Chapter 14: Running Away While Not Wetting Yourself

Protag-kun knew it was better to surrender. A weak, unblessed 'protagonist' couldn't fight a god's twisted game and win. But the moment he stumbled into the town square, a strange Otaku spirit ignited within him. He took a deep breath, preparing to do something incredibly stupid.

It was a vast, open expanse, usually bustling with market stalls and laughing children, but now a perilous stage for destruction. Crates lay overturned, goods scattered, and the air was thick with dust and the stench of burning wood.

A dozen or so orcs created a chaotic tableau of green-skinned brutes. Hulking figures with axes and clubs smashed anything they could find, reveling in the wanton destruction, while smaller, leaner scouts darted between the wreckage, their eyes scanning for any sign of resistance.

“Great. Just great,” Protag-kun thought, surveying the wide-open space. “No cover. No corners. This is exactly why a weak, unblessed, supposed 'protagonist' dies in the first act."

He glanced down. Cinnamon twitched in his cloak, beady eyes alert. The hamster’s tiny nose wriggled once, then stilled. Even he knew what was coming.

A glint caught his eye: the reflective metal of the old well’s bucket in the center of the square. That old thing? A death trap waiting to happen, but not for me. Maybe… just maybe.

He spotted two of the leaner, more agitated orc scouts sniffing at a pile of overturned vegetables. Taking a deep breath, Protag-kun channeled every ounce of his ingrained, cowardly, yet surprisingly effective self-preservation. He dropped his pants just a little, slapped his backside with a loud smack, and wiggled it with theatrical flair.

“Hey, ugly! Over here!” he shrieked, making sure his voice carried, pitching it to maximum annoyance. “Come and get it, pork-face! Bet you can’t catch the legendary Protag-kun!”

The scouts, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the insult and the sight, let out enraged snarls. Their heads snapped toward him, yellow eyes narrowing into slits of pure fury. They weren’t just angry; they looked personally offended, as if he’d insulted their entire ancestral lineage of butt-wiggling.

“GRRRRAAAAGH!” one bellowed, dropping its search and charging, followed closely by its companion.

Bingo! Primitive creatures, easily baited by crude humor and personal attacks. Just like online forums, Protag-kun thought, already sprinting. He didn't run in a straight line, though. Instead, he wove between the debris, leading them on a merry, zigzagging chase.

As they gained on him, he risked a glance back, holding out a hand. A small, surprisingly potent fireball, crackling with heat, shot from his palm and splattered harmlessly on the cobblestones just in front of the lead orc’s feet. It roared, momentarily startled by the unexpected magic.

“Hot stuff, eh?!” Protag-kun yelled, laughing maniacally, purely for the effect. “Careful, wouldn’t want to burn your… uh… tusks! I heard those are sensitive!”

He launched another, then another, not aiming to hit, but to guide. The fireballs were small, but enough to make the scouts think twice about barreling straight through them. Mana expenditure negligible, psychological impact high. Efficiency!

He kept glancing back, timing his taunts and fireballs. “Too slow! Is that all you got, green boy? You run like your grandma… if your grandma was an out-of-shape goblin!”

He was deliberately creating a spectacle, ensuring their focus remained solely on him. "Keep the aggro on the tank, as they say," Protag-kun thought, "Except I’m not a tank. I’m more like… the aggro-generating distraction mob.” His path led them, little by little, towards the well.

The metal bucket, now catching the light of the distant fires, shone like a beacon. Protag-kun feigned a stumble right next to it, catching himself at the last second. The two enraged scouts, seeing their chance, pounded after him. They were close. So very close. He could almost feel their hot, fetid breath on his neck.

Almost there. This was where the real plan began. He knew this town like the back of his hand, and he knew just the kind of trouble these overgrown green men could get into.

Protag-kun veered sharply, his last fireball sputtering out as he rounded a crumbling fountain. Just ahead, a terrified crowd of villagers huddled near the grand entrance of the town hall, their faces pale with fear, whispers of prayers mingling with the distant sounds of destruction.

“Look out below, meat shields!” Protag-kun shrieked, sprinting directly towards them. He didn’t slow, weaving through the frozen cluster of bodies like water through a sieve. An old woman shrieked, pointing at the charging brutes. A baker’s apprentice yelped, and a merchant gasped.

“Sorry, not sorry! It’s for your own good, eventually!”

The two orc scouts, utterly focused on their human quarry, plowed directly into the panicked throng. The crowd erupted into a chorus of panicked screams, scattering in all directions, a human pinball machine for the enraged orcs. Protag-kun risked a glance back, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. “Sorry, folks. Desperate times. At least you’re moving now. Think of it as… forced cardio.”

He didn’t use them as a literal shield. But he used their sheer, terrified mass to his advantage. The orcs, momentarily tangled in the scattering villagers, lost precious seconds. And in those seconds, Protag-kun was already halfway across the square, making a hard cut towards the side of City Hall.

His target: the narrow alley that separated the grand, stone edifice of City Hall from the more modest, brick-faced public library. It was less an alley and more a forgotten crevice, barely wide enough for a heavily laden cart, let alone two charging orcs side-by-side.

"My kingdom for a single-file line," Protag-kun thought, pumping his legs. "Finally, some tactical advantage. They haven’t patched this bug yet, apparently." He burst into the alley, the sudden coolness and damp air a welcome change. Behind him, he heard the thudding footsteps and enraged snarls as his pursuers disentangled themselves from the scattering villagers.

“Alright, greenies! Follow the leader!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder. He saw their massive shoulders scraping against the stone walls as they were forced to funnel into the tight space, one behind the other.

“Squeeze in, boys! Only one way through this bottleneck! Hope you didn’t eat too many noble leftovers!”

The brute force of their charge was now negated, their numbers an inconvenience rather than an advantage.

Protag-kun didn't slow. He knew this alley. He cut hard to the left, angling towards a rickety old fire escape that clung precariously to the side of City Hall, its rusted metal steps leading up towards the roof. He reached for the lowest rung, fingers scraping, and began to scramble.

Then—a jolt. A massive, green hand shot out from below, snatching at his ankle. The grip was iron, searing pain shooting up his leg.

“HEY! NO TOUCHING THE PROTAGONIST!” he yelped, kicking wildly.

And then—Cinnamon.

A blur of fur launched from his shoulder, a squeaky missile of righteous fury. The hamster landed squarely on the orc’s face, claws scrabbling, teeth bared. The orc roared, more in disgust than pain, flailing as Cinnamon clung like a fuzzy curse.

"CINNAMON!" Protag-kun cried, his heart lurching. "My little friend! I have to help him! But… The bell. Priorities, Protag-kun! Stick to the script!"

He kicked out, managing to dislodge the orc’s grip for a split second, and used the momentum to haul himself onto the first landing of the fire escape. He glanced up, his gaze fixing on the dark, gaping opening of the clock tower high above. Inside, he knew, hung the city’s massive, bronze bell. The pulley creaked ominously as the rope snaked into the mechanism above, looking like it had survived three centuries and zero maintenance.

The fire escape groaned beneath him, each rung a gamble. Rust flaked into his palms, and the metal trembled with every frantic pull. His ankle throbbed from the orc’s grip, but adrenaline dulled the pain. He climbed anyway.

Below, the alley was chaos. The orcs had forced their way in, snarling and shoving, their bulk scraping against the stone walls. Cinnamon had landed with a soft thud, but was already scrambling up the wall, claws clicking against the brick like a tiny metronome of fury.

He staggered to his feet, coughing, and looked up.

There it was. The bell.

He glanced out the window. The rooftops were a patchwork of flame and shadow. Then—movement. A flare. Crimson, streaking across the sky like a signal flare from a desperate RPG party.

That was it. Mei and Miyu had done their part. Now it was his turn.

He drew the dire wolf blade. It wasn’t elegant, but it was sharp enough. He reached up, stretching, and began to saw at the rope. Fibers snapped one by one, each cut a countdown. Dust rained down. The pulley groaned louder.

"Come on, come on! Just like cutting a difficult fishing line," sweated Protag-kun.

Below, the alley echoed with snarls. More orcs had arrived, drawn by the noise, their roars bouncing off the stone like war drums. The bottleneck was full. The trap was set.

Protag-kun timed his action with desperate precision, the dire wolf blade severing the final, stubborn strand of rope. "And… done! Enjoy the show, fellas!"

The thick rope, now severed, recoiled upwards with a violent snap, disappearing into the mechanism above.

With a groan that sounded like the tower itself was dying, the massive bronze bell tore free.

It didn’t just fall—it collapsed. The frayed rope snapped upward with a violent recoil, vanishing into the pulley system as the bell dropped like a divine hammer. The ancient wooden beams, already weakened by centuries of neglect and Protag-kun’s frantic climb, gave way instantly.

The bell plummeted through the floor with a deafening, metallic KAA-WHOOOM!, the impact vibrating through the stone and through Protag-kun’s very bones.

Wood splintered. Chains snapped. The entire pulley system followed, a cascade of rusted iron and rotted timber crashing downward like a mechanical avalanche.

Then came the second impact. The bell struck the decorative stone balcony that stretched across the alley’s entrance. A crucial support beam shattered under the weight, and the entire structure gave way with a thunderous CRUMMMMBLE!

Stone, mortar, and centuries of architectural pride collapsed in a choking cloud of dust.

Protag-kun staggered back, coughing, eyes watering. The tower swayed slightly, groaning in protest. He dropped to one knee, heart hammering, ears ringing. A shaky grin tugged at his lips.

“Phase two complete,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Cinnamon, still sporting a smear of green across his fur, scampered up his pants and perched triumphantly on his shoulder. He chittered once, sharp and proud.

He patted his head. “Good job, Cinnamon. Another successful raid. Who needs a party healer when you’ve got superior tactics and a bell the size of a carriage?”

He leaned against the crumbling wall, letting the adrenaline drain. His limbs trembled. His breath came in short, uneven bursts. But he was alive. They were safe. For now.

“Maybe I’m not totally useless after all,” he muttered. “Take that, Khaos. This NEET just outsmarted your beefy green goons.”

The dust began to settle. Protag-kun froze, his grin fading. A single thud, not from the rubble, broke the new silence. The sound was off—not victorious, not safe. He turned, peering through a grime-smeared window. Below, his victory felt like ash in his mouth. His eyes scanned the rooftops, the alleys, the chaos below. Flames flickered and shadows danced, but his gaze was fixed on a figure across the rooftops.

A figure slammed against the side of a building with brutal force, crumpling like a rag doll against the stone.

His breath caught.

It was Mei.

Her usual grace was gone. She staggered, limbs trembling, blood streaking her sleeve. She tried to stand, collapsed, then pushed herself up again with raw, desperate effort.

“Mei!” he shouted, but the wind swallowed his voice.

She looked up. Their eyes met across the rooftops—hers wide with panic, his frozen with horror. She didn’t speak. She pointed.

Not at him. At something behind her. Protag-kun’s gaze followed her trembling hand. And saw it.

An orc. Massive. Hulking. Its skin glowed with a sickly green aura, pulsing like a heartbeat. In one clawed hand, it held a thurible—an incense bowl, glowing faintly red, its smoke curling into the air like poison.

In the other hand—Miyu.

Limp. Unmoving. Her vibrant clothes torn, her ribbon dangling. Her head lolled against the orc’s grip like a broken doll.

“No,” Protag-kun whispered. “No, no, no…”

Mei’s voice reached him—not loud, but a frantic whisper that echoed in his mind.

“I… I’m sorry,” she rasped, her voice choked with a desperate fear. Her eyes flicked to the thurible, and she managed to get out one more word, a breathless warning: “The smoke…”

Protag-kun’s blood turned to ice. The orc wasn’t just big. It was wrong. The air around it shimmered, warped. The red misty smoke from the bowl pulsed in rhythm with its movements. And the other orcs nearby—he could see it now—their muscles tensed with each inhale, their eyes burned brighter.

The orc wasn’t just big. It was wrong. The air around it shimmered, warped. The red misty smoke from the bowl pulsed in rhythm with its movements. And the other orcs nearby—he could see it now—their muscles tensed with each inhale, their eyes burned brighter.

His victory felt like ash in his mouth. The bell, the trap, the clever maneuvering—it hadn’t been enough. Not even close.

This was Khaos’s gift to make an even more entertaining game.

He clenched the dire wolf blade, his knuckles white. The chase wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

Author's Note: We are reaching the final two chapters. How am I going to finish this in two chapters?