Unfortunately, I’m Not A Hero 24

Unfortunately, I’m Not A Hero 24

…

Commissioned by Shaderic

Wordcount: 2500

…

Suffering is relative. 

Wait.

Allow me to explain instead of just shooting out a line that’s just added for the sake of appearing smart. It’s impossible for one person to understand another person’s suffering completely. One person’s absolute worst moment can easily not compare to another’s. Worst moments are a matter of personal experience. Is it possible to convey how much you’re hurt to another human being? Totally, but even the most empathetic person who knows your entire life from start to finish will only understand about 80% of your suffering. 

Everyone has lived different lives, suffered different things, and react differently to everything. No one can perfectly understand another person, unless they’re an absolute copy of that other person… and even then, that copy will be changed by simply experiencing one, different thing from the original. 

Now the same rule applies perfectly to attraction. 

The reason why anyone likes anyone else to certain degrees is entirely up to that individual. Everyone has their own shit taste for their own stupid reasons. Someone can prefer one type of person over another because they’ve been burned by another stereotype. Every preference in regards to features has some intrinsic, habituated, and/or fucked-up reason for existing. 

For example, those who like Tsundere’s are introverted individuals who have been shunned by society and want someone loud, boisterous, and popular to protect them. Those who like Danderes are introverted individuals who have been shunned by society and want someone, calm, stoic, and popular to protect them. Individuals who prefer Yanderes are introverted individuals who have been shunned by society and want a crazy psycho to kill for them, kill them, and then kill themselves. 

For some reason or another, whether that be personal, societal, or cultural, everyone has a fucked-up favorite flavor that they can’t help but hopelessly pursue, if they have the chance to attain it. 

Thankfully, just like suffering, it’s possible to reach a certain percentage to convey the idea of attractiveness to another person. Just like pain, wounds, or broken bones, there’s certain aspects to attraction that can be inflicted in order to convey it and reach that wonderful 80% for the discerning, cultured individual, and score a few dozen points for the less open-minded. After having the foundation of simply being healthy, clean, and not an absolute freak, there’s all sorts of ways one can groom themselves in order to be more attractive.

Yep.

Since my ability to be the perfect house-husband has been crippled to cooking a few times a week by literal ninja maids, I’ve initiated my backup plan.

Becoming a trophy husband by becoming as attractive as I possibly could. 

I.E. by becoming as much as a normie as possible.

Fuck this place.

I hope it keels over and dies.

…

A twenty-something Japanese man stared back at me in the mirror. In all honesty, I haven’t looked at myself very often since I was abducted. Mirrors aren’t exactly supplied to frontline for slaves to use. Ur and her Amazons were supernaturally beautiful and groomed themselves using clear water, but I and most of the other of slaves oftentimes became raggedy pieces of shit. Naturally, I made sure that my entire division bathed and cleaned themselves, as well as took care of excrement properly, but beyond that there was no reason for us to make ourselves fashionable. 

So, after a few years of growing used to that, I naturally became someone inclined to being disheveled. The man in the mirror’s hair’s down to his shoulders. A wispy beard that’s barely worth mentioning is present. The scar on the right side of the face is pretty cool though, but it’s more a sign that her should remember to duck more than anything. Anyway, it’s all a shameful display for a potential corporate drone. My potential wage-slave taskmasters would surely take me aside to speak to me, if they saw my current state. 

Fighting a war for several years? 

That’s no excuse for looking like trash.

But that’s not why I was going to shave and have my hair cut.

My intentions are entirely selfish and centered around spite towards the woman trying to take control of my life, so my had has been forced, but I thankfully have more than a few cards up my sleeves. 

The Dwarves had enough time on their hands to do as I asked them. Not that what I asked for was anything special. It was only a razor and a pair of scissors. They went the extra mile after I threatened to find another cadre, so both would never go dull. 

However, while I could shave, the ability to cut my own hair was beyond me. 

From what I learned back in Roseanne’s capital, men were taken care of by their wives to the extent of being groomed and bathed by them. Cultured, soapland fantasies aside, I wasn’t interested in asking any of the dozens and dozens of monsters in the vicinity to cast any sort of magic on me. From what I knew about them and their magics, it’s likely that anything involving the body and magic with them would end with the targeted individual experiencing severe discomfort in the crotch area that can only be alleviated one way. 

Or, well, a minimum of three ways and possibly dozens more given the number of fetishes in this world, but that’s beside the point. Since all the monsters I had under my thumb are out, there’s only one person I could theoretically allow to be alone with me in the bathroom, as well as count on to cut my hair: Ur.

Unfortunately, out of everyone, my bodyguard has been getting along with Kurama the most.

Why?

How the hell would I know?

…

“You look much younger, Hachiman.” Ur admired her handiwork. The Amazons tended to one another and helped groom each other. A few soldiers of mine tried many times over to observe them while they did so. I let the living, breathing superhumans do what they wanted with them, since I had no use for idiots while I was fighting for my life. Anyway, she was more than capable of granting me a haircut resembling something close to what I used to have, before I was kidnapped. It was a bit raggedy, messy layered mop that kept bangs off my ears and was easy enough to clean. Good enough. “Almost like a boy again, if not for your eyes.”

Oh boy, dead-fish eyes jokes. 

How original. 

So original that I’ll actually ignore it.

“So, what do you think?” I stood up from the stool in front of the mirror after the last dousing of warm water to remove the last strands of hair. The person in the mirror was now Hikigaya Hachiman, albeit more scarred and with a few more pounds of muscle, due to a few years of war, starvation, and recent increase in nutrition. Nowhere close to the trophy-husbands kept by Roseanne’s court, with pedigrees centuries long for their looks and presumably equipment that make horses blushed, but as serviceable as I could theoretically get. “Can I shut up Kurama looking like this?”

Over the course of the last few weeks, I’ve not only lost my home, but quite a few of the jobs that I had. While I’d normally appreciate having less work to do, as well as more spare time, I didn’t want it, if it came with the caveat of a person taking over more and more of my life, so that she could monopolize as much of my time as possible. Every moment of free time that I had was due to her, or her servants, and she took advantage of those moments at every possible opportunity. 

Sure, I appreciated that progress on my delivery system, roads, and town spend up, but if I wasn’t careful, I’ll just find myself losing my edge. 

Therefore, a counterattack is necessary.

And, in this setting, that meant at least being able to press the buttons of the living fetishes that roamed around it. 

“You lost some of your rugged manliness, but replaced it with a coolness that many of the tribe adores. I can tell you with ease that those who would only have you for your potential children would now happily lay with you.” On the surface, the answer wasn’t for what I asked. However, when it came to Ur, I knew better than to assume. Amazons are “regular” human women, so if the few who weren’t attracted to me before would be now…  “Your new looks should be effective against the Kindred; however, you should be aware that fact is a double-edged sword.”

“Seriously? You’d think I’d forget about that? Just because I’ve lived with them for a while doesn’t mean that I’ll forget that they’re literal creatures out to fuck or be fucked.” I reached out and Ur handed me my clothes. A Drider set up a tailor shop a few days ago, hoping to curry favor with Kurama, so I’d taken the chance to improve my wardrobe. Tempted as I was to follow in the footsteps of a certain, reincarnated salaryman, I’d simply gone for a suit hardy enough for the battlefield. Admittedly, all it was missing was a tight, high collar and a few pockets to emulate a certain, infamous uniform, but that’s beside the point. It’s a bespoke suit made of Drider silk. Black on white with a visored hat. With my former master’s coat, the outfit does its duty of making me look less like a disheveled, homeless man. Now, I look somewhat like the general I’m supposed to be. “Besides, if someone tries to take me by force, you’ll be there to take care of them, right? So, this is a win.”

Ur followed, as I left the bath. Thankfully, the ninja-maids were no longer wearing bikinis and expectantly looking at me to let six of them in with me to help me bathe. Honestly, while Kurama was a pain, the maids were the absolute worst. I go out of my way to treat them only like employees, treating them according to how they work, and everyday they seemingly wear less and less. They’re practically waltzing around in fishnets now, while their haphazard kimono-esque uniforms have devolved into strips of black fabric and white lace… which they still wore in the perfectly traditional manner of kimonos. 

If Kurama is a boss battle, the maids are passive, attritional mobs that are wearing down on me. They’re always cleaning, maintaining, or decorating somewhere in the corner of my vision in the lewdest possible manner. 

If my current state of being can catch them off guard, maybe force them to blink a few times so that I could escape? 

It’d be Hachiman-san’s complete victory. 

Still I couldn’t seek out the sharp-eared, blue-skinned fetish catastrophes out just yet.

Not until I bring this entire scheme into maximum overdrive. 

The foundation of my entire plan is that I’m appealing to the Kindred using Otome Game logic, by fighting trash with more trash. Given my lack of acting ability, I can only have my appearance fit my character. Since I’m very aware of the fact that I’m not the Prince Charming stereotype, the Shota, or even the Cool Genius, the best that I could do is be the Villain. 

Now, while modern day Otome games have the Villain be replaced by near-inconsequential Villainesses, non-trash Otome games used to have Bad Ends. Mistakes in your path and routes will have the MC end up captured, and forced to marry a slimy politician, evil general, or despicable prime minister. Even if that’s now an official path, since the more fetishes packed into a game the batter for sales, it was still something worth pursuing now. Since my househusband path has been cut off, I’ll simply be one of the three archetypes order to capture my source of income more thoroughly, instead of being corned by her in turn.

In a way, I’m already a bad ending for everyone close too me, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to manage. 

First, though, I needed my required, treacherous glasses of doom. 

…

Honestly, I should have had to foresight to see the current situation coming. 

“Hachiman, it appears your looks are more effective on monsters than we both expected.” Ur waved a hand in front of Henri. After barging into her workshop for my requested item, the initial curse and glare had died upon the Lich’s lips, as I’d walked in as I normally did. For full disclosure, I’d considered using things like cologne, or even trinkets purported to entice Kindred. Given the extent of my preparations, as well as the character I was going for, a rotten bastard that’s the villain of an Otome game would definitely have trinkets like that in order to further his plans. “She has become so enticed by your appearance that she’s become paralyzed.”

“Bwuah. But how…you…gah…what is going on!?” Henri managed to shake off whatever was overriding her senses the moment Ur spoke. Given the fact that I threatened her into becoming my employee, and have her remaining subjects at my mercy, I’d thought my appearance wouldn’t be enough to faze her. Nope. Apparently, having an groomed, average young man in front of you is enough to forget those two, crucial things conclusively. Woman. I literally have you worked for me under the pain your death and those of your subjects. Can you please remember than, stop drooling, and look at me like a person instead of a piece of meat? My pure, innocent soul is withering away bit by bit because of your stare. Kyaa. “You… you’re attractive!”

“I appreciate the compliment. Now give me what I asked you to make.” Huh, wow. Attraction really makes people idiots, huh? With that single order, I didn’t receive any scathing insults. Instead my pale-skinned, flasher of a Lich simply kept looking at me while handing me what I asked for. They were simple, wire-frame spectacles with lenses that could see in the dark. The caveat of that little charm was that the lenses lit up when they were activated. That wasn’t a problem for me given the archetype I was going for. “Good job. Now, close your mouth and stop drooling over your legs. You’re an embarrassment.” 

Those words should have knocked Henri out of her fetish-induced, instinctual stupor. 

Again, though, I underestimated just how fucking thirsty Kindred are. 

“Haahn.” A soul-freezing gasp left Henri’s lips, while her pale, blue cheeks developed a darker, purplish tint. Her eyes developed an eerie, pinkish glow and a sickly, sweet scent began to fill the room. Dozens of implements of magic in the room began to rattle and quake. More than a few bottles began to float towards a cauldron that suddenly had a fire come alight beneath it. The heart-shaped, pink smoke wisps that began to come forth from the cauldron were not a good sign. “H-Hachiman…”

Yep.

“Ur, it’s time to use the secret technique.”

“You mean pick you up and run away?”

“Yep. Right now. Pick me up and run. Now.” 

“Good grief.”

And, with that I fled after acquiring the last piece of my arsenal. 

An arsenal that might get me killed many times over in the metaphorical sense, but still an arsenal.

It’s better than nothing.