When the Serial Killer Next Door Gained Harem System

As soon as I pushed open the Guildhouse doors, every eye in the room snapped to me.

Muddied boots, blood-streaked tunic, face smeared with dirt and drying crimson—I had to look like something dragged out of a battlefield grave. The polished wooden floorboards creaked under my weight; I could practically feel the annoyance radiating from the woman behind the counter as flecks of mud trailed behind me.

I walked straight to her, set the five Niakrandra blossoms on the counter with a soft thud, then planted both palms flat on the wood and let my forehead drop forward. Hunching like that eased the ache in my ribs a little. Man, I was done. All I wanted was a bed to end this wretched day.

"Ace," I muttered, voice rough. "Here to complete a quest."

Silence stretched. My eyes stayed closed, breath coming in slow, ragged pulls. Then shuffling paper, a soft exhale.

"I can’t accept these flowers."

I snapped upright. "What?"

"Look at them." She pointed without touching. "I just can’t."

Yeah... they were a mess. Mud clung to the stems, petals bruised and damp from the run through smoke and undergrowth. Three were crumpled, edges torn. Fuck. How was I supposed to know I’d get ambushed by vengeful elves, start a forest fire, and barely crawl out alive?

"The original reward was for five intact blossoms," she said flatly. "I can only give you twelve silver."

"Come on..." I rasped. "At least twenty. You said yourself—the cheapest tavern is twenty. They can still be used."

"I can’t do that."

"Just—"

"Oh, give him the original reward." A deep voice cut in from behind me. "He earned it."

I glanced back. The commander—the one with the golden pauldron—strode through the doors, armor clinking softly. The room quieted instantly; whispers died mid-sentence.

He walked up beside me, calm authority rolling off him like heat from a forge.

"I need to speak with Nell Jeremiah, Lim," he told the woman—Lim, apparently. "Is he around?"

She shook her head. "No, sir."

"Nell?" I asked.

"A hunter," the commander explained without looking at me. "Best tracker we have. He can follow elf trails better than anyone. Usually takes quests here—I thought he might be in tonight."

"Huh..." I muttered. "And the fire?"

"Extinguished," he said. "Thank the gods—and the S-class students."

"That’s... good to hear."

He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder—firm, not unkind—and looked at Lim. "Give him the silver he earned, Lim."

"Yes, sir."

The commander gave my shoulder one squeeze, then turned and left. The moment the doors closed behind him, the room erupted into low murmurs. Adventurers at tables leaned in, whispering; a few standing near the quest board exchanged glances. Whoever he was, he carried weight here.

Lim sighed, bent down, and retrieved a small leather pouch from under the counter. She counted out three gold coins—wait, gold?—and flicked them toward me.

I caught the first one; the other two clinked to the floor. Groaning at the fresh stab in my legs, I knelt, scooped them up, and pocketed all three. I guess ten silver coins equaled a gold coin. Well, good to know...

"You’re lucky, kid," she said, voice dry. "But don’t expect it again. Next time, do the quest right and bring back pristine flowers."

"Yeah... it was a hell of a night," I muttered. "Thanks anyway."

Before turning away, I raised an eyebrow. She caught the look—slumped her shoulders, fixed me with those hard, bored-into-your-soul eyes.

"Where’s the cheapest tavern?" I asked.

"Leave here, go straight, turn left. Twenty steps. You can’t miss it—the sign’s a cracked tankard."

"Right... thank you. And sorry for... the mud on the floor."

"Just... don’t do it again."

I gave a tired nod and headed for the door. Every step felt heavier, but thirty silver clinked in my pocket—enough for a room, a bath, maybe even food that wasn’t cold porridge.

One wretched day almost over.

I trudged the short distance down the street, legs heavy, mind numb. Twenty steps, she’d said. The sign came into view soon enough—a weathered wooden plank swinging from chains, painted with a cracked tankard spilling foam. The Cracked Tankard. Fitting.

I pushed the door open. A wave of warmth, smoke, and cheap ale hit me like a wall.

The tavern was alive in the way only late-night dives are—loud, hazy, unapologetic. Long wooden tables filled most of the floor, scarred from years of tankards and knives. Rough benches lined them, packed with men—laborers, guards off-duty, adventurers nursing wounds and egos. Tankards clinked, dice rolled, laughter barked. No women sat among them as customers; the only women here were working.

Waitresses moved through the crowd like fish through a current—young, dressed in low-cut blouses and short skirts that left little to imagination, trays balanced on hips or shoulders. They laughed at crude jokes, leaned in close to pour drinks, let hands linger a second too long on shoulders or thighs. The energy was raw, transactional, hungry.

At the far end of the room stood the long counter, dark oak polished by countless elbows. Behind it loomed a wide doorway to the kitchen—steam and the smell of roasting meat and onions drifting out. Pots clanged, a cook shouted something unintelligible.

The woman running the bar was old—seventies at least—thin white hair pulled into a tight bun, face lined like cracked leather. She wore a simple gray apron over a faded dress, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded from decades of lifting kegs. Her eyes were sharp, unimpressed, scanning the room like she’d seen every sin it had to offer and charged extra for the repeat ones.

Farther along the room, at the far left back, a woman—another waitress, maybe—was straddling a customer on a stool. Her skirt hiked up, blouse unlaced, she moved slowly while the man gripped her hips and grinned through a haze of ale. No one batted an eye. Just another night, huh?

I walked straight to the counter, ignoring the stares my muddy, blood-streaked appearance drew. Nodded once to the old woman.

"Hey," I began, voice rough. "I’d like to rent a room for tonight."

"Twenty silver," she said without looking up from wiping a tankard. "Thirty if you want breakfast as well."

"I’ll take twenty." I couldn’t afford to blow extra coin right now. "Here."

I pulled two gold coins from my pocket—still getting used to the weight—and set them on the counter.

She scooped them up without comment, bent down, rummaged under the bar, and slid a small iron key across to me.

"Turn right from the stairs, head up. Room number 7. Don’t break anything."

"Thank you."

She eyed me for the first time—taking in the mud, the blood, the exhaustion. "Never seen you around, kid. New in town?"

"Sort of," I replied, exhaling through my nose. "Anyway... thank you."

"Mm. Just be quick. Don’t dirty my place with that muddy clothes."