Arthur scratched at his messy hair. Since he'd ended up in this world, his hair had grown down to his shoulders, and it was a tangled, greasy disaster. He couldn't afford a barber, and he was terrified of trying to DIY it and ending up looking like a botch job. So, he just let it grow.
I really need a trim, he thought. And a life.
He checked his gear: his blade had more notches than a saw, his gambeson was held together by vibes and prayer, and those goblin bites were starting to itch in a way that screamed "infection." He touched the scab on his right cheek—it had healed, but the skin around it was a nasty shade of bruised purple.
Goblin poison is no joke.
He was also broke. Like, completel-destitute broke.
The "Dream Team" failure didn't just cost him the reward; it put him in the red. Between medical bills and gear repairs, he was cleaned out. That "Anti-Toxic Ointment" cost him two silver coins—a total rip-off from the Alchemist Guild.
"Ten copper coins worth of ingredients for two silver? Fucking scammers," Arthur muttered, blinking back tears of pure financial frustration. He felt his coin purse. Seven copper. It made a pathetic little clink.
His face wasn't doing great either. Years of sun, dirt, and getting punched in the face meant his own mother wouldn't recognize him. He looked at his reflection in a water basin—a jagged scar ran from his brow to his jaw like a dead centipede.
Sigh.
The breakfast at the inn was the usual mystery sludge. Bland, salty, and featuring "vegetables" that were definitely just weeds from the backyard. The owner of the motel always looked like he was one bad day away from a breakdown, and you could taste that bitterness in the soup.
But hey, humans are adaptable. Arthur held his breath and downed the stuff. It was rough, but it was calories. Compared to his first week in this world—begging on the streets and eating moldy bread from trash cans—this was five-star dining.
After "breakfast," he went to the well in the back, grabbed his homemade brush, and scrubbed his teeth with coarse salt. In a world without modern medicine, a cavity is basically a death sentence. Dental implants? Only for the 1%. He'd seen an old adventurer die from a tooth infection once. Not a pretty way to go.
Ptu!
He spat out the salty grime and wiped his mouth. The morning square was already humming—carts rattling over cobblestones, vendors shouting, the smell of horse crap and cheap spices heavy in the air.
This place was basically a medieval Skid Row. The only perk was the public bathhouse, but even that was five copper. That's two whole loaves of black bread. Priorities.
He pushed through the double doors of the Adventurer's Guild.
"..."
The room went quiet for a second. He could feel the eyes on his back—the judging stares at his busted armor and fresh scars. Then came the whispering.
"Did you hear? The 'Dream Team'..."
"Pfft, three days? New record."
"I heard they got wiped by a bunch of level 1 goblins..."
Arthur kept his jaw tight and marched to the counter. There was a line, of course. He stood behind a dwarf who was complaining about quest payouts. Arthur just stared at his boots. His left boot was literally coming apart at the seams.
When it was his turn, the receptionist didn't even look up. She was busy marking up some parchment with a quill. She was pretty, with blonde hair falling over her shoulder, but her vibe was "corporate ice queen."
"Any Tier 3 jobs?" Arthur asked, his voice cracking slightly.
The quill stopped.
She looked up. Her blue eyes were cold. "Mr. Arthur," she said, her voice smooth as silk and sharp as a razor. "Good morning. How lovely to see you… alive."
Arthur's throat felt tight.
"About the Tier 3 quests." She set the quill down and laced her fingers together—the universal sign for "you're in trouble." "I read your report. 'The Dream Team.' Very ambitious name. Pity about the reality, isn't it?"
"It was an accident…"
"Accident," she repeated, with a fake little smile. "Yes. One 'accident' led to a goblin nest being triggered. Another 'accident' led to the total loss of the client's ore. And because of these 'accidents,' the mission difficulty spiked, and we had to send in 'The Iron Hammers' to clean up your mess. They just got back this morning with a two-gold-coin bonus. Which, by the way, was supposed to be yours."
Every word felt like a slap. Arthur stared at the wood grain of the counter, his nails digging into his palms.
"My supervisor had a chat with me this morning," she continued, leaning in closer. "He said some people need 'Alchemist's Eye-drops'—you know, the expensive kind that helps you see things for what they really are. Because giving high-value missions to someone who consistently flops? That's bad for the Guild's brand."
Arthur's face burned. He wanted to scream that the mage was a psycho, that he did his best, but all that came out was a muffled: "...Sorry."
"Apologies don't pay the bills, Arthur." She leaned back and picked up her quill. "You still want Tier 3?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, none available." She didn't even check the book. "Your completion rate is… well, it's trash. No party will take you, and doing a Tier 3 solo? You'd be dead in an hour."
Arthur felt his stomach drop. He tried to force a pathetic, people-pleasing smile. "What about Tier 2? I can lead some rookies, I've got experience…"
"No Tier 2 either." She was already looking past him at the next person in line. "Go hit the hunting zones and pray for a lucky drop. Next!"
Arthur stood there for a beat, then turned around, his legs feeling like lead. He walked to the shabbiest table in the corner and sat down. The stool groaned under his weight.
He was about to get demoted. He knew it.
If he dropped back to Tier 2, he'd be the laughingstock of the city. No real squad would ever touch him. He'd be stuck doing grunt work or hauling crates at the docks until he eventually died in some nameless ditch.
He wanted a drink. A huge mug of ale to forget this whole life. But he had seven copper. That wouldn't even buy him the foam.
He was finished.
What was he supposed to do? Go hunt giant frogs in the swamp solo? One wrong move and you're blinded by acid for a twenty-copper skin. Or herb-gathering in the forest? Kobolds love picking off solo adventurers there.
The "Dream Team" dream was dead and buried.
Arthur buried his face in his hands, his forehead resting on the rough table. He missed home. Not "home" in this world—but home. Toilets that actually flushed. Convenience stores. High-speed internet. His mom's cooking.
The first few months after he got isekai'd were a literal hellscape. He didn't speak the language, he had no money, and he was basically a stray dog being kicked by guards. He'd worked so hard to become an adventurer, to get those callouses and scars, just to end up here.
If I'd known it would be like this, I should've just found a sturdy tree and a rope the day I got here, he thought.
"What now…" he whispered into his palms. "Pick flowers? Catch spiders? Maybe… maybe the priest can lend me some cash?"
Just as he was spiraling into total self-pity, a sweet, hushed voice drifted over from the side.
"Hey."
Arthur's head snapped up.