If I ever write a memoir, I'm titling one chapter "The Day I Realized I'm a Walking Isekai Justice Stick." Because today? Today was one of those days.
We were heading to a village called Zenya, located a few miles east of Zephyrus. Apparently, they were known for their fresh goat cheese, gorgeous herbal tea, and—according to Froilan—"suspiciously quiet trade reports." Which, coming from a guy who keeps thirty-seven ledgers under his bed and alphabetizes his socks by mood, meant something was definitely up.
"So what's the plan?" I asked, gripping the reins of the sad excuse of a horse-donkey hybrid called a Murruk. "We ride into town, sip some tea, nibble some goat cheese, and wait for the economic truths to spill out like spilled milk?"
Froilan adjusted his glasses, which somehow hadn't cracked despite multiple fireball incidents. "The plan is to blend in, observe, and not scream 'I'm from another world and I have foam horns in my backpack' the moment someone offers you lunch."
"...So we're improvising?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Zenya, Five Hours Later…
Let me paint you a picture.
You know how villages in fantasy stories are usually scenic, with kids laughing, windmills turning, and grandmas waving as they bake pies?
Yeah, Zenya was the opposite.
The houses were run-down, like someone let a particularly angry raccoon loose with a sledgehammer and abandonment issues. The air smelled like moldy tax forms. And the people? They didn't wave. They winced. Every single person who looked at us had the same vibe: "Help me, but don't say it out loud because I like having kneecaps."
"This place feels… cursed," I muttered, hopping off the Murruk. It made a noise like a disappointed sigh and walked straight into a bush.
"Not cursed," Froilan said, narrowing his eyes. "Exploited. Look over there."
He pointed at a group of children playing. Except by "playing," I mean pushing a broken wheel while sneakily watching a well-dressed man scream at a hunched old lady.
"No taxes, no water!" the man barked. "And if your grandson tries to sneak into the grain shed again, we'll chain him to the scarecrow for a week!"
"Sweet merciful Sora," I whispered. "Who hurts a grandma?"
Froilan growled softly. I think he was trying to suppress his urge to turn into an angry spreadsheet.
We approached a nearby stand with what looked like stale bread and a broken smile behind it. The merchant flinched when we got close.
"Welcome to Zenya, travelers! Would you like some—uh—delicious bread rocks?"
"Are they actually rocks?" I asked.
The merchant paused. "I… legally cannot answer that."
"Got it."
Froilan leaned in. "We're here from Zephyr. We heard trade's been… slow. And you all seem a little, uh, bruised and underfed."
The merchant's eyes darted toward the yelling man from earlier. "We're fine. Totally fine. Not starving or anything. Nope. Perfectly legal levels of suffering."
That's when I noticed the man from before walking over. He had the aura of someone who smelled like expensive vinegar and called himself "Lord" even though he probably flunked community college for nobles.
He eyed me from head to toe. "Who are you? I didn't approve visitors today. Especially ones dressed like a circus bouncer."
"That's my formal hoodie, thank you," I said. "And I'm Troy. This is Froilan. We're here on business. Peaceful, boring, totally not-kick-you-in-the-face business."
He snorted. "This is my village. You do what I say. Or you don't eat. Understand?"
That's when my smile cracked.
Because here's the thing: I try to be nice. I really do. But there's something about smug tyrants using starvation as a management style that just boils my brain yogurt.
I stepped closer. "Let me ask you a question, O mighty village overlord. Why are your people living in dirt while your coat has more embroidery than a royal tapestry?"
He sneered. "Because I earned it. The taxes are for their protection. Bandits would be here in days if it weren't for me."
"I bet the bandits left out of professional shame," I muttered.
"What was that?" he snapped.
"I said," I clenched my fists, "you're going to apologize to every person you made suffer. You're going to return every coin you stole. And then you're going to take that coat, stuff it with bread rocks, and walk your corrupt butt out of this village forever."
He blinked. Then he laughed. A long, snorting, evil laugh that sounded like a goose choking on power.
"You think you can make me do anything? You're just a Summon. A monster pretending to be a man. I know your kind. You're dangerous. You don't belong in a place like this."
And that's when it happened.
Something clicked in my head. I could hear Cherubim whispering softly:[Notice: Warrior's Rage Activated]
My body glowed faintly. The villagers gasped. Froilan took a polite half-step back and sipped his tea like, "Here we go again."
"Sir," I said in a voice that was suddenly a lot deeper than normal, "I don't care if I'm a Summon or a toaster oven. If you hurt these people again, I will turn your mustache into confetti and force-feed you a morality lesson so hard your ancestors feel guilty."
He opened his mouth.
I teleported.
One second, I was across the dirt road. The next, I was an inch from his face.
He screamed like a financially insecure goat and tried to run, but I grabbed his collar and yeeted him into a haystack so hard it exploded like a firework made of barn dreams.
The villagers gasped again.
"Is he dead?" one of them whispered.
Froilan squinted. "Unfortunately not. He's twitching."
I stepped up on a barrel and turned to the crowd.
"People of Zenya!" I bellowed. "Your evil mini-lord has been deposed. I now declare this village free of tyranny, bad bread, and suspicious grain sheds! And your taxes? Gone. Starting now, you pay in goat cheese and good vibes!"
A beat of silence.
Then… cheers. Applause. Actual tears. Someone threw a carrot into the air like a celebratory firework.
Froilan came up beside me. "Well. That escalated quickly."
"Do we still get the tea?"
One Hour Later…
We sat on cushions in a modest hut, sipping the best herbal tea I've ever had. Froilan had a whole loaf of something called cloud bread, and I was holding a baby goat because apparently I'm the new "Hero of Zenya" and it's tradition.
"Think the guy will come back?" I asked.
Froilan shrugged. "If he does, we'll remind him that karma comes in teleporting fists now."
I leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "You know, I never asked for this power. I didn't ask to be summoned by a cult or get this weird glowing red eye thing."
"But?" Froilan said.
I looked out at the villagers, now laughing, rebuilding, and feeding each other actual food.
"…But if I can keep doing this? Maybe foam horns weren't the worst start."
[Notice: Passive Skill Acquired — "Village Hero"](Note: Causes dramatic wind to blow your hair every time someone thanks you.)
"…Okay, that one's just excessive," I muttered, as my bangs flapped in nonexistent wind.
Froilan smirked. "You love it."
"Shut up and pass the cheese."