Investing In My Four Crippled Yandere Wives Get 1000x Returns
Chapter 5|Registering For a Second Chance

Chapter 5: 5|Registering For a Second Chance

Morning came with the smell of burnt toast and Irene’s muffled laughter — the kind of laughter she couldn’t fully hear herself but felt in her own chest anyway, loud and unrestrained.

Allen found her standing over the ruined stove, a smoking pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, clearly having attempted to recreate his cooking from the day before and failed spectacularly. She caught sight of him in the doorway and, rather than looking embarrassed, simply grinned and held up the blackened mess like a trophy.

"Don’t," Allen said, already fighting a smile. "Just... don’t. Sit down. I’ve got this."

Irene huffed, but there was no real protest in it. She dropped into a chair at the small kitchen table, propping her chin on her hand and watching him work with unabashed interest, red hair catching the morning light streaming through the cracked window.

"You’re better at that than you should be," she said — too loud, the way people who couldn’t hear their own volume sometimes were. "For a rich boy."

"Ex-rich boy," Allen corrected, cracking eggs into a bowl. "And I told you, I wasn’t exactly a priority in that house. You learn to fend for yourself when nobody else is going to feed you."

Something in Irene’s expression flickered — not quite pity, but close to understanding. "Guess we’ve got that in common now, huh. Neither of our families wanted us around anymore."

Allen glanced over at her. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really." She shrugged, too casual to be entirely convincing. "It’s not that deep. Association decided we were more useful as trophies for a failed heir than as active Hunters once we got hurt. Rank doesn’t matter much when you can’t clear dungeons anymore." She drummed her fingers against the table, energy visibly restless even in stillness. "They didn’t even wait for us to recover properly. Just... shuffled us off, arranged the marriage, called it a mercy."

"That’s not mercy. That’s disposal with extra steps."

Irene barked out a laugh, sharp and genuine. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly that." She studied him for a moment, head tilted. "You’re kind of blunt for a guy who spent his whole life getting stepped on."

"Old habits," Allen said simply, plating a considerably less charred breakfast and sliding it in front of her. "Being quiet never stopped anyone from stepping on me. Might as well say what I mean."

Irene took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and gave him an approving nod before speaking again — around a mouthful of food, mercifully unaware of her volume once more. "So what’s the plan, then? You gonna waste that check on furniture, or do you actually have something in mind?"

Allen leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and let the thought he’d been chewing on since the night before finally take shape into words.

"I’m registering as a Hunter."

Irene’s eyebrows shot up. "You? No offense, but you’re an F-rank."

"I was an F-rank," Allen corrected, a faint edge of certainty in his voice that hadn’t been there yesterday. "Something’s changed. I can’t fully explain it yet, but... I have a way to grow. A real one. And I’m not planning on staying weak in a house full of people who used to run this industry."

Irene studied him for a long moment, something calculating flickering behind her usual restless energy. "You’re serious."

"Dead serious."

"Huh." She sat back, arms crossing, a slow grin spreading across her face — the first genuinely excited expression Allen had seen from any of them since the car ride into Hegeville. "Well. If you’re actually doing this, you’re gonna need a party. Association doesn’t let solo F-ranks anywhere near a dungeon rift without backup, and even if they did, you’d get yourself killed in about four seconds."

"You offering?"

"I’m saying," Irene said, leaning forward, red hair falling across her shoulder, "that four former S-rank and A-rank Hunters sitting around in a run-down house feeling sorry for themselves is a waste. Disabilities or not, we still know things. We can still help, even from the sidelines. And if you’re actually serious about getting stronger instead of just talking about it—" She tapped the table for emphasis. "—then maybe it’s time we stopped treating this marriage like a punishment and started treating it like round two."

Allen felt something in his chest loosen slightly — the tightness he’d been carrying since Reginald’s parting insults, since the wheelchair he wasn’t allowed to push, since the quiet distance the four of them had kept since the moment they arrived.

[Investment Detected: Milestone — "Inspired hope and purpose in a disillusioned dependent."]

[Sincerity: High. Emotional Impact: High.]

[Reward Generated: +65 Investment Points.]

"Round two," Allen repeated slowly, testing the words. "I can work with that."

---

Myria and Everlyn found them still in the kitchen an hour later, deep into a conversation that had shifted from breakfast to logistics — what registering would require, what the Hunter Association’s process even looked like for someone re-entering after a decade of family obscurity, what kind of party formation might work around three severe disabilities and one man with a single, barely-upgraded ability.

Myria wheeled herself in — no assistance requested, none offered this time, an unspoken truce settling over the room — and listened silently from the doorway for a long moment before speaking.

"You intend to fight dungeons," she said flatly. It wasn’t a question.

"I intend to get strong enough that nobody looks at any of us and sees discarded trash ever again," Allen said, meeting her sharp, crystalline gaze without flinching. "Starting with registration. I don’t expect any of you to fight. I just need people who understand this world well enough to keep me from getting myself killed in the first week."

Myria was quiet for a long moment, studying him with the same calculating precision she’d used to size him up in the car the day before. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to count.

"You’ll need a strategist," she said simply. "Someone who understands dungeon mechanics, party composition, and enemy behavior patterns better than any registration handbook will teach you." A pause. "I’m not offering out of charity."

"I wouldn’t have accepted it if you were," Allen said.

For the first time since Hegeville, Myria’s sharp eyes held something that almost resembled approval.

Behind her, Everlyn had already pulled out her notepad, scribbling quickly before holding it up with a small, hopeful smile.

’I can grow supplies. Herbs, food, materials. Let me help too.’

Allen looked around the kitchen — at Irene grinning like she’d just been handed a fight to win, at Myria’s calculating gaze already three steps ahead, at Everlyn’s quiet, earnest offer, and at the empty doorway where Vivian would no doubt appear the moment she caught wind of the conversation — and felt, for the first time since arriving in this run-down house at the edge of nowhere, something that felt dangerously close to belonging.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s go make this official."