Chapter 37: “If I Die, You Die Too”

Happy Monday, everyone! The hype train has officially left the station—IT'S DO-OR-DIE TIME! 🚀

As promised, we're locking into a daily continuous posting spree from today through Friday!

⏰ Daily Schedule (Monday–Friday):

🌅 Morning Chapter: 8:00 AM – 9:00 AM

🌆 Evening Chapter: 6:00 PM – 7:00 PM

Pray for my hands and my sanity, because I'm sacrificing sleep to make sure Ethan and Germaine keep you entertained all week long!

Grab your popcorn, grab your coffee, and let's dive right in. Enjoy the chapter! 🔥👇

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An hour had passed in the tranquil silence of the glade. The only sound was the rhythmic, metallic shink-shink-shink of Germaine’s whetstone against her longsword. She worked with a focused intensity, her eyes narrowed as she ensured every inch of the blade was lethally sharp.

Ethan, lounging on the moss like a lazy metallic seal, finally broke the silence.

"So," he started, his voice echoing inside his helmet. "Did you get the credits you were hunting for? Or are we still in the 'broke and desperate' phase of the journey?"

Germaine didn't look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on her blade, her voice cold and flat. "I only managed to take down one. And honestly... it was a struggle."

Ethan sat up, his armor clanking. "Tell you what. I'll help you."

Germaine stopped sharpening. She paused, then slowly looked up at him, her eyes scanning the seamless, impenetrable surface of his gear. "Why? And more importantly... why on earth won't you take off that armor? Or at least that ridiculous helmet? We're in a safe zone. You're practically baking in there."

Ethan stiffened. He let out a long, dramatic sigh that sounded like a leaking radiator. "Look, the armor is... complicated. It's a symbiotic relationship. A bond of steel and soul. If I take it off, the existential vacuum of my own insecurity might just collapse the local space-time continuum."

He paused, striking a thoughtful pose with one finger on his chin. "As the ancient philosophers once said: 'The fish that swims backward is merely a pioneer of the reverse current, yet the water remains wet regardless of the direction of the fin.'"

Germaine stared at him. A long, heavy silence stretched between them.

"...Huh?" she finally whispered, looking genuinely bewildered.

"It's not important," Ethan dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Point is, I'll help you clear out the rest of the Orcs. I'll be your support, your shield, and your personal cheerleader. So, here’s the plan: if I die, you die too."

"WHAT KIND OF FUCKED-UP PLAN IS THAT?!" Germaine shrieked, nearly leaping out of her skin. "If you're so eager to embrace the void, go die alone! Don't drag me into your suicide pact, you lunatic!"

"No! That's not what I meant!" Ethan shouted back, waving his arms frantically. "I just mean that I'm not actually that experienced with these kinds of gates! I'm basically a newbie with a fancy suit!"

Germaine stopped mid-rant, her expression shifting to one of pure disbelief. "What are you talking about? 'Not experienced'? You literally turned a squad of Orc's into charcoal briquettes! You restructured the local geography with a single punch! You didn't fight that forest; you committed a war crime against the vegetation!"

Ethan froze. He shifted his weight awkwardly, his voice suddenly becoming small and uncertain. "Oh... well... that was... uh... you know... a special circumstance... a fluke of the... atmospheric pressure..."

Germaine sighed, her gaze softening just a fraction. She looked away, her voice returning to a calmer, almost understanding tone. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Something private, right? Look, we all have things we don't want to talk about. Secrets, traumas, embarrassing hobbies... I understand, tin can."

Ethan felt a sudden wave of warmth. He actually felt touched that she was being supportive. "Wow. Thanks, Germaine. I really appreciate you being understanding about that, my lovely Mountain-Peak-Twin—"

GRAB.

In a movement so fast it was almost a blur, Germaine’s hand clamped onto the top of Ethan's helmet. With a snarl of renewed fury, she began shaking his head back and forth with violent intensity.

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

"WHY!" she roared, her face turning red. "Why are you so fixated on naming me after my breasts?! Is your brain just one giant, throbbing mammary gland?! Stop it! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

Germaine continued to shake Ethan for several more seconds, his helmet rattling against her palm like a spray-paint can. Finally, she let go with a violent shove, sending him sprawling back into the moss.

She stood over him, her chest heaving, her expression a mix of fury and unexpected exhaustion. She let out a long, defeated sigh and crossed her arms over her chest, though the gesture only served to emphasize the very assets Ethan was so obsessed with.

"Look," she muttered, her voice dropping an octave. "I get it. They're big. I know they're big. You think it's all just a gift, but it's actually a goddamn nightmare. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find armor that actually fits without making me look like a balloon? Or how much of a burden they are during a high-speed fight? One wrong pivot and I'm basically fighting my own center of gravity."

Ethan didn't move. He didn't blink. He didn't even breathe.

Through the visor of his helmet, Ethan’s expression had completely shifted. The sarcasm was gone, replaced by a look of intense, scholarly concentration. His eyes had hardened, narrowing into slits as he stared with surgical precision at the "burdens" she was describing.

He slowly raised a hand, resting his chin in his palm in a classic thinker pose, his gaze remaining locked onto her chest as if he were analyzing a complex mathematical equation.

"Hmm..." Ethan hummed, his voice sounding genuinely contemplative. "I see. The physics of the oscillation, the shift in the center of mass, the aerodynamic drag... yes, I can absolutely understand that. Truly, a tragic burden. A heavy cross to bear. In fact, I feel a deep, spiritual need to study this struggle further for the sake of science."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. Germaine’s eye began to twitch. The brief moment of vulnerability had been snatched away, replaced by the realization that Ethan wasn't listening to her struggle—he was appreciating it.

CLANG!

Without a word, Germaine reached down, snatched a jagged piece of granite from the ground, and hurled it with the force of a professional pitcher. The rock struck Ethan’s helmet with a deafening, metallic ring, snapping his head back into the moss.

"STOP LOOKING, YOU ABSOLUTE FILTHY DEGENERATE!!!" she shrieked, her face returning to a vivid shade of crimson.

Ethan lay there, dazed, the sound of the impact still echoing in his skull. "I was just... providing emotional support..." he groaned into the dirt.

Germaine let out a sharp exhale, shaking her head as she sat back down on the moss. The brief flash of vulnerability had been completely scrubbed away, replaced by her usual stern, professional demeanor.

"Enough with the science experiments," she snapped, her voice returning to its commanding edge. "Let's actually talk about the plan. If we're doing this, we do it right."

Ethan bounced back up, his armor clanking with an annoying enthusiasm. "Easy! Simple! Elegant! Here's the strategy: I'll be the shiny, metallic bait. I'll lure the Orcs out, let them throw their biggest, ugliest tantrums at me," he punctuated this by slamming his gauntlet against his chest plate with a loud CLANG, "And while I'm absorbing the damage and tossing out some casual bruises, you swoop in like a blonde angel of death and finish them off."

Germaine blinked, her brow furrowing. "And what about you?"

Ethan paused, his helmet tilting in genuine confusion. "What do you mean 'about me'? This is a support role, Ms. Twin Peaks! I'm the tank; you're the DPS. It's a classic RPG dynamic!"

"Huh?" Germaine narrowed her eyes, her voice turning suspicious. "No, you idiot. I mean the credits. If I'm the one landing the finishing blows, the credits will be all mine. All of them. Every single one. I’m taking the loot and leaving you with nothing but a few dents in your suit."

"Bingo!" Ethan cheered, snapping his fingers. "Exactly! Your bustiness—and your bank account—is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm a philanthropist, Germaine. I'm donating my bruises for the greater good of your wallet."

Germaine didn't look convinced. In fact, she looked like she was trying to figure out if he was actually a psychopath or just profoundly stupid. "I don't trust you. Why the hell would you do that? What's the catch? What do you actually want from me?"

Ethan let out a theatrical laugh, throwing his arms wide. "Calm down, Mount Bustmore! Seriously, look at me. I'm literally offering to let monsters beat me into a pancake for your benefit, and your first thought is 'What's the scam?' Have a little faith in my generosity! Why would I want anything from you when I can just enjoy the view while I'm lying on the ground?"

Germaine stopped. She looked at the charred remains of the forest behind them, then back at the ridiculous man in the armor. She did a quick mental calculation—weighing the risk of Ethan being a secret mastermind against the very real possibility that he was just a massive idiot with a god-complex for breasts.

Slowly, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Fine. I'll take you at your word. For now. Thanks... again."

"Don't worry about it, Milk Jugs!" he chirped, giving her a thumbs-up.

The temperature in the glade seemed to drop twenty degrees instantly. Germaine didn't even scream this time. She just looked at him with a flat, dead expression, her voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a frozen grave.

"One more nickname," she whispered, "just one more mammary-themed title comes out of that mouth, and I swear on every god in this realm that your mouth will never be the same shape again."