Chương 47: Contradictions

The mysterious shadow finally decided to find her volume knob, but she clearly had it set to the lowest possible frequency. Her voice was a soft, trembling murmur that sounded like dry leaves skittering across a sidewalk, and she was stuttering with the kind of frantic energy that suggested she was currently having a one-on-one meeting with absolute terror.

"I... I just... I happened to overhear," she stammered, her words tripping over each other in a desperate race to leave her mouth.

"That you were... looking for... for another person to join your group..." I nearly jumped out of my mismatched boots, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.

"Good grief, kid! You appeared out of thin air!" I barked, clutching my chest and trying to remember how to breathe.

"I swear I was just looking at empty space a second ago. I didn't even notice you were there. Do you have a passive stealth skill or are you just naturally ghost-flavored?" The girl slowly tilted her head up, and the moment her face emerged from the darkness of her hair, a lightbulb went off in my brain. I recognized those wide, panicked eyes immediately.

This was the Japanese girl from the inn earlier this morning—the one I had accidentally collided with, only for her to bolt away like I was a literal plague-bearer and she was a very fast, very terrified rat. Right on cue, that bored, monotone robot lady chimed in inside my head to give me the statistical breakdown. [Subject designated as Player. Current progression: Level 2.] Unlike earlier, she wasn't sporting that plain, unassuming linen tunic that made her look like a background extra in a village scene.

No, she had undergone a total wardrobe overhaul, and the results were frankly baffling. I stood there, squinting at her new ensemble and trying to make sense of the visual whiplash. For a girl who looked like she'd apologize to a door for bumping into it, her armor was projecting an image of pure, unadulterated primal violence. It was a rugged, salt-cured mess of leather straps and jagged bone trophies that looked like it had been scavenged from the aftermath of a prehistoric bar fight.

She was draped in these thick, muddy-russet strips of hide that crisscrossed her chest, held together by a rusty iron ring that looked like it had seen better days and probably several different centuries. The most confusing part of the whole aesthetic, however, was the midriff situation. Despite the heavy bone circlet sitting on her brow and the thick, iron-bound boots that looked heavy enough to sink a boat, there was a glaring lack of coverage in the center.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Her belly button was just perfectly visible, completely exposed to the elements between the rough-cut leather of her harness and the low-slung, ravaged kilt-breeches at her hips. It was as if the armor designer had run out of materials halfway through the torso and just decided that protection for the vital organs was a secondary concern compared to showing off some skin.

For someone who seemed desperate to disappear into her own shadow, she was certainly wearing an outfit that shouted for everyone's undivided attention. The girl immediately started fiddling with her bangs, her fingers twitching with enough nervous energy to power a small village. She kept her gaze glued to her own iron bound boots, her face flushing a deep shade of red while she shrank into herself as if she were trying to occupy as little space as humanly possible.

"Could you... um... please don't look at me like that?" she stammered, her voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the noise of the plaza.

"It is just... it's really embarrassing." I felt the heat rush to my own face and I let out a sharp, awkward cough to try and clear the sudden cloud of social shame hanging over my head. I realized I'd been dissecting her gear with the intensity of a forensic investigator, and it definitely wasn't a great look for a first impression. I quickly jerked my gaze away, only to find myself staring directly into the icy, judgmental glare of June.

She was watching me with an expression that suggested she was currently deciding which level of hell to banish me to, her eyes radiating the distinct suspicion that I was some kind of absolute creep.

"My bad, my bad, I didn't mean anything by it," I said, raising my hands in a defensive gesture as I tried to regain some shred of my dignity.

"Anyway, yes, you heard us correctly. We are indeed on the hunt for a new recruit to round out our little group. But the thing is, we're currently in desperate need of a physical attack front liner. A warrior, to be precise. Someone who can stand in the middle of a fight and take the heat." The girl's face suddenly underwent a total transformation, lighting up with a flicker of hope that fought through her wall of shyness.

It was like someone had finally found the "on" switch for her confidence, even if it was just a tiny, low-voltage bulb.

"I actually am a physical front liner," she managed to say, her voice gaining a microscopic amount of traction despite the stutter.

"I... I am a member of the Berserker class." I stopped dead, blinking at her as my brain began to perform some high-speed mental gymnastics. I started scrolling through my internal encyclopedia of what a Berserker was supposed to look like, and the image I had was usually some seven-foot-tall wall of muscle who screamed at clouds and ate raw steak for fun.

The girl standing in front of me, who looked like she was currently losing a fight with her own social anxiety, did not exactly fit the "unfettered engine of mindless rage" job description. A laugh escaped me before I could even think to swallow it back down.

"I am so sorry, I must have completely misheard you," I said, leaning back and shaking my head at the sheer absurdity of it.

"For a second there, I thought you actually said you were a Berserker. That would be absolutely hilarious, right? I mean, that is just way too far out of character for someone as soft-spoken as you. Can you imagine? A shy Berserker? It is basically a contradiction in terms." She didn't join in on the joke. Instead, she just stood there, looking even more bashful as she fiddled with a strand of her black hair, her gaze drifting back toward her iron-capped toes.

"But... I really am," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the breeze.

"I truly am a Berserker." The laughter died in my throat as I realized she wasn't waiting for a punchline. I stared at her, then at the jagged bone circlet, then back at those wide, trembling eyes.

"Right," I muttered, the smile sliding right off my face as the reality of the situation set in.

"So I did hear it correctly the first time. You are the human equivalent of a tactical nuke wrapped in a shy blanket."