Deep in downtown Less Angelless, rain poured like the city was trying to wash itself clean and failing. Neon lights bled across wet concrete. Sirens echoed somewhere far away, or maybe very close. It was hard to tell here.
A mysterious man walked through a narrow, shabby alley, his long coat dragging slightly through shallow puddles. The hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face. Only his jawline and a hint of stubble were visible when lightning briefly flashed.
He passed a homeless demon squatting beside a trash pile, rummaging through garbage bags with professional focus.
The demon looked up, sniffed, then went back to digging. No greetings. No questions. In LA, that counted as politeness.
The man stopped in front of an unmarked steel door at the end of the alley.
He knocked.
Three fast knocks.
Two slow knocks.
The peephole slid open with a sharp metallic click. Behind it, a single pair of orange-glowing eyes stared out from the darkness.
“It’s me…” the mysterious man said quietly.
The peephole slid shut.
A moment passed.
Then the door unlocked with a series of heavy clunks.
The man stepped inside.
Not long after, the mysterious man sat in a dim, armory-like room. Weapons lined the walls—swords, shields, battered armor pieces, all stacked and stored with careless familiarity rather than reverence.
This wasn’t a museum. This was inventory.
The man removed his coat and hood, revealing a broad-shouldered human with old scars mapped across his arms and torso. He wrapped bandages around his hands, slow and methodical, pulling tight until the cloth creaked.
A weasel demon approached him, its narrow face twitching with restrained excitement.
“They’re here, Brock,” the weasel said.
“…Right on time,” Brock replied without looking up.
“Kukuku…” The weasel’s eyes narrowed, gleaming. “They always are. Did you bring it with you?”
Brock paused.
Then he reached into his coat and slowly revealed a hidden broadsword, the blade wide, heavy, and unmistakably lethal.
“Kuahahaha…” The weasel clamped a hand over his mouth, barely holding the laugh in. “With this, you’ll have no problem slaying them.”
“…I never have problems slaying,” Brock said, his glare is sharp.
“Relax, relax,” the weasel raised both hands quickly. “No need for tension.”
He turned and peeked through the door.
“They’re enjoying their dinner now,” the weasel said, voice low and pleased. “Let’s give them… an unforgettable dessert. Kukuku.”
Not long after, inside a lavish restaurant hall, elegant demons sat around large tables, enjoying their meals. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over fine cutlery and expensive-looking plates.
Laughter filled the room.
Then the doors slammed shut.
Every exit sealed at once.
The lights cut out.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Only one spotlight remained—focused entirely on a massive cake being wheeled in by staff.
A giant cake.
Tall. Wide. Decorated to an almost unreasonable degree.
Every demon’s attention locked onto it.
Then—
A sword burst out from inside the cake.
SCREEECH.
More gasps.
The cake exploded outward as a muscular human tore his way free.
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Brock.
He stood atop the ruined dessert, broadsword in hand. His armor consisted of a helmet, shoulder guards, and tight leather pants. His upper body was completely bare, smeared in cake cream and frosting.
He raised his sword high.
“HAHAHAHA! GET READY TO BE SLAYED, DEMONS!” Brock roared.
Silence.
Then—
“KYAAAAA~!”
“He’s hee~re!”
“Oh slay me, Adventurer Brock! Slay me!”
Every guest—every single one of them female demons—screamed in hysterical excitement.
“ARE YOU READY, LADIIIIES!” The weasel’s voice suddenly boomed through the hall speakers.
“GET READY TO BE SLAYED! BY BROCK! THE S-E-X-Y-RANK ADVENTUREEEER!”
Sexy, naughty jazz music flooded the room.
The screaming intensified.
Brock exhaled.
Then he started dancing.
Slow. Deliberate. Sensual.
He spun the broadsword with practiced ease, muscles flexing as frosting slid down his skin. His expression was confident. His smile radiant. He looked every bit the legendary adventurer.
Inside, he was screaming.
What am I doing here… oh Dad… please forgive your son.
And as the music played, his mind slipped backward—
---
Several Months Ago
Dawn City
On the outskirts of Dawn City, in front of a simple stone house, Brock stood with a large rucksack strapped tightly to his back. The bag bulged with supplies, weapons, and the kind of optimism that only existed right before reality intervened.
Behind him, a Ravendawn public carriage waited patiently, its horses snorted. The driver leaned against the side, pretending not to watch.
“Well, Dad,” Brock said, standing tall, chest out. “I’m leaving now.”
In front of him stood his father.
A former adventurer. Broad, solid, a little bigger than Brock himself. A long scar cut across his face, the kind earned the hard way and never talked about unless asked.
“Oh, my son,” Brock’s father said.
He stepped forward and pulled Brock into a tight hug.
“You really make me proud,” his father said. “Traveling the world… that’s what a true adventurer should do.”
He released the hug and patted Brock’s shoulder firmly.
“Sigh… how time flies,” his father said. “You know, I used to be an adventurer like you. Then I took an arrow to the knee.”
“Then I took an arrow to the knee,” Brock said at the exact same time, smiling.
“Heh.” His father smiled back. “I guess I don’t have anything left to teach you, do I?”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Brock said confidently. “I’ll become an S-rank adventurer one day. And when I come back, you’ll be shocked by how many enemies I’ve slain.”
“I know you will, son,” his father said with an earnest smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Moments later, Brock was already riding in the moving carriage. He leaned out slightly, waving back at his father with a sad, determined face.
His father waved back.
The carriage rolled on, carrying the moment with it.
The driver sniffed.
“You know,” the old driver said, wiping at his eye, “I’ve seen many farewells in my work. But it never stops being sentimental.”
He dabbed a single tear away.
“I’ll drive slowly until we reach the port,” the driver said gently. “So you can carve your hometown into your heart.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Brock said flatly. His fake sad expression vanished instantly.
“Eh?” The driver blinked.
“Drive to the airport,” Brock said. “And make it fast.”
“Huh? Not the port?” the driver asked.
“Fufufu,” Brock chuckled. “My dad’s too old to understand the world’s already changed.”
He leaned back, arms crossed.
“Money isn’t made by crawling through old, dirty dungeons anymore. The future is in Murica.”
“Adventuring is ending,” Brock declared. “The future is digital.”
He pointed dramatically at nothing in particular.
“I’ll prove that my dance is more powerful than any sword when it comes to making money!”
“And I’ll make tons of money in Hellywood! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
His menacing laughter echoed down the road. Several pedestrians flinched.
---
Present
Less Angelless, Dungeon Strip Club
“Kyaaa! I’m being slayed~!” a chubby demon lady squealed, face burning red.
Directly in front of her was Brock’s ass.
It wiggled with professional precision as Brock delivered a lap dance, his broadsword planted against the stage like a pole—less a weapon, more a structural support for poor life decisions.
“OOOHOHOHOHO!” the weasel announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers.
“Brock has slain a demon once again!”
Cheers erupted.
“He may be sexy!” the MC declared.
Brock flexed his arm muscles, veins popping, sweat and stage lights doing most of the work.
“He may be delicious looking! Makes you want to eat him!”
A demon woman leaned forward and licked cake cream off Brock’s abs.
“But beware of his great sword!”
Brock twirled his broadsword playfully, using it to tease the audience with exaggerated restraint.
“And beware…” the MC continued.
Brock suddenly dropped the broadsword.
CLANG.
The music cut.
The MC paused.
The audience leaned forward. Hearts pounded. Breath held.
“OF HIS SECRET MAGIC SWORD!!!”
Brock ripped off his tight leather pants in one smooth motion, revealing a golden-colored speedo. Something bulged confidently inside it, absolutely convinced of its own importance.
“KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”
The demon women screamed in pure, unfiltered joy.
Money flew through the air. Bills were waved. Some were already being tucked straight into Brock’s speedo with expert aim.
“GYAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!” Once again. Brock laughed triumphantly—loud, booming, victorious. All on the outside
---
Moments Later
A Bar Nearby
“GYUUUHUHUHUHU…” While on the inside, Brock sobbed pathetically.
He slammed an empty mug onto the bar.
“Bartender! Give me more!” he demanded, already drunk.
The bartender—an old incubus with tired eyes and infinite patience—slid another cold mug of beer across the counter.
Brock grabbed it and chugged.
“Aaaaah…” He exhaled.
“Hm,” the bartender said calmly. “Another successful show at work tonight, Brock?”
“Hic…” Brock sniffed. “I came to Murica dreaming of being famous doing hip hop! Interpretive dance! Hell, I’d even accept ballet!”
He gulped more beer.
“Not some random strip dance! Boohoohoho…” Brock wailed. “Those Murica’s Got Talent shows are all a big scam!”
“Yeah, yeah,” the bartender said. “That show was never about talent. You don’t get airtime unless you’ve got a tragic illness, a sad childhood, or a very marketable backstory.”
“HOW DID I LOSE TO A DOG THAT ‘SORT OF DANCES’!?” Brock cried.
“Now, now,” the bartender said, sliding over another mug. “Here. Drink.”
Brock slumped forward, pressing his face against the bar.
“My dad was right…” he muttered. “I should never have stopped adventuring…”
Then his eyes drifted to the TV mounted in the corner of the bar.
A Faux News broadcast flashed a headline: Murica’s First Adventurer’s Guild
“…There’s an adventurer’s guild now in Murica?” Brock said slowly.
“Oh yeah,” the bartender replied. “They just opened one. It’s in LA too.”
He scoffed.
“Wonder what kind of adventuring you can even do in Murica.”
On the screen, a reporter interviewed an Adventurer Guild official in front of a brand-new building. The sound was drowned out by music and chatter in the bar.
But Brock didn’t need to hear it.
Something clicked in his mind.
Oh no.
I post in the wrong place...
Adventuring in Murica: A Building World Peace Story
seen through the totally unimportant Liberty Fang adventurer party, who somehow moved the Misfits party from the chart.
- One human vanguard swordsman from chapter 30 whose real talent is dancing
- One lamia enchantress from chapter 31 who spends more time enchanting people on social media than in combat
- One retired necromancer experiencing a mild-to-severe mid-life crisis
- And one former Celes Church priest who enjoys Murican worldly desires far too much
who is definitely not stressed at all about the guild building rent being almost due.
It is only for Patreon.
there is nothing I can do now.