Reincarnated as a Princess's Pet: With Trash Stats, but SSS-Rank Skill

A few hours later, the door to Uncle Moe’s Tavern burst open.

Max came out first, dragging Dorian by one arm with the expression of someone experiencing absolute existential exhaustion.

Chloe held the elf’s other arm, helping keep him at least minimally upright.

Dorian was completely obliterated by alcohol.

His legs barely seemed to remember how they were supposed to function.

"I am..." he mumbled in a slurred voice.

He dramatically raised one finger toward the black market’s night sky.

"...a misunderstood man."

He tripped over himself.

Max caught him before he could faceplant directly into the ground.

"Yes, yes, very profound," he grumbled.

He kept dragging him toward the side of the street.

"Thanks for helping me get him out," he told Chloe between heavy breaths.

"He nearly started a fight with an orc inside."

Chloe let out a small laugh.

"I had no idea what was happening," she admitted.

She looked at Dorian wobbling between them.

"I just saw him start pointing at an orc couple sitting at a table."

She blinked.

"And then everything became aggressive."

Max rubbed his forehead.

"Because this idiot decided complimenting the orc’s girlfriend was a brilliant idea."

Chloe took a second to process that.

"...Oh."

She looked back at Dorian.

"Yes, that does sound like an excellent way to get yourself killed."

Dorian smiled like he had just received a compliment.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Then he leaned toward Chloe with complete drunken seriousness.

"She had beautiful eyes."

Max closed his eyes for a few seconds.

"I cannot believe we survived an entire criminal base just to die because of your aesthetic standards."

Eventually, they managed to prop Dorian against a nearby wall.

The elf immediately slid down until he was sitting on the ground.

He looked fairly satisfied with himself.

Max rested both hands on his knees and took a deep breath.

He didn’t look much better.

His face was slightly pale.

His eyes glassy.

"I think..." he muttered slowly.

He placed a hand on his stomach.

"...I feel like I’m going to throw up."

Chloe looked at him with a mix of sympathy and practical concern.

"That’s weird," she commented.

She crossed her arms.

"You drank like two swigs from the same beer jug I drank from."

She looked at her own hands.

"You’re like this, and I feel absolutely nothing."

Then she pointed at Max.

"But please don’t throw up near me."

Max weakly raised a hand.

"No promises."

Chloe sighed.

"I envy you a little," she admitted.

Max slowly turned his head toward her.

"Envy what, exactly?"

Chloe made a frustrated gesture.

"Alcohol."

She frowned.

"I don’t understand why it doesn’t affect me."

Max processed that with drunken slowness.

Then nodded as if he had just discovered a universal mystery.

"Ah."

He vaguely pointed at her.

"Your skill."

Chloe blinked.

"My skill?"

Max nodded again.

"Yes."

He held his stomach.

"Your ability also blocks the effects of things you consume."

He paused briefly to avoid dying.

"Poison. Sleeping drugs. Stuff like that."

He looked at her.

"Probably alcohol too."

Chloe fell silent for a few seconds.

Slowly processing that devastating revelation.

"...Does that mean...?"

Max nodded with almost solemn regret.

"You’re never going to be able to get drunk."

Chloe’s eyes widened.

As if she had just received the worst news of the entire night.

"Then..." she murmured.

She lowered her gaze slightly.

"...my drinking nights are over."

Her voice sounded genuinely sad.

Max gave her a clumsy little pat on the shoulder.

"I’m so sorry," he said dramatically.

"I know this is hard."

Chloe sighed deeply.

"This truly is a curse."

The tavern door opened again behind them.

Both of them turned slightly.

And were greeted by a fairly surreal sight.

Neros stepped out carrying Seraphine over one shoulder.

Literally as if he were transporting extremely elegant luggage.

The mage was completely drunk. Her cheeks slightly flushed. Her hair somewhat messy. And she was giggling for absolutely no reason.

"Heh..." she let out between laughs.

She gave Neros a few clumsy little pats on the back.

"I missed..."

She adjusted herself slightly on top of him.

"...being carried like this."

Neros nearly tripped.

His face turned a dangerously similar shade to an emotionally compromised tomato.

Max watched the scene with scientific interest.

"Oh, now this is good," he muttered.

Chloe nodded.

"Much more entertaining than alcohol."

Neros completely ignored both comments.

With carefully rigid movements, he lowered Seraphine off his shoulder and held her with both hands.

He adjusted her in front of him.

Then smoothed out part of her clothes with surprising gentleness.

"Be careful," he murmured.

Seraphine tried to stand upright.

She managed it for approximately half a second.

Then wobbled forward.

And fell directly against Neros’s chest.

The cat-man reacted just in time, catching her before she hit the ground.

His arms wrapped around her waist almost on instinct.

"Are you alright?" he asked quickly.

Far too quickly.

Again.

Seraphine lifted her head slightly from his chest.

She looked at him with slightly glassy eyes and a small drunken smile.

"Now I am," she replied.

Max had to physically hold back a laugh.

Chloe made no such effort whatsoever.

She burst into open laughter.

"This is incredible," she commented.

Neros looked like he was on the verge of emotional collapse.

"She is intoxicated," he said stiffly.

As if that explained absolutely everything.

Max nodded with fake solemnity.

"Of course."

He looked at Chloe.

"It is clearly only the alcohol talking."

Seraphine hugged Neros a little tighter.

"Very comfortable," she murmured against his chest.

Neros ceased processing reality correctly.

Max coughed a little.

"We cannot spend the night lying around in the street."

He vaguely gestured around them.

"The plan should be leaving the black market and finding somewhere to—"

He froze mid-sentence.

His expression changed instantly.

Chloe recognised it immediately.

"Oh no."

Max sharply turned toward the side of the alley.

And threw up.

Dorian, still sitting on the ground, gave him a thumbs-up.

"Very professional," he murmured.

Max raised a hand without turning around.

"Don’t talk."

Then bent over again.

Chloe slowly observed the entire scene in front of her.

The surroundings.

The damp black market street.

The slave shop burning in the distance, still releasing smoke.

Max physically destroyed while vomiting against a wall.

Dorian slowly passing out on the ground from alcohol poisoning by personality.

Neros completely flustered while trying to hold his drunk ex-wife, who was very clearly enjoying the situation far too much.

Seraphine laughing against the cat-man’s chest as if responsibilities simply did not exist.

And her.

Standing in the middle of all of that.

Still wearing a borrowed cloak.

Recently rescued from slave traffickers.

Chloe blinked several times.

Looked up at the black market’s dark sky.

Then looked back at the group.

"...I can’t believe you people rescued me," she finally said.

Her tone was a mixture of genuine disbelief and a mild existential crisis.

Max wiped his mouth with a sleeve and slowly straightened up.

Still slightly pale.

"Yes," he replied tiredly.

"We don’t fully understand it either."

Dorian raised a hand from the ground as if he wanted to say something.

And then immediately tipped over onto his side, completely asleep.

Chloe watched that happen.

She sighed.

Then smiled faintly.

"...I suppose I could’ve ended up with a worse group," she murmured.

Neros was still holding Seraphine, clearly far too emotionally occupied to participate in the conversation.

Max took a deep breath.

"Alright," he said with what little functional leadership remained.

He pointed vaguely at the entire group.

"We need to move before one of us dies for an incredibly stupid reason."

He looked at Dorian lying unconscious on the ground.

"...Again."

Chloe nodded.

"That sounds like an excellent plan."

And so, beneath the distant smoke of the fire, with a group both physically and emotionally destroyed, they slowly began making their way through the streets of the black market.