, and the pain in Allen's ribs had dulled to a background hum. He could walk the length of the second floor without collapsing—a victory measured in quiet steps and stubborn pride.

Outside the window, the city stirred. He couldn’t see much — just rooftops and the edge of a tower—but he imagined cobbled streets, market stalls, and the scent of roasted nuts curling through the air. A fantasy postcard. He hadn’t seen it yet. Not really.

The door creaked open.

Mei entered first, balancing a tray with practiced ease. Behind her, Miyu and Cinnamon followed — the usual trio. The stew was rich and fragrant, the bread still warm. Cinnamon squeaked once, proudly presenting a folded napkin like it was a royal decree.

It meant a lot for Allen as he smiled. “You guys didn’t have to keep doing this.”

Mei shrugged, brushing flour from her apron. “You’re like a big brother to Miyu. Two cute girls spoiling you—you should be delighted.”

Allen blinked. Her tone was teasing, but her eyes lingered on him a beat longer than usual.

Miyu tilted her head. “You think you’re ready to explore the city?”

Allen paused mid-bite. “You mean… go outside?”

Due to the encounter with the Orc Lord, Allen never had the chance to explore the city. Living in the forest, going to a cave, attacked by monsters, he hit a lot of the isekai bingo card but exploring a city took longer than he imagined.

Mei nodded. “Tomorrow’s our day off. We could show you around.”

Allen’s heart kicked against his ribs. “I’d love that.”

Miyu clapped softly, Cinnamon squeaked in approval, and Mei’s smile widened—just enough to make Allen forget how to swallow.

As they turned to leave, Mei lingered at the doorway. Her voice was light, but something in her eyes made it stick.

“I can’t wait for this date.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Allen stared at the empty tray, the napkin still folded neatly beside it. He didn’t move for a long time.

That night, sleep refused to come. He lay awake, replaying her words — this date — over and over. What kind of date was this? A friendly outing? A thank-you? Something more?

“Dude…” Protag-kun yawned from across the room, turning in his bed. “Go back to sleep already.”

But hen he remembered: Mei was a mother. Miyu would be there. Of course she thought of Allen as Miyu’s big brother. That would make her… their mother.

Still, the word date echoed louder than it should have.

Morning arrived in a haze of nerves and sleeplessness. Allen sat by the café entrance, dressed in borrowed clothes that still smelled faintly of mint and flour. His heart thudded in his chest, louder than the morning bustle outside.

He’d imagined the city as a fantasy playground — cobbled streets, enchanted fountains, maybe a bard on every corner. But now, with Mei’s words still echoing in his head — I can’t wait for this date — the world felt heavier. Sharper.

Then Mei appeared.

She descended the stairs in a soft linen dress, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. No frills, no idol sparkle—just quiet beauty. She looked like she belonged to the village, not the stage.

Allen’s breath caught. He stood quickly, then hesitated. “Where’s Miyu?”

“She decided that she wanted to study the alphabet with Protag-chan,” Mei said. “Monica’s tutoring them. It’s just us today.”

Just us.

Walking through the city unfolded before them in shades of gray and rust. Stone buildings leaned into narrow streets, their edges softened by time and soot. The air hung heavy—thick with iron, smoke, and something harder to name. A quiet tension pulsed beneath the surface.

Guards moved with grim purpose, hands never far from their hilts. Shopkeepers spoke in hushed tones. It was as if the city was holding its breath.

“The Orc Invasion,” Mei murmured, her voice barely audible. “It’s getting worse. Most of the women and children were evacuated weeks ago. The café owner nearly shut down before we arrived.”

Allen nodded, suddenly aware of the stares they were drawing. Men watched them with a mix of suspicion—and something else. Envy. He was walking beside a woman who turned heads without trying. Mei had a presence that lingered, even if she insisted she was “Forever 17” and a mother.

They wandered through the market, a maze of makeshift stalls selling dried herbs and enchanted trinkets. Mei stopped at a crepe stand wedged between two shuttered shops.

“One Oranberry,” she said, then glanced at Allen. “And a Cocoflatte for him.”

She handed him the crepe, her cheeks tinged pink. “Sorry. I didn’t ask first. That’s… not very idol-like.”

Allen laughed, the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying finally breaking. “You’re allowed to be a person.”

They walked on, crepes warm in their hands. A horse-drawn carriage clattered past, wheels kicking up dust and noise. Allen flinched—a reflex from his time in the forest—and his crepe slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft splat. The Cocoflatte cream smeared across the cobblestones like a failed spell.

Mei blinked, then hesitated. “Here. Just take a bite of mine.”

Allen leaned in, his face burning. He took a tentative bite. The oranberry cream was rich and citrusy, with a sour pop that made his mouth pucker. Each azure-blue berry burst like a tiny firework on his tongue.

Before he could speak, Mei leaned in, her gaze focused, and gently licked the cream from his cheek.

He froze. Forgot how to breathe. The moment hung between them—absurd, intimate, electric.

Then she laughed, brushing her fingers against her lips. “You looked so adorable I could’ve eaten you up.”

Allen smiled, heart pounding. “I wouldn't have mind.”

They walked on, the city fading into a blur behind them. For the first time since waking in this world, Allen felt something unfamiliar—not fear, not confusion, but a glimmer of genuine hope. The city might be scarred. The world might be dangerous. But here, in this moment, something new was beginning.

The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. The tension from earlier had softened, replaced by something quieter—a rhythm between them that didn’t need words.

“Oh, let’s stop there,” Mei said, pointing ahead.

They turned the corner and found a lone bard seated on a crate, strumming a worn lute. His voice was thin, the melody simple, but there was sincerity in every note. Most passersby barely glanced his way, but Mei clapped when he finished.

“Could you play another?” Allen asked, then turned to Mei. “I want to hear you sing.”

Mei’s eyes widened. “Me? No one wants to hear a retired idol.”

“I do,” Allen said, stepping forward. His voice was steady, but his heart wasn’t.

She hesitated, fingers curling around the hem of her dress. Then she nodded.

The bard began again, a gentle tune that drifted like wind through leaves. Mei closed her eyes and sang.

Her voice was clear, nostalgic, haunting. It carried through the square, slowing footsteps, drawing glances. A small crowd gathered—not for spectacle, but for something real.

Allen didn’t move. He watched her — not the performance, but the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her voice trembled on the high notes, the way she looked like she belonged to the moment.

When the final note faded, applause erupted. Someone called for an encore. Mei’s eyes darted to Allen, panic flickering behind her smile.

He didn’t speak. He just held out his hand.

She took it, and they ran.

Through alleyways and side streets, laughter trailing behind them like ribbon. They didn’t stop until they reached a quiet fountain tucked between ivy-covered walls, its water murmuring softly in the stillness.

Breathless, they collapsed onto the stone edge.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

Mei shook her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. “I’m glad you did.

But her voice was quieter now. Her fingers fidgeted with the folds of her skirt, twisting the fabric like it might unravel something inside her.

The silence between them stretched—not awkward, just full.

Allen waited.

Mei looked at him, lips parted like she wanted to speak. Then she glanced down at the fountain, watching the ripples dance.

“I’ve been keeping a secret,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Allen’s heart thudded. He sat up straighter, pulse quickening.

Was this it?

The fountain murmured behind them, its rhythm soft and steady — like a heartbeat trying not to race. Ivy curled around the stone walls, swaying gently in the breeze. The city noise had faded, leaving only the hush of water and the sound of their breathing.

***

Above ground, the city carried on—its rhythm unchanged, its people unaware. Laughter echoed from taverns, merchants haggled over trinkets, and children chased each other through sunlit alleys. But beneath the cobblestones, in the tangled veins of the sewer system, something had begun to bleed.

Security patrols had increased. The newest recruits—barely out of training—were assigned the worst shift: sewer duty. Their orders were simple. Inspect the enchanted filtration pipes. Report any damage. Don’t ask questions.

“Smells like the nobles’ leftovers,” one muttered, kicking a sludge-covered rag.

Another yelped as a cold drop landed on his head, his lantern flickering wildly.

The others laughed. “Relax. The worst thing down here is stepping in some big shots' poop.”

They trudged forward, boots heavy with muck. The sewers served only the upper class—a twisted irony not lost on them. The rest of the city relied on wells and outhouses. Down here, the stink of privilege clung to every stone.

Then they heard it.

A sound — low, wet, and wrong.

“Draw your swords,” the self-appointed leader whispered, his voice cracking.

One lantern dimmed. The last cadet lingered behind to fix it, crouching near a rusted pipe. He spotted movement—a flash of fur. A cat, arched and trembling, stared at something deeper in the dark.

“There’s our monster,” the leader joked, kneeling beside it. “The Great Cat of the Sewers. Bards will sing of this day.”

Laughter broke the tension.

Then came the scream.

Sharp. Raw. Cut short.

“Monica…” a voice growled from the shadows. Thick with longing. Twisted with rage. “Not here…”

The cat bolted, terror in its eyes. The cadets froze.

“Hey—where’s Juno?” one whispered.

They crept forward. Around the bend, a lantern rolled into view, its glass smeared with blood. A few steps beyond, Juno’s body lay crumpled. Crushed. Unrecognizable.

“Run,” the leader whispered. “Run now.”

But it was too late.

From the darkness, dozens of orcs emerged. Towering. Brutal. Their breath steamed in the damp air, their eyes gleamed with hunger. A wall of tusks and muscle.

“By the gods…” someone breathed.

The Orc Lord stood among the carnage, sniffing the air. He slammed his club against the wall. Stone cracked. Water surged. Rats scattered.

“Not her…” he growled. “Not… Monica…”

His eyes—yellow, slitted, disturbingly intelligent—scanned the shadows. A predator denied its prey.

Then he roared. The sound shook the city’s foundations.

And from the far end of the tunnel, something stepped forward.

Not a man. Not a beast.

But a god.

The cadets dropped to their knees, their pleas dissolving into the damp air like mist. The figure before them didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

The evil god stood in silence, his form barely defined—more suggestion than substance. His eyes, if they could be called that, shimmered with a color that didn’t exist in the mortal spectrum. The sewer walls seemed to lean inward, drawn to him, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his breathless anticipation.

He watched.

Not with pity. Not with rage.

But with delight.

The orcs surged forward, tusks gleaming. Screams echoed, brief and brittle. Blood splashed across the stone, and still the god did not blink.

He was savoring it.

Each death was a note in a symphony only he could hear. Each crushed body, a brushstroke on a canvas of ruin. He tilted his head, as if admiring the composition. A smile—thin, ancient, and wrong—touched his lips.

One orc turned, confused by the silence behind him, and met the god’s gaze.

It was a mistake.

With a flick of his pinky, the god shattered the creature’s spine. The body collapsed like wet parchment, and the god sighed—pleased, indulgent, like a connoisseur tasting a rare vintage.

“The stage is set,” he whispered, his voice curling through the air like smoke. It didn’t echo. It lingered. It clung.

The sewer walls trembled. The pipes groaned. The city above, still laughing, still living, had no idea it was already part of the performance.

And the god?

He was patient.

Chaos was coming. And he would enjoy every second of it.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. I actually wrote so much that I was struggling on how to split it in half. It's always difficult trying to figure out how to top the next one. Please like and comment.