There are very few moments in life when you walk into a place and your brain just screams, "Nuke it from orbit!"—and walking into the village of Zenya was one of them.
It smelled like betrayal. Not in the metaphorical way. No, I mean it literally smelled like wet socks and crushed dreams. Froilan and I had just finished setting up a successful produce exchange on our little farm, and we thought, Hey, why not expand? Maybe meet some potential customers, maybe open a cute little store. You know, humble beginnings to eventual world economic domination.
But Zenya? Zenya looked like someone sneezed poverty and the wind forgot to blow it away.
The road leading into town was more pothole than path. The houses were leaning like they were in a constant state of giving up, and the children—oh gods, the children—looked at us like we were the first people they'd seen who didn't eat soup made from regret.
"Are we sure this is Zenya?" I asked, dragging the wagon full of tomatoes, radishes, and pickled Froilan-specials.
Froilan glanced down at his scroll map. "Yep. Zenya, the trading village of Zephyr. Used to be the breadbasket of the region... now it looks like someone used it as a literal basket and threw it down a cliff."
We passed what looked like a market. I say 'looked like' because it consisted of two broken stalls, a dude sleeping under one of them, and a lady selling mud. I am not exaggerating. She was selling colored mud. For "healing," apparently. I was ready to scream.
We parked near the center of town, which featured a statue of... someone? It was so weather-worn I couldn't tell if it was a former mayor, a goddess, or a dude who got stuck mid-stretch and turned to stone.
"We're gonna die here," I muttered.
"Nope," Froilan said, ever the optimist. "We're gonna fix this."
"Fix it?" I squawked. "This town looks like it offended a divine being and got cursed. Do we even know what happened?"
We didn't need to ask. The answer came to us in the form of a man wearing gold-trimmed robes, sunglasses, and enough perfume to fumigate a stable. He strolled toward us with a smug smile and a belly that defied physics.
"Welcome, strangers," he said, his voice oozing the kind of fake friendliness that could cause tooth decay. "I am Mayor Dritto. I see you've come to trade... though, I'm afraid the people here have little to offer."
"No kidding," I muttered, too quietly for him to hear.
Froilan stepped forward. "We're farmers from Zephyr's outskirts. We came to exchange goods, maybe open a store here."
"Delightful!" Dritto exclaimed, arms wide. "We encourage free trade here... as long as proper taxes are paid."
There it was. The word that broke the camel's spine and then taxed it for chiropractic therapy.
"How much?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Oh, just seventy-five percent," he said, sipping from a goblet that I swear had rubies on it.
"You want seventy-five percent of our goods?" I barked.
"Seventy-five percent of profits," he corrected. "To help with village upkeep, you see."
I glanced around at the literal mold growing on walls and a squirrel chewing on a shingle.
"Upkeep?" I asked. "Sir, your village is being downkept."
He smiled like a politician on trial. "These people are... ungrateful. Lazy. But we make do."
Right. We as in he. I was already forming a mental list of where to stuff his goblet. Froilan, meanwhile, was staring at a group of kids digging in the dirt like they were looking for hope.
"Give us a tour," Froilan said. His tone was flat. Business-mode Froilan was like a calm tsunami. You don't see the destruction coming until your house is floating.
Dritto agreed, of course. Took us through a few buildings—the granary that was half empty, the schoolhouse that was actually just a rock with letters scratched on it, and the storehouse that had rats in charge of inventory. By the time the tour was over, I'd used every ounce of my self-control not to grab Dritto by his gold collar and yeet him into orbit.
When he left us to "mingle with the villagers," Froilan turned to me with that serious face he usually saved for crop rotation schedules.
"We're fixing this," he said.
I blinked. "You serious?"
"We can connect Zenya to the farm," Froilan said. "Use our goods to feed them. They help us maintain it, we share resources. We teach them to grow again. I'll stay. They need leadership, someone who isn't siphoning off their souls."
I stared at him. "You're gonna be the new headman?"
"If they'll have me," he said. "But I'll need your help setting it up."
"Buddy, we're in a comedy isekai, not a political drama!"
"Troy," he said, gripping my shoulder. "We've got vegetables. They've got nothing. It's time we give 'em something real."
He was right. Dammit, I hated that he was right.
Day One of Zenya's Reconstruction Plan
Step one: Talk to the villagers. Not surprisingly, they were suspicious. I mean, two random dudes roll into town with a cart of radishes and declare themselves the saviors of civilization? Yeah, I'd give us side-eye too.
But once we gave away a few baskets of food, patched up a fence, and got one water pump working again, things shifted.
Step two: Fire Mayor Dritto. That... took some convincing. Not of the villagers—of Dritto. He wasn't leaving willingly.
"You can't just replace me!" he shouted.
Froilan held up a scroll signed by thirty-five villagers and a goat.
"The people demand change," Froilan said calmly. "Also, your house is now a school."
We escorted him out. By "escort," I mean I used my newly discovered [Cherumbim Shove] skill to throw him down the street. The villagers clapped. One lady threw me a pie.
Week One
Zenya began changing almost overnight. Froilan was a machine—coordinating repairs, organizing work groups, dividing food fairly. I helped too, obviously—by lifting stuff, building, and punching anyone who looked like they wanted to sneak off with stolen carrots.
We taught the villagers how to use the farming tools we brought. Tilled soil, set up compost bins, even started laying out irrigation. Froilan kept a ledger like his life depended on it.
At night, we sat with the villagers around a fire, shared meals, and talked. The kids laughed. The old people cried. One old lady kissed my forehead and called me "Carrot God."
I didn't correct her.
Week Two
The biggest moment came when Froilan was officially declared the new Headman. There wasn't a ceremony, really—just a bunch of people shouting his name and lifting him on a chair they found in a ditch. He looked awkward as hell, but also proud.
He gave a little speech. Said stuff like, "This is just the start," and "Together, we plant the future." I was impressed. And slightly jealous. He really did look like the hero of the story.
Later that night, we sat on a hill overlooking the village.
"Think we did the right thing?" he asked.
I stared at the glowing lanterns, the laughter below, the smell of stew drifting through the air.
"Yeah," I said. "We did."
He glanced at me. "You sticking around?"
I smirked. "Nah. Someone's gotta manage the farm and keep selling pickled demon fruit. But I'll drop by every week to make sure you haven't turned into a tyrant."
We laughed. A peaceful kind of laugh.
Zenya wasn't just back—it was reborn. And it all started with two idiots, a cart of vegetables, and righteous anger.