Chapter-18

Sunlight, filtered through a grimy window pane, speared Roland in the eye, rousing him from a fitful sleep. He groaned, the unfamiliar creaking of the cot beneath him adding to the disorientation. 

Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking as the events of yesterday flooded back. The smoky tavern, the demon lord Belial, the world-shattering Bankai… wait, hold on. 

Roland pinched himself, wincing slightly. Nope, definitely awake. He looked around the dimly lit room, taking in the chipped paint, the cobweb-draped corner, and a single, suspiciously brown apple on the rickety nightstand. This wasn't his room back home, not by a long shot.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, scrubbing his face. "Not a dream. Not another dream."

He had gotten used to these sudden isekai trips, his life a bizarre pinball machine bouncing him from one fantastical world to the next. Sometimes the lines even blurred – was that troll invasion a real experience, or just a particularly vivid dream after eating a questionable burrito? Roland wouldn't put it past his stomach to mess with him like that.

He sighed, pulling Ryujin Jakka closer, the familiar weight a source of comfort. At least he hadn't woken up naked this time. That one had been a nightmare (literally, in the case of the sentient wardrobe incident). 

Roland shuffled out of bed, Ryujin Jakka bumping rhythmically against his hip as he navigated the cramped room. He stretched, wincing as his back protested the questionable comfort of the cot. 

"Alright, universe," he grumbled to the cobweb-draped ceiling, "I get it. Isekai number… what is it now, One hundred? Hundred and ten? I lost count after the sentient cactus incident." 

He glanced at the suspicious apple on the nightstand. Maybe breakfast wasn't the worst option after all. With a sigh, he threw open the creaking door, bracing himself for another day in this… interesting new world.

The hallway reeked of something vaguely like burnt cabbage and regret. He followed the sound of booming laughter and clanging metalwork to a large common room at the end of the corridor. Smoke billowed from a crackling fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn wooden tables. A gaggle of dwarves, their beards a tangled mess of braids and beads, were engaged in a heated game of dice. 

Then Roland spotted Durin, the dwarf who'd grudgingly rented him the room. Durin was perched precariously on a stool at the bar, arguing with a gruff-looking woman with an impressive collection of knives strapped to her thighs. From the snippets Roland caught, it seemed the woman wasn't happy about the "questionable" ingredients in Durin's stew.

"Hey, new guy!" Durin bellowed, spotting Roland. "You finally decided to grace us with your presence! Breakfast is…" he trailed off, sniffing the air dramatically. "Well, it was stew. Now it's probably just suspicious stew vapor."

Roland raised an eyebrow. "Suspicious stew vapor? You advertise that as breakfast?"

Durin slammed a tankard on the counter, making Roland jump. "Hey, free breakfast is free breakfast! Besides, you wouldn't want to miss the entertainment. Grogda here" – he gestured to the knife-laden woman – "thinks I put something nasty in the stew. Says it' got her seeing double."

Grogda, who seemed to be on the verge of throwing a knife at Durin, shot Roland a withering look. "Double trouble, more like it. I see two of those suspicious stew vats… and two of you, you hairy varmint!"

Roland fought back a laugh. Maybe this isekai wouldn't be so bad after all. It was certainly more lively than his usual morning routine of burnt toast and existential dread.

He sauntered over to the bar, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So," he began, addressing Grogda, "you wouldn't happen to have any… normal food around here, would you? Preferably something that doesn't come with a side of hallucinations?"

Grogda snorted, her gaze softening slightly. She slid a plate piled high with what looked like suspiciously sausage-shaped vegetables towards him. "Eat up, lad. Just don't come crying to me if you see something… extra spiky this morning."

Roland grinned, taking a tentative bite. Hey, at least it wasn't rat. He glanced around the room, taking in the boisterous dwarves and the smoky atmosphere. 

He scanned the room, hoping for a glimpse of someone even remotely attractive amidst the sea of beards and braids. Maybe this isekai wasn't all it was cracked up to be in the damsel-in-distress department. 

Stepping out of the ramshackle inn, Roland was greeted by the bustling chaos of the unfamiliar city. Towering buildings, a strange mix of gothic and fantasy architecture, clawed at the hazy sky. The air hummed with the cacophony of shouts, haggling vendors, and the rhythmic clang of what sounded suspiciously like dwarves hammering away on something very large and metallic.

Roland stretched, the morning sun a welcome change from the dimness of the inn. He patted Ryujin Jakka reassuringly, the familiar weight grounding him in this bizarre new world. But then, a wave of boredom washed over him. 

"Alright, universe," he muttered, "what now? Belial sends me here, drops a cryptic prophecy on my head, and then… nothing? Talk about a lousy welcome package." 

He sighed, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the good old days of isekai number seven – the one with the sentient cactus that offered surprisingly insightful philosophical advice (until it got struck by lightning, RIP Spiky Socrates). 

Roland tapped his foot impatiently. He wasn't built for idleness. Back home, he might have grumbled about his dead-end job, but at least it gave him something to do besides… well, besides contemplating the finer points of dwarf cuisine (questionable stew vapor, anyone?).

A devious glint sparked in his eyes. Maybe this isekai needed a little… freelance hero intervention. He wasn't sure what the local hero licensing requirements were, but surely they couldn't be that strict. 

"Hmm," he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "Maybe I could start a small business. 'Roland's Reliable Removal Service.' We handle anything: rogue goblins, overflowing garbage bins, sentient furniture with an existential crisis…"

He chuckled, picturing himself wielding Ryujin Jakka to whack a particularly stubborn couch. "Nah, too flashy. Gotta keep a low profile, at least for now. Besides, who pays good coin for couch wrangling?"

Then, another idea struck him, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Yakuza, that's who!" He winced at the thought of flamboyant suits and questionable tattoos, but the allure of a steady income was undeniable. 

"Alright, Roland," he declared, puffing out his chest in a mock-heroic pose. "Operation: Isekai Yakuza. Let's see how this plays out." 

He started striding down the street, a determined glint in his eyes. Sure, saving the world was great, but a hero gotta eat (and avoid questionable stew vapor, if possible).