Chapter 8: Mediocrity

The cool air did little to clear the fog from Orin's mind as he stepped out of the inn. He wasn't sure where Adam and Sona had gone, only that they'd mentioned the market. He started walking, letting Orin's ingrained familiarity with the city guide his steps. The streets were narrow, cobblestoned, and already surprisingly busy. Merchants hawked wares from stalls overflowing with produce, pottery, and rough textiles. The smells of baking bread, livestock, and chamber pots mingled in the air. People bustled past – townsfolk in simple tunics, guards in worn leather, burly laborers, and the occasional cloaked figure that might be another adventurer. It was a far cry from Jo's world of asphalt and exhaust fumes, yet felt jarringly real through Orin's senses.

As he walked, weaving through the crowd, Orin focused inward, activating the system's skill. Status Window. He directed it at himself. Text materialized in his vision, superimposed over the bustling street scene:

Name: Orin

Level: 1

NTR Points (NP): 0

Companion Slot: 0/1

Quirk: [Cuckoldry]

--Attributes--

Strength: D

Agility: D

Endurance: D

Wisdom: D

Charisma: A

Talent: D

(Attribute Scale: E (Lowest) -> D -> C -> B -> A -> S (Highest))

Orin stared at the stats, a familiar wave of inadequacy washing over him – a feeling native to Orin, now fully shared by Jo. Utter mediocrity. D across the board, except for Charisma. He wasn't particularly strong, fast, tough, or smart. 'Talent' likely referred to aptitude or speed at witch his abilities improved upon training. He could wield a sword competently enough to survive, knew basic first aid, could read a map, and possessed ability to cast basic spells, but he excelled at nothing. He was the definition of average in a world that often demanded exceptional ability for survival.

His 'A' in Charisma was the outlier. It explained the handsome face, the smooth voice, the subtle magnetism He had perceived even before the merge. It allowed Orin to negotiate, to gather information, perhaps even to de-escalate situations... but it wouldn't stop a charging beast or deflect a killing curse. He was, essentially, a jack-of-all-trades, master of absolutely none, with a pretty face.

A pang of gratitude, sharp and clear from Orin's memories, surfaced. He truly owed his life to his party. Without them, he and Sona would never have survived their first year after leaving their small, insignificant village. Adam, with his straightforward strength and surprising protectiveness; Torvin, the group's brawe, front line, always ready to intervene at crutial moment; and Elara, the calm, steady healer whose timely interventions had saved all their skins more times than Orin could count. They had accepted him, sheltered him under their collective competence, never mocking his lack of specialization, valuing his presence for reasons that now felt disturbingly tied to that single high Charisma score. Were they friends? Orin couldnt tell.

And Adam… Orin's thoughts snagged on the warrior. The Adam in his memories was loud, sometimes crude, and easy to explode at any moment but fundamentally decent. He'd pulled Orin out of a collapsing tunnel once, shielded Sona from a spray of acidic slime, shared his rations without complaint when supplies ran low. He was the reliable shield, the unwavering frontline. How could that man be the same one who had treated Sona with such callous brutality the night before? The memory of Adam's foot shoving Sona off the bed – it didn't fit. Was the kindness a facade? Or was the cruelty an aberration?

Could the miasma affect people in different ways, perhaps bringing out hidden darkness under stress, even in someone like Adam? Or was Sona… complicit in a dynamic Orin hadn't understood? The confusion swirled, amplified by the lingering phantom sensations of last night's jealousy and arousal.

Lost in thought, Orin almost stumbled as the street opened into a large, sun-drenched square teeming with people – the main market. The noise level rose significantly: shouting vendors, haggling customers, bleating animals, the clang of a nearby blacksmith's hammer. And cutting through the general din, Orin heard familiar voices raised in anger.

"...told you, that price is outrageous! It's highway robbery!" That was Adam's booming voice, laced with indignation.

"We agreed on the price beforehand! Don't try to weasel out of it now, adventurer scum!" A nasally, unfamiliar voice retorted, sharp and grating.

"We agreed before we saw the shoddy craftsmanship! Half these rations is mouldy" Sona's voice, sharp and analytical, cutting through Adam's bluster. "This is unacceptable quality for the price you're demanding."

Orin scanned the crowded square, pushing past a cart loaded with cabbages. He spotted them near a stall piled high with weaponry and adventuring gear – quivers, bundles of arrows, whetstones, coils of rope.

Orin quickened his pace, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. He needed to intervene before Adam's temper got the better of him.