CHAPTER 71: SOUP BEFORE STERILITY

Finn’s stomach roared in front of the girls. Like, actually roared. It was the kind of embarrassing noise that sounded less like hunger and more like a dying demon trapped in his gut.

His face flushed red. He clutched his stomach and hunched over in shame, looking like a medieval orphan about to dramatically collapse in an alleyway.

To be fair, he had completely forgotten to eat or drink since arriving in this hellish fantasy world. Two days of running from wolves, arguing with a narcissistic goddess, and dodging perverts had distracted him from minor details—like basic human survival.

But now the hunger hit him like a divine punishment. His insides churned. He felt like he’d eaten ghost peppers on an empty stomach and was now facing karmic retribution.

He stumbled forward and clutched the counter. "Please... your cheapest meal... with a drink..." he croaked, like a dying peasant begging for scraps.

The receptionist’s expression shifted to concern. Chestelle looked like a worried puppy. Lickthorn looked like she was moaning for bedroom reasons and gave a creepy little head tilt.

Moments later, Finn was guided to a table near Majestria—who looked at him like he had just tracked mud across her white carpet. She didn’t say anything. Just raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and then returned to obsessively inspecting her nails.

The receptionist disappeared behind the bar (which Finn didn’t know they had until now, idiot), muttering to the kitchen staff—who, by the looks of them, were also the same drunk guys that poured beer last night for everyone. Multi-talented.

Eventually, she returned and slid a wooden bowl across the table. Soup. Or something like soup. It was vaguely beige, slightly lumpy, and emitted steam like a dying sauna.

A splintery wooden spoon thunked into the bowl beside a wooden cup of murky water.

Finn didn’t care.

He was already seated, hunched like a sad anime character. The receptionist sat across from him for some reason, like she was supervising an orphan. Chestelle plopped down beside him and smiled like this was all a big, exciting sleepover.

Lickthorn was nearby, hugging a wooden pillar and watching him eat like he was a fresh buffet item. It was unclear whether she was aroused or just weirdly hungry.

Majestria side-eyed the entire group from her own table. She didn’t even try to hide her judgment. She just clicked her tongue and kept filing her nails like this whole peasant soup scene was beneath her.

Finn raised the spoon with trembling hands and took the first bite.

It was terrible. But it was food.

He closed his eyes.

"...Oh my God," he whispered.

It was the best worst soup he’d ever tasted.

But Finn dug into the soup like a starved raccoon at a dumpster buffet. Like a stray child finally handed scraps after weeks of wandering the back alleys of a Dickensian nightmare.

He slurped it. Gulped it. There were no breaks. No breathing. Just pure, animalistic survival instincts. And when the bowl was empty—almost immediately—he snatched up the wooden cup and chugged the water like he was shotgunning a beer on frat night.

He let out a long, blissful sigh, eyes closed, body trembling like he had just found inner peace. It was spiritual.

And then—biological betrayal.

His stomach immediately clenched. The kind of regret that only comes from eating too much, too fast, on an empty gut.

"Damn you, biology..." Finn whispered, clutching his stomach as his mouth ballooned slightly with a hot wave of regret. He held it back. Barely. The warm liquid did the nasty reverse-slide back down his throat.

Disgusting.

"That has to be... the worst feeling... anyone can experience..." he muttered, utterly exhausted and spiritually broken.

The receptionist, still seated across from him, watched with a mix of concern and judgment. She eventually broke the silence.

"You need to pay."

Finn, who was hunched over like a man deep in a depressive spiral, blinked slowly and looked up.

"Right... how much?"

"Two bronze coins."

"Damn!" Finn flinched, like he’d just been stabbed. He still had no grasp of this world’s economy, but anything that involved parting with money felt like a scam to him. Maybe because he was broke. Maybe because he had Earth trauma. Probably both.

Especially all those times he was dead broke in college and had to survive on nothing but ramen.

Oddly enough, the whole ordeal gave him a weirdly satisfying sense of nostalgia.

Still chuckling bitterly to himself, he fished out the coins and slid them across the table. She scooped them up without a word.

Now he was left with just one bronze coin... and a silver.

’This sucks...’ Finn thought, staring blankly at the wooden grain of the table.

But at least his stomach was full. For now. No more soup-related near-death experiences.

Victory... sort of.

The receptionist tucked the coins away, then looked back at Finn.

"Where do I put the dishes?"

"I can take the dirty dishes for you."

They both froze. Spoken in perfect sync.

A beat passed.

’How neat,’ Finn thought, like they had just unlocked a hidden anime friendship bond. He almost expected the "Friendship +1" prompt to appear above her head.

He slid the bowl and cup across the table, and she took them with the grace of a tired waitress on her third double shift. Off she went, back to the bar.

Chestelle, meanwhile, was watching the entire exchange like it was the most captivating thing she’d ever witnessed. Her eyes sparkled with a childlike intensity. She either loved people-watching, or Finn. Or both. It was hard to tell. It was Chestelle. Probably watching Finn most likely.

Soon, the receptionist returned—again, for some reason. She really didn’t have to. Her job was very much done. But here she was, standing near the table like she gave a damn. Which was weird.

Finn, of course, paid zero attention to this. He had more pressing matters.

’Wait... what was I focused on before I got cockblocked by my own stomach?’ Finn squinted. Brain gears turning slowly.

"What was the thing you were going to mention before your stomach had the incident?" the receptionist asked, helpfully.

Finn snapped his fingers.

"My ball sacks!" he blurted proudly, like a man remembering he left his kid at the gas station.

The table went silent.

He blinked. Thought about what he just said. Then looked at everyone’s faces.

"...Okay, that came out wrong."

But it was too late.

The memory flooded back in. Like a bad dream.

Right. He was still infertile.

Still completely, undeniably sterile.

Still in possession of a fully-functioning disappointment factory.

Damn it.