Chapter 6: Exhasperation

Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but like sluggish oil spreading through cold water. Jo wasn't an observer anymore. He was. He felt the rough texture of the thin blanket beneath his fingertips, the dull ache in his temples, the lingering stickiness cooling against the skin of his thighs inside his trousers. He was lying on the narrow cot in Orin's room, the grey light of dawn painting faint stripes across the wooden floor through the shutter cracks. The cool morning air felt heavy, stale.

Before his eyes fully focused, shimmering text bloomed again in his vision, stark against the dim room:

[Warning: Synchronization Failure at 46%.

Forced Halt Initiated Due to Emotional Feedback Overload.

Emergency Protocol: Consciousness Merge Complete.

Host Control Granted.

System Entering Safty Mode State.]

The letters faded, leaving behind a throbbing emptiness and a profound sense of violation. Merge complete. He wasn't Jo anymore, trapped inside Orin. He wasn't Orin, blissfully unaware of his passenger. He was… both. A horrifying chimera of consciousness, Jo's original self now inextricably tangled with Orin's memories, feelings, instincts. He could remember Jo's sad little grocery run, the screech of tires, the oblivion. And simultaneously, he could remember years of training with a sword, the sting of cold mountain air, the faces of Adam and Sona flickering through childhood memories, the thrill of delving into dark, forgotten places… and the sickening, burning mix of jealousy and arousal from the night before.

He had control. He flexed his fingers – his fingers now – feeling the pull of tendons, the faint calluses Orin had earned. He could sit up, walk, speak with Orin's smooth voice. He could storm over to Sona's room, or Adam's, demand… demand what? 

Yet, Jo-Orin didn't move. He lay there, staring blankly at the rough wooden ceiling, pinned down by a weight heavier than any exhaustion he'd ever known. Several reasons held him captive:

First, the sheer, bone-deep weariness. The forced merge, the emotional overload, Orin's involuntary climax – it had all taken a tremendous toll. His body felt drained, heavy, unresponsive. His mind felt fractured, reeling from the influx of another lifetime's worth of experiences crashing into his own mundane existence.

Second, and far more significant, was the staggering sense of cosmic absurdity. Truck-kun hadn't just sent him to another world; it had performed the ultimate cosmic prank. He was trapped in the body of a beautiful, skilled adventurer, living out a fantasy trope, only to discover this body, this life, was intrinsically bound to a specific, degrading form of suffering. The world, or whatever entity governed this ridiculous system, seemed to be laughing at him. It wasn't just NTR; it was NTR hardwired into his very being by forces beyond his comprehension.

And that led to the third, most paralysing reason: the dawning, horrifying understanding gleaned from Orin's integrated memories. This world operated on familiar fantasy logic – swords, magic simmering beneath the surface (though Orin himself seemed to possess little aptitude for it), ancient ruins brimming with danger and treasure, monstrous creatures, even whispers of demons in the darker corners of history. Adventurers like Orin's party braved these dangers, primarily the 'dungeons' – remnants of forgotten civilizations or magical calamities – seeking power, artifacts, and wealth.

But delving came at a cost beyond mere physical danger. The dungeons were saturated with something called 'miasma' – a subtle, corrupting energy left behind by powerful magic or deceased entities. Prolonged exposure, especially during moments of intense stress or near-death experiences (which Orin's memories confirmed he'd had), inevitably warped adventurers. It didn't always manifest physically; often, it twisted the mind, amplified personality flaws, or ingrained strange compulsions, bizarre 'quirks'.

And Orin… Orin hadn't escaped unscathed. Jo-Orin could now access the fragmented memories, the lingering feelings, that confirmed the horrifying truth. Exposure to a particularly potent miasma during a disastrous delve years ago hadn't given Orin enhanced strength or magical sight. No, it had latched onto some latent insecurity, some hidden vulnerability, and twisted it. It had corrupted his desires, planting the seeds of a specific, potent fetish: [cuckoldry]. The sight of Sona with Adam hadn't just invoked simple jealousy; it had resonated with that deep-seated, miasma-induced corruption, creating that toxic, confusing cocktail of outrage and intense arousal. The voyeurism, the degradation, the possessiveness warped into a desire to witness the betrayal – it was all part of the quirk. Orin's 'curse'. His curse, now.

Orin closed his eyes, a long, slow breath escaping his lips – a sigh that carried the weight of two lifetimes' worth of frustration and despair. He was in a fantasy world, yes, but it felt less like an adventure and more like a personalized hell, tailored to exploit a specific, deeply uncomfortable form of psychological torment inherited from a man he barely knew, yet now was. What was he supposed to do? How could he live like this, knowing that part of him, a chemically, magically ingrained part, desired the very thing that caused his original self such profound anguish?

The faint sounds of the inn stirring to life began to filter through the door – distant footsteps, muffled voices. 

Orin looked and the last sentance

[Do you want to launch a system?] Orin had a very bad feeling about it... but still pressed [Yes]