In the end, I lost.
After that full-on dogeza and those desperate eyes, I caved and nodded.
Which was how I wound up with Momo—bun-haired rookie—bobbing along at my side. Yep. Hugely troublesome development.
"Shishou, where are we headed next?"
"For the last time, don't call me Shishou. Just Sato-san is fine."
I'd already corrected her who-knows-how-many times.
Before agreeing to let her join me in the dungeon, I laid down three rules.
One: don't call me Shishou.
Two: don't rely on my [Skill] or try to imitate my fighting style.
Three: protect your own skin.
Momo had agreed to all of it with a chipper "yes!"—so here I was, dragging her along against my better judgment.
"Alright. First lesson: self-defense training."
"S-self-defense? But I don't have any combat skills..."
"It's not about fighting. It's about staying alive."
What I taught her wasn't sword swings or magic spells. It was risk management and situational awareness—the stuff I'd honed over twenty years as a salesman.
"Listen, Momo. Start with traps. Look at this hallway. Notice anything?"
"Um... it looks normal?"
"Wrong. Look closer. See that patch of wall, slightly different color? That's moisture. And the floor—those tiles right there are newer than the rest. Could be someone recently planted a trap. Or maybe an old one already went off. Either way, don't step there. Basic rule number one."
"Whoa..."
She leaned in, eyes glued to the spot I pointed out, looking properly impressed.
Back in sales, I trained myself to piece together the big picture from scraps—reading a competitor's moves from the tiniest tells: a client's tone, an office's atmosphere, even the way someone's face twitched. That instinct to sniff out danger translated directly into dungeon work.
"Next, monster signs. Listen. It's not just footsteps. Hobgoblin patrols? You'll hear armor clinking in rhythm with their steps. Orcs? Heavier, dragging steps. Smell matters too. Rot means undead. Animal stink means a beast-type monster. Keep all five senses sharp. Avoid the danger before it reaches you. That's the best self-defense there is."
"I—I get it..."
She whipped out a tiny notebook, scribbling everything I said like it was gospel. Honestly, it was a little embarrassing. She reminded me of myself as a green new hire, back when I still thought manuals could save me.
"Sato-san, you're amazing. How do you know all this stuff?"
"...Spend enough years working, it becomes second nature."
I turned away, brushing it off. Nothing impressive about it.
I'd spent my career reading the moods of irrational bosses, deciphering impossible clients, and fending off looming monsters called "deadlines" and "budgets." Surviving—that was all I'd ever done.
* * *
After that day's dive, we split.
I nursed a canned coffee, replaying the moments in my head.
Momo's earnest face, soaking up every word, scribbling notes like her life depended on it. It wasn't a bad feeling. In fact... weirdly satisfying. Like maybe I was doing something worthwhile again.
It had been years since I'd taught anyone anything—since my manager days, really.
"...Guess this isn't the worst thing in the world," I muttered, finishing the can.
Ever since getting laid off, I hadn't felt useful to anyone. Today was the first time I caught a glimpse of that warmth again. It wasn't money, not exactly—it was something else. Something softer.
Of course, that didn't make her any less of a hassle.