The hero dashed through the castle gates as night fell.


    The stench of the city hit him like a wall—but he didn’t stop.


    He ran straight toward the Adventurer’s Guild and barged in through the doors.


    Everyone turned to look.


    Embarrassed, he quickly made his way to the reception counter.


    The cat-eared girl was there.


    But one of her eyes was swollen and bruised.


    The hero wanted to ask what had happened…


    But he bit his tongue and pulled out the pouch of goblin ears, handing it over silently.


    The girl opened the pouch, peered inside, and calmly asked,


    “May I have your quest form?”


    He quickly handed her the crumpled paper from his pocket.


    Without a word, she took both and disappeared into the back.


    He already knew about the metal collar around her neck.


    But now… shackles were around her ankles too.


    Like some beast, chained and kept here.


    “…Well, I guess she is part beast,” he muttered to himself.


    The girl returned a moment later.


    “For completing the quest, His Majesty King Xeus rewards you with 2 iron coins and 10 bronze. Rejoice.”


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    Even as she said it, her voice lacked any emotion.


    She placed the money on the counter.


    The hero quietly picked up the coins.


    Then, almost on impulse, he reached into his bag and handed her a sandwich.


    She froze, eyes widening, before quickly snatching it away and hiding it.


    “What are you, stupid!?” she snapped.


    The hero flinched. He hadn’t meant any harm. Just… kindness.


    But her glare was as if she''d cast a curse on him.


    Without saying another word, he turned and left the guild.


    ---


    “So... what now?”


    He thought to himself.


    He had a little money now. Just enough for two things:


    1. Find an inn and sleep in a proper bed


    2. Get a potion—or something—to slow the curse


    That was all. Simple.


    He began walking.


    But each step felt like a blade stabbing into his chest.


    As he pushed forward, the pain grew worse—like a sword, then a spear, impaling him deeper and deeper.


    Eventually, he had to stop.


    He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.


    When he opened them again…


    He heard it.


    A scream.


    ---


    It came from the alley to his right.


    Clutching his chest, the hero stumbled toward it.


    He saw two men harassing a woman.


    She was well-dressed.


    The men looked like vagrants—armed only with broken glass.


    “…Maybe I’ll get rewarded if I save her.”


    He drew his sword and approached.


    The men ran the moment they saw him.


    The woman collapsed to the ground.


    The hero offered his hand.


    She took it, rising shakily to her feet.


    Blonde hair, blue eyes—a beauty that seemed like a noblewoman from a storybook.


    But then—


    Pain exploded in his chest.


    He coughed violently, blood spraying from his mouth—onto her fine clothes.


    Her face twisted in disgust.


    She recoiled, picking up the things she’d dropped.


    Bottles.


    Familiar bottles.


    They looked exactly like the ones the priest had given him before.


    ---


    “…If I take them…”


    The idea crept in, dark and cold.


    He moved. Slowly. Silently.


    And pressed his blade to her neck.


    But she turned suddenly—and accidentally sliced her own throat.


    Blood sprayed.


    She fell, choking on her own screams.


    Reaching for him with a trembling hand.


    The hero staggered back, wide-eyed, sword falling from his hand.


    He clutched his head. Slammed his fists against his skull.


    Over and over.


    Begging his brain to forget.


    ---


    Then, he ran.


    Grabbed her bag and fled.


    He ran until he reached the edge of the city and collapsed.


    Gasping for air.


    Dying.


    With shaking hands, he opened the bag.


    Grabbed a bottle and drank—


    Then immediately spat it out.


    “…This isn’t a potion…”


    It was perfume.


    He gagged. Pulled out a juice box from his pack and drained it to wash the taste out.


    The bottles all had ridiculous names:


    Chamomile Blade


    Drown in Roses


    Love to Death


    Useless. Fake.


    The bag contained nothing but money and a woman’s belongings.


    He slumped against the ground, chest burning with pain.


    “…I’m done.”


    He held one of the perfume bottles—Love to Death.


    Brought it to his nose, and closed his eyes.


    But before death could take him…


    A massive silhouette blocked out the stars above.


    He had no time to react—


    A heavy blow struck his head.


    And the world went black.