[System comment: You're even below Peasant-rank on the magic scale.]
[Recommendation from CUCKMASTER 101: Focus on filling your belly first. Heroics can wait.]
He took the system's recommendation to mind and pressed his memory—back to when he first arrived in this village.
Back then, it had been a far more difficult journey. A struggle, because he had no knowledge of where he was or what he should do.
But now?
He knew.
He knew what to do—and who had helped him in his previous life. And so, this time, he'd help them.
He thundered toward a small tavern at the edge of the village, run by a middle-aged woman and her daughter.
"I'll make sure to repay the debt I owed last time!"
As he reached the gates of the tavern, he paused and observed.
The gate and overall outer appearance of the tavern were... less than impressive.
People didn't come here for a fine meal—they came for a cheap one. No matter how good the food was, most adventurers who passed through this part of the country were here to hunt monsters. They judged taverns by their looks, and this one didn't have much going for it.
So only those who had actually tasted the food, or those with little coin to spare, came here to eat.
Inside, behind a small counter, stood a young lady. Probably in her twenties.Clare looked at her—and something twisted inside him. A flicker of memory. Faint traces of tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't let it show.
"Hello, young lady. Is the tavern up to hire some workers? Or helping hands?"
The young woman turned to face him. Her eyes glimmered for a moment—but upon hearing his request, her expression dropped. Head down first, then lifted again—this time, laced with sadness.
"Actually, we'd really like to," she said softly. "But business has been really bad until now. We're actually thinking of closing within a week."
As I guessed.My benefactors were struggling at this point in time.
Last time Clare came to this world, this family—the Blagzers—was doing very poorly. Eventually, they ran out of business and had to close the shop.
Clare thought about whether he could—or rather, whether he should—help them in any shape or form.Back then, when he arrived bloodied and broken, somehow clawing his way forward tooth and nail, they were the first to even look at his misery. The first to help him.
He wanted to repay the favor.And so, he made a vow—a promise of sorts.To protect them.To care for them.
"Closing? You don't have to," Clare said, his eyes shining with purpose. "Since I'm here now."
The young lady sitting behind the counter—Aimy Blagzer—didn't understand him one bit.
"What're you saying?" she asked, puzzled, briefly wondering if he was some madman. She regretted her earlier judgment already.
But then, Clare leaned in and said—
"How 'bout this, lil' lady—I'll work for this tavern for a whole week. If business runs smoothly and makes it big, I get to keep half the profit. And if it doesn't, you don't owe me a single coin. I'll just pack my bags and go—" he glanced behind himself, chuckling, "though there are none. I'll just leave. What do you say?"
Aimy stared at him, clearly puzzled.Too bold. Too risky.She suspected there had to be some ulterior motive behind it all.
But instead, she simply reached out her hand.
"Aimy. Just call me Aimy."
Clare extended his open hand, wrapping it around hers in a firm shake.
"Clare. Just Clare."
"Nice to meet you, Clare," Aimy said, withdrawing her hand after a moment.
"So… what will you do now?" she asked, crossing her arms."You only have a week to get the business going. But, well… it's not like you'll lose anything, will you?"
"You'll be lodging here, eating food, getting care for a whole week—and then leaving.But listen carefully—if you don't work, I'll personally make it hard for you."There was no anger or cruelty in her voice.Only weariness.Disappointment.
She'd seen enough people pretend to help, only to take advantage when she and her mother were at their lowest.
But she wouldn't let that happen again.
Clare raised his palms before his chest, defensively, with a crooked grin.
"I won't. I won't."
Aimy watched him for a moment, hesitant. Then she sighed.
"Okay, okay. I get it. So… what do you want first? Food? Or a bath?"She looked him over, surveying the man-boy thoroughly."You smell… a lot. Like you've been through the dark jungles."She wrinkled her nose."I'd suggest you take a bath first. Just so you don't creep out any potential customers."She added, almost under her breath,"If there are any."
Clare gave himself a once-over—wrinkling his nose slightly.He leaned down, sniffed his shirt, and winced.
"I'd like a bath first, please."
Aimy gave him a lingering look, eyeing him head to toe.
"Stay here while I call Mother," she said, her voice flat with warning."And don't try anything funny."
"I won't."
With a sharp side glance, Aimy turned and disappeared through the back door of the tavern—vanishing into the dim corridor like she'd slipped into shadow.
Clare stood still, letting the silence stretch.
Same old wooden planks.Same creaking chairs and crooked tables.The same emptiness he'd last seen.
Everything—the same as before.The only thing different now… was him.
He wasn't the bloodied, ragged boy lying in the street, reeking of iron and fear.Not anymore.
Now, he stood on his own two feet.Calm. Composed. Calculating.
He belonged here now.
As he scanned the room, footsteps approached.
Clare turned—and there she was.
Not old. Mature. Mid-thirties, maybe. And walking like she owned the room.
She stepped out from the dark corridor Aimy had vanished into—barefoot, her hips swaying with a rhythm that made Clare's chest tighten.
Her bust was enormous, barely restrained by a strained apron that clung to her curves like it was gasping for mercy. A plain bra struggled beneath it, her soft flesh spilling slightly out to the sides as she walked—each step sending a teasing, rhythmic bounce through her chest.
Beads of sweat glistened on her skin, trailing from her collarbone and sliding deep into the valley of her breasts—disappearing into the shadow between those heaving, sloppy continents.
She wasn't dressed for customers. Not really.
Just her apron, tied tightly at the waist, and a pair of simple unders.It wasn't indecent by village standards, but nothing about her was innocent.
Her hips were wide—fertile, he thought, as shame flashed through him.And her ass… gods. Her ass commanded attention.
It jiggled like ripe temptation with every motion—not soft, not fat, but tight.Trained.Powerful.A sculpted, muscular swell that defied gravity.The kind of ass that moved with purpose.
Her thighs were thick, honed like she'd spent years carrying barrels or fighting wolves—hefty calves below, smooth and dense. She radiated strength and heat.
The air around her was different. Heavy. Warm. Earthy.She didn't look tired despite the sweat—she looked charged. Alive.
Clare didn't blink.Couldn't.
His chest rose with a slow inhale. Something in him stirred hard and hot.
She was more beautiful than he remembered.
And she hadn't even said a word yet.
Behind her, Aimy followed—her presence just as captivating in her own way.
Her ass was too big to go unnoticed, snug and pronounced under her fitted pants. But unlike her mother's ripe, bouncing fullness, Aimy's rear was still. Firm. Taut.It didn't jiggle with motion—it resisted motion.As if carved in challenge.As if daring the world: Make me move.
Her bust was full—not on her mother's level, no, but still hefty.Larger than any girl Clare had seen outside the screen.
There was no mistaking the difference.
Jessia—Aimy's mother—stood a step ahead, and yet she somehow towered.Clare was tall, but she made him feel smaller. Maybe it was the way her broad chest dominated the space around her, her soft, heavy curves pressing against the apron with barely contained power.
Those plump peaks—barely restrained beneath thin fabric—heaved with each breath she took.Soft peaks… but commanding.
Jessia was sweating, yes—but not weakened by it.Beads of sweat trickled from her temples, down the slope of her neck, vanishing beneath the faint, shadowed cleavage of a woman who owned herself.
She didn't look tired.
She looked alive.
Radiant.
Stronger and more desirable than he'd ever seen her before.
A tear welled in Clare's eye, but he held it back.He stood firm.Still.Watching her.
He extended his hand slowly.
"Hello."
Jessia paused.
Her eyes flicked to his hand. She unclenched her own, wiping it casually across the side of her apron—slowly. Almost subconsciously. Her palm dragged along the fabric that clung to her hips, brushing sweat aside as her arm moved.
Clare smiled.He remembered that gesture.She'd done the same thing before…But when? He couldn't place it. The memory was foggy—but the feeling wasn't.
He looked at her again.
Not with desire alone.
But with calmness.With comfort.
With something deeper.
"Hello, Clare," she said at last, stepping closer, her voice warm and honeyed."Aimy told me about you. That you were looking for a job… even though we couldn't offer one. Still, you're staying to help us. I'm grateful."
She reached forward and took his hand.
Her grip was warm.A little rough.Callused.Lived-in.
But somehow, more intimate than anything he'd felt before.
Clare's breath slowed.
She wasn't just a woman.
She was Jessia—full of strength, motherly depth, raw beauty, and earthy sensuality.
Her hand lingered on his just a little too long before she gently released it.Still, she looked into his eyes with a soft expression—something between curiosity… and familiarity.
Jessia looked at the warmth in his eyes—a quiet depth, a sense of familiarity.And in that moment, something gentle filled her chest.Warmth.
"You're a warm one, ain't you?" she murmured, turning slightly, gesturing for him to follow her toward the back of the tavern.
"Mom, will you be fine?" Aimy asked hesitantly, voice low.There was fear in her eyes. Or perhaps… a faint thread of unease.
"Don't worry, Aimy," Jessia replied with a soft smile."He's a good one."And just like that, she passed through the gate, Clare walking at her side.
"I still worry, Mother…" Aimy mumbled under her breath, her eyes lingering a moment longer.
—