CHAPTER 72: FANTASY MAPS AND EMOTIONAL SLAPS

Finn sat at the table like a man who’d shouted something he thought would be funny—only to be met with pure, deafening silence.

And now... he marinated in that silence.

Embarrassment. Shame. Regret. All slathered over him like cold gravy.

"Right..." the receptionist muttered awkwardly, not even trying to hide her secondhand discomfort.

Chestelle, in her eternal lack of boundaries, began gently caressing his thigh like she was comforting a traumatized war vet.

Finn moved her hand away out of discomfort.

Lickthorn looked heartbroken—though not out of empathy. Probably just something sick and deeply wrong bubbling up inside her like usual.

Even Majestria... pitying him?

Now that was a jump scare.

"You still need to meet the Incubus Midwife," she said flatly. "Only way to get the potion."

Every time Finn heard that cursed phrase, something inside him shriveled up and whimpered. He physically winced like she’d just slammed a car door on his future children.

All of this could’ve been avoided. All of it.

If only he’d listened to Majestria. If only he hadn’t tried to take her heed of warning and not get close to it.

But no. No, he had to touch it. Had to attack it. Had to say, "Haha, what’s the worst that could happen?"

And now here he was. Infertile. Emotionally broken. Living proof that poor life choices come with a laugh track.

’It’s like trying to forget those weird corners of the internet,’ Finn thought bitterly. ’And then life goes, "Hey, remember these guys?" and slaps you with a link.’

He sighed heavily. "So... where exactly is this..." He could barely say it. "Incub—Inc—In-cub-s midw—" He gagged on the syllables like they were poison.

The receptionist watched him struggle with a look of solemn concern. Like she was watching a child try to pronounce "spaghetti" after getting hit by a truck.

"Yes, um..." she said gently, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her pointed elven ear for no clear reason.

Finn had no idea why. He wasn’t complaining.

"It’s in the forest you’ve already been to..."

"The Whispering Forest?" he asked.

"The Moaning Forest?" Chestelle offered cheerfully.

Finn side-eyed her.

"The trees would moan in my ear," she added matter-of-factly.

Finn clamped a hand over her mouth. "Let’s not have you talk for a bit."

She didn’t resist. She actually looked satisfied, which was somehow worse.

"Alright then," the receptionist stood and straightened her blouse. "Follow me. I’ll show you where you need to go to find the house of... the Midwife."

Finn wanted to throw up again.

The receptionist led Finn past a couple of wooden tables toward a large board pinned to the wall—right next to the mission board where adventurers picked their quests.

But this one was different. This one had a massive, detailed map on it.

She gestured toward it.

It looked exactly how you’d expect a fantasy map to look: aged parchment, exaggerated features, ominous names, probably stolen straight from Evil Souls VI: Moistbound Requiem.

Dead center was Moistvile—name proudly stamped over the warped, mildew-stained town like it was something worth bragging about. Surrounding it on nearly every side was an enormous swamp, the kind of boggy expanse that made Finn’s stomach drop.

He hadn’t realized just how massive the swamp really was.

It swallowed a third of the map, like someone spilled green paint and said, "Yeah, that’s lore."

To the south was the forest he and Majestria had crash-landed in during their grand (read: horrific) arrival into this world. It wasn’t labeled, but Finn recognized the trees. PTSD flashbacks confirmed it. Also from the direction they came told him the case.

To the east was the Whispering Forest, marked by weird, twisty script and a tiny skull icon—which made sense, given it was where they delivered Beard Man and somehow came back with two extra freaks in their party.

And to the west... some raggedy hills. Or maybe small mountains. Hard to tell. They weren’t tall on the map, and hopefully not tall in person.

’Might be some caves there,’ Finn mused. ’Could go mining. Sell some ores. Make some money. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.’

A brief fantasy played in his head: him, shirtless, swinging a pickaxe, making coin like a respectable, muscular dwarf-man. Maybe with some dramatic violin music.

Then reality hit.

’Wait... what if there’s nothing there? What if it’s just mossy rocks and raccoon skeletons?’

Or worse... a slime cave.

Finn physically shuddered. That thought alone could ruin his week.

Finally, to the north of Moistvile was another forest. This one had a winding path leading through it, almost inviting. Maybe even leading out of this cursed place.

Now that caught his attention.

If there was even a chance that path led to civilization—or literally anywhere that didn’t smell like swamp ass—Finn was interested.

Still, staring at the map raised one big question in his mind.

How the hell did this place get so bad?

Like who looked at this swamp-ridden death bowl and said, "Yes. This is where I shall build society."

Probably someone named Moistopher.

Given how ridiculous some of the names were in this world—from "Moistvile" to "Incubus Midwife"—Finn wasn’t exactly surprised anymore. Just emotionally damaged.

The receptionist pointed to a small branching path on the upper north side of the Whispering Forest.

"Like how you took that route to deliver the box there," she explained, "there’s another trail you can follow that leads straight to the Incubus’s house. Just hand them the card I wrote for you."

"Great..." Finn muttered under his breath.

Despite the sarcastic delivery, he was genuinely thankful. Really. She had been incredibly helpful—way more than she had to be. He had no idea what the hell he was doing in this world, but somehow, he was still alive and marginally functioning. Mostly by the grace of others. Mostly by dumb luck.

The receptionist let out a small sigh. She looked exhausted. Probably was exhausted. She’d gone above and beyond to help him, and for what? No reward. No commission. Not even a tip.

She had no reason to care. No reason to—

Then she untied her hair.

It fell in soft waves down to the nape of her neck, catching the lantern light just enough to make her look like she belonged on a poster for some romcom where the guy gets hit by a scooter and finds love in a bakery.

Finn’s heart stuttered.

Pretty...

He thought dumbly.

She ran her hands through her brown hair like she was adjusting it—probably just fixing it. Finn didn’t know. He didn’t know how women worked. They were like emotional Rubik’s Cubes.

"Much better," she said softly, turning to look at him. "I hope I was able to help you out to the best of my abilities."

Finn froze. He had no idea what to say.

She was just... so pretty.

Too pretty for Moistvile.

Too pretty for this world.

Too pretty for him.

Prettier than Majestria in his eyes.

She tilted her head, clearly confused by his silence.

It felt like one of those moments where you lock eyes with a hot barista but never work up the courage to say anything, and then boom—she’s gone forever and you’re still thinking about it six years later while eating gas station sushi.

Then something seemed to click in her head, like she thought Finn was waiting to know something personal about her.

He was. Just... probably not what she thought.

"Oh!" she said suddenly, smiling wide. "I can’t believe I never told you—after helping you out this much!"

She tucked a loose strand behind her elf ear.

"My name is..."