Chapter Text
It had been an entire, exhausting week since their dimensional displaced party had crashed into this hyper-trope-infested webnovel reality, a week that had begun with Lloyd Frontera standing in the middle of a dusty mountain road, violently waving his iron shovel at a giant, glowing, neon-orange VR hand in the sky for two straight hours until the sky itself seemed to sigh—a lingering, high-pitched dial-up noise echoing across the heavens—before a massive, fully furnished, high-fantasy gothic mansion slammed into the plot of land directly adjacent to the local dungeon entrance with a casual popup message from Anon reading: [FINE. TAKE THE HOUSESHOOTER 3000, BUT DO NOT ASK ME FOR TAX EXEMPTIONS]
*-*-*-*-*-*
Inside the sprawling dining hall of their newly acquired, slightly glitched mansion, a strategic crisis of terrifying proportions was unfolding.
Over the past seven days, the team had unanimously decided that Michael Jackson needed to be combat-ready. Given how utterly "narrative-toxic" this world was—where generic Isekai heroes, tsundere princesses, and rogue demon generals seemed to spawn every time someone breathed too loudly—leaving their primary anchor unprotected was an unacceptable liability. To everyone’s utter astonishment, Michael’s innate magical awakening had manifested in a style strikingly similar to a legendary magical girl’s arsenal: infinite, high-caliber flintlock muskets, gilded cannons, and silver-filigree firearms that materialized out of thin, shimmering air. But instead of silk ribbons, his weapons manifest through the intricate, heavy leather belts, glittering buckles, and sequined straps adornments of his iconic stage wardrobe. In just a few days of intense drills in the courtyard, Michael’s rhythmic intuition had made him a terrifyingly lethal marksman. He could moonwalk backward while summoning a twenty-gun firing line, executing complex tactical salvos to the exact tempo of an invisible four-four beat.
His combat prowess was flawless. His stamina, however, was an administrative nightmare.
"Mr. Jackson, please," Marinette pleaded, holding a silver spoon loaded with a towering mound of high-protein, buttery potato puree just inches from Michael’s mouth. Her superhero intuition was blaring like an air-raid siren. "You ran twelve tactical maneuvers this morning, summoned forty-seven silver flintlocks, and perform three full pirouettes! You cannot sustain an EX-Rank mana pool on half a slice of dry toast and three sips of sparkling water!"
"She's right, man!" Josuke shouted, leaning over the dark mahogany table with his hands slammed onto the wood, his pompadour slightly disheveled from sheer stress. "You're a legend! A global icon! But right now, you look like a breeze could blow you into the next panel! You gotta fuel the machine!"
Okuyasu, sitting right beside Josuke, was actively weeping tears of pure, unadulterated distress into his own massive bowl of heavy beef stew. "It’s a tragedy, Josuke! A total tragedy! How can someone who moves like a god eat like a tiny bird?! Look at this stew! It’s got carrots, tender meat, rich broth... it’s a sin to let it sit there! Here, Mr. Jackson, just open up! Say 'Ah'!"
Michael sat trapped between the three of them, his back pressed firmly against the high velvet cushion of his chair. He looked thoroughly overwhelmed, his large, gentle dark eyes darting nervously between Marinette’s hovering spoon, Okuyasu’s steaming bowl, and Josuke’s intense, fanatical glare.
"I... I really appreciate it, guys, truly," Michael stammered, his soft, breathy voice ducking down into a gentle register as he held up two gloved hands in defense. "It's just... I've always eaten light before rehearsals. If I eat too much, I can't spin as fast, and the momentum gets all—"
"This isn't a rehearsal, Michael!" Lloyd barked, striding into the dining hall like an overworked drill sergeant with a clipboard full of nutritional metrics. He slammed a heavy glass of full-fat mountain cow milk onto the table right next to Michael's plate. "Your spatial belt-guns consume a minimum of two thousand calories per combat sequence! If you faint mid-fight, who is going to keep the Saintess from tracking us down?! Who is going to keep the Tsundere Princess from trying to merge our construction budgets?! Eat the stew!"
"I'll hold his hands!" Okuyasu volunteered eagerly, entirely misinterpreting the room's tactical dynamic. "Josuke, grab his shoulders! Marinette, land the spoon!"
"Wait, wait! Don't hold him down!" Josuke yelled, swatting Okuyasu's hand away while simultaneously trying to look non-threatening. "We gotta be gentle! He's Michael Jackson! You don't manhandle the King of Pop!"
"I'm not manhandling him, I'm feeding him!" Okuyasu argued, holding a carrot aloft like a sacred relic. "If he dies of low blood sugar, I'll never forgive myself! I haven't even gotten him to sign my school jacket yet!"
Marinette took a slow, deep breath, activating her inner guardian calm. She gave Michael the sweetest, most manipulative, big-sister smile she could muster, slowly advancing the spoon. "Just one big bite for the team, Mr. Jackson. Please? For the structural integrity of our vanguard?"
Michael sighed, a soft, defeated laugh escaping his lips as he realized there was absolutely no escaping the collective, fiercely protective love of four absolute fanboys and a teenage superhero. "Alright, alright... just a small one." He leaned forward and accepted the spoon.
The entire room held its collective breath. As Michael chewed, Marinette, Josuke, Okuyasu, and even Lloyd leaned in so close their noses were almost touching his cheeks.
"He swallowed it!" Okuyasu gasped, gasping for air as if he had just witnessed a medical miracle. "HE SWALLOWED THE POTATOES! JOSUKE, GET THE ROAST CHICKEN READY!"
"SUCCESS!" Josuke cheered, throwing his hands in the air. "Alright, next layer! Here comes the protein train, choir-style!"
---
Meanwhile, down the long, arching corridor in the mansion's quiet living room, a completely different operational atmosphere prevailed.
The floor was neatly arranged with heavy wooden crates, burlap sacks of refined sulfur, high-grade mana crystals, and emergency rations. Javier Asrahan stood over a ledger, checking off inventory items with the precise, methodical speed of an elite military quartermaster.
Sitting peacefully on a raised velvet tea cushion near the window was Mystic Flour Cookie, back in her three-inch-tall, pristine ivory pastry form. She sat perfectly motionless, her tiny white hanfu robes draped elegantly around her dough base, her vacant grey eyes staring out at the mountain landscape.
Hovering around her like a hyperactive, protective cloud was Cloud Haetae Cookie. The fluffy, horned mythical beast-cookie was currently dragging a small wooden crate of strawberry jellies across the rug, his tiny doughy paws digging into the carpet as he growled softly under his breath.
"Hmph! Loud, foolish mortals," Cloud Haetae huffed, tossing a pristine, glittering red jelly shard toward Mystic Flour's cushion. "Forcing the great singer to consume massive heaps of peasant food as if he were a farm beast. They lack all sense of spiritual refinement! Right, Master?"
Mystic Flour did not turn her head. A subtle, sub-zero breeze rustled the sheer curtains of the living room window as her hollow, winter-wind voice echoed directly into the minds of Cloud Haetae and Javier.
"The sugar in the gelatin is sufficient," Mystic Flour murmured, her tone radiating a profound, unbothered apathy. "The mortals engage in useless, noisy rituals to delay their inevitable exhaustion. Let them feed the singer. A well-nourished vessel vibrates at a higher harmonic frequency when he summons his iron belts."
Javier didn't even look up from his ledger as he signed the final manifest. "The Young Master's methods may appear chaotic, little beast, but his logistical math is rarely wrong. If Sir Michael's calorie intake drops below efficiency levels, our defense parameters collapse by thirty-four percent."
"I am NOT a little beast! I am a majestic guardian of the Void!" Cloud Haetae yapped furiously, his fluffy tail puffing up to twice its normal size as he stood on his hind legs. "And don't talk to me about math, you stoic sword-man! If any of those loud idiots in the other room try to give my Master heavy potatoes, I will bite their ankles!"
"Noted," Javier replied flatly, sliding the ledger into his coat as he picked up two heavy supply crates with zero visible effort. "The trade caravan to the neighboring village departs in ten minutes. Ensure the deity is securely packed."
From the dining hall, a loud, synchronized roar of celebration suddenly erupted, followed by the distinct sound of Josuke yelling, "HE ATE THE CARROT! THAT'S THREE BITES! WE'RE MAKING HISTORY, GUYS!"
Mystic Flour slowly closed her eyes, letting out a faint, silent sigh that frosted the glass of the window pane beside her. "Truly... an exhausting world."
*-*-*-*-*-*
The high-pitched cheering from the dining hall eventually died down into a satisfied, breathless calm once Michael managed to finish a respectable portion of the stew. With their primary singer officially fueled and combat-ready, the team didn't waste another second.
The Crimson Ladybug Mobile purred smoothly as it glided along the bumpy, unpaved mountain pass, its advanced suspension system absorbing the shock of the rocky terrain. Outside, the landscape slowly shifted from jagged, volcanic crags into dense, autumn-tinted pine forests.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a mix of intense focus and quiet preparation.
"Alright, people, listen up," Lloyd said, standing near the front of the cabin with a crude map pinned to a corkboard. He tapped it with a wooden pointer. "We are heading into Ironridge Village. According to the guild records I skimmed back at the capital, it's a mid-tier mining and trade settlement. Since we are in a completely unknown world with zero baseline regional data, our objective today is twofold: Information Gathering."
He gestured to the heavy crates piled near the door.
"We're trading our excess high-grade silk, refined sulfur, and basic spare materials from the van's cargo bay for local currency and raw regional Intel. We need maps, political structures, local monster spawn routes, and most importantly—where the nearest major trade hubs are. I want zero incidents. No heroic interventions, no spontaneous duels, and absolutely no accepting random side-quests from elderly villagers!"
"Understood, Young Master," Javier said from the driver's seat, his hands steady on the wheel. "I have calibrated the van's external cloaking sensors. The vehicle will appear as an enclosed luxury transport carriage to the locals to minimize panic."
In the back, Michael was sitting comfortably on a plush bench, wearing a simple, dark travel cloak over his outfit to keep a low profile. He was idly twirling a newly materialized, silver-trimmed flintlock musket between his fingers, practicing the fluid, belt-summoning motion with effortless grace.
"It's strange," Michael said softly, his dark eyes looking out the tinted window as the wooden guard posts of Ironridge Village began to appear through the trees. "The air here feels heavy... like the world itself is waiting for something to happen."
"That's just the narrative toxicity, Mr. Jackson," Josuke said, leaning back with his hands behind his head while Okuyasu stared wide-eyed out the window at the medieval-style wooden houses. "Every time we enter a new town, some weird webnovel event tries to trigger. But with Lloyd's legal shield and our firepower, we'll sweep through this place in no time."
Marinette checked the seals on the silk crates one last time. "The silk quality is far superior to anything a normal village weaver can produce. We should be able to get a high trade value and draw out the local guild master or village elder for a private meeting. That’s our best bet for accurate maps."
On her velvet cushion, Mystic Flour Cookie remained perfectly silent, her tiny three-inch frame completely still as Cloud Haetae Cookie curled up defensively beside her, glaring at the window.
"The scent of iron and mortal sweat," Mystic Flour's cold, hollow voice resonated gently in their minds. "A minor settlement clinging to the edge of the wilderness. How fleeting."
"Keep your guards up," Lloyd commanded as the van slowed to a crawl, rolling through the open gates of Ironridge Village under the bewildered, wide-eyed stares of guards and merchants alike. "Let's go get our answers."
*-*-*-*-*-*
The Crimson Ladybug Mobile rolled past the rustic wooden palisades of Ironridge Village, its high-tech, gleaming chassis gliding silently over the compressed dirt paths. To the utter astonishment of the party, the settlement was a portrait of idyllic, rural tranquility. Smoke curled peacefully from stone chimneys, laundry fluttered on clotheslines in the crisp autumn breeze, and local children chased a wooden hoop down the narrow lanes without a single care in the world. There were no looming monster hordes, no brooding bandits, and no ominous skies. It was, by all accounts, a safe, quiet, and blindingly ordinary frontier hamlet.
Directing the vehicle toward the bustling communal square, Javier parked near the central trading posts, where rows of wooden carts and canvas awnings displayed local ironwork, dried herbs, and woven goods. Stepping out of the van, the team maintained a disciplined, cautious posture, expecting the sudden ambush of a generic narrative trigger. Leading the expedition, Lloyd carried a stout ledger, flanked by Josuke, Okuyasu, Marinette, and Michael. Resting securely in Michael’s left palm—away from any potential canine-related alarms—was Mystic Flour Cookie, her tiny ivory form still and silent, with Cloud Haetae Cookie perched protectively right beside her.
They approached a modest, sun-bleached wooden stall draped with pelts and polished copper kettles, tended by a middle-aged merchant named Barnaby. With a warm, crinkling smile, silver-streaked hair, and a patch over one eye, Barnaby looked the picture of grandfatherly benevolence.
"Welcome, travelers, to Ironridge!" Barnaby beamed, his voice rich and welcoming as he wiped his hands on a clean linen apron. "You've a fine carriage there, the likes of which these old eyes have never seen. What brings such distinguished folk to our humble corner of the world?"
"We are looking to establish baseline commercial trade," Lloyd began, adjusting his collar with a brisk, professional demeanor. "We have high-grade silk and refined sulfur reserves. We require standard regional currency equivalents, detailed topographical cartography, and structural supply routes. Let us review the tariff rates before—"
Before Lloyd could finish his sentence, Barnaby’s smile widened into something impossibly theatrical. He grabbed a wooden washboard and a metal spoon from beneath his counter, striking them together with a sharp, rhythmic CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!
Instantly, every single villager within a three-mile radius dropped their tools, stopped their conversations, and snapped into a synchronized, high-stepping Broadway formation. The local blacksmith dropped his tongs, grabbed a pair of iron cymbals, and leapt onto a water trough. The children lined up in dual pom-pom-wielding cheer squads, and a hidden brass band somewhere behind the bakery struck up an aggressively upbeat, bouncy march tempo.
Barnaby threw his head back and belted out the opening line with an ungodly amount of vibrato, launching the entire settlement into a full-scale musical number driven by an infectious, high-energy cheerleading cadence:
(Beat: Boom-clap, boom-clap, drop!)
"Oh, the mountains are high and the meadows are green!
Best traders and miners that you've ever seen!
So give us your silk and your sulfur right now,
And we'll greet every stranger with a smiling-bright bow!
G-I-V-E U-S Y-O-U-R S-T-U-F-F!
Ironridge trading is never enough!
Clap-clap your hands, and you stomp-stomp your feet,
Welcome, dear guests, to our cheerful brick street!"
The entire village chorus kicked their legs in unison, waving colorful ribbons of homespun wool as they swarmed the perimeter of the trading post, chanting with deafening, synchronized enthusiasm:
"RA-RA-REVENUE! SHIP THE ORE!
TRADE US YOUR SILK AND A WHOLE LOT MORE!
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, COUNT THE GOLD!
BEST COMMERCIAL TARIFFS EVER TOLD!"
Inside the circle of singing, dancing townsfolk, the multiversal refugees stood completely paralyzed. Josuke’s jaw dropped so low it nearly scraped the dirt. Okuyasu blinked stupidly, swaying slightly to the relentless marching beat. Marinette clutched her head, her brain struggling to calculate the logic of a civilization that burst into synchronized choreography without warning. On Michael’s palm, Mystic Flour Cookie’s vacant grey eyes stared forward as a floating ribbon grazed her pristine white hanfu, while Cloud Haetae hissed softly, his fluffy fur bristling at the sheer, unadulterated musical menace of the locals.
Lloyd Frontera froze mid-gesture, his pen hovering over his ledger. A single vein throbbed violently on his temple.
"I don't remember Isekai's—" Lloyd started to mutter through gritted teeth, his eyes bulging as a troupe of elderly basket-weavers hoisted him onto their shoulders mid-verse.
The rest of his sentence was instantly swallowed up as the entire town surged forward, grabbing the team by their arms and hoisting them into the air for an impromptu, high-stepping village tour. They were paraded past the blacksmith shop—where sparks fell in the exact shape of a heart—and around the central Maypole, while the baker showered them in locally sourced, glitter-dusted scones. The cheer squad cartwheeled around Javier, who merely stared down at them with an expression of profound, soul-crushing exhaustion, his hand resting calmly on his sword hilt as villagers danced circles around his boots.
For ten agonizing minutes, the musical onslaught continued unabated, until the grand finale concluded with a deafening town-wide high note, a shower of confetti, and a synchronized pose from all fifty villagers pointing directly at the trading post.
Then, absolute silence descended upon the square.
The villagers stood completely still, chests heaving slightly from the aerobic exertion, smiling blankly at the visitors as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.
The gang stood in the center of the square, standing utterly shocked, frozen, and dead silent. The wind whistled gently through the empty street.
Without missing a single beat, Lloyd casually stepped down from the shoulders of the elderly basket-weavers, brushed a speck of confetti off his dark coat, smoothed his hair, and walked straight back up to Barnaby’s wooden counter as if nothing had happened. He slapped his ledger down onto the wood with a crisp, professional thud.
"Now," Lloyd said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, his eyes dead and unblinking as he looked straight at the bewildered trader. "As I was saying before the musical interruption, let us review the wholesale tariff rates for twenty crates of high-grade spider silk in exchange for standard regional maps and mineral rights."
Barnaby blinked, blinked again, adjusted his eye patch, and beamed warmly. "Ah, splendid business sense you've got there, young man! Let's talk numbers!"
Barnaby gladly waved the group deeper into his shop, where shelves lined with strange artifacts, jars of iridescent powders, and rolls of parchment stretched into the dim, cozy corners of the room.
Lloyd immediately gravitated toward the cartography section, unrolling a massive, leather-bound map across the counter. As his eyes scanned the sprawling topography, his professional demeanor cracked just a fraction. He stared at the sheer, colossal scale of the landmass, noting with growing disbelief that despite the continent's gargantuan size, the entire civilized expanse was politically dominated by only two colossal superpowers: Kingdom Hyaline (where they currently resided) and its rival, Kingdom Valerian.
However, what truly made Lloyd’s business-driven brain stall were the hostile, untamed territories stretching out beyond the forests of the Hyaline Kingdom:
* Arestonia, a sprawling nation of humans, alongside ancient domains belonging to the Elf Kingdom and the Fairy Kingdom.
* Songorin, the terrifyingly fortified Demon Kingdom.
* Drekkthor, the treacherous Valley of Shapeshifting Dragons—noted on the map with heavy red ink as being none too friendly.
Only two major human kingdoms buffering an absolute nightmare gauntlet of hostile magical races and sovereign monster domains, Lloyd thought, a cold sweat forming on his neck as he calculated the absolute disaster of trying to establish interstate trade routes across those borders. The logistics alone would bankrupt a small empire in security tariffs.
Meanwhile, while Lloyd was having an existential crisis over continental geopolitics, Marinette wandered down the shop's liquid aisle, her hero's intuition drawing her toward a row of glass phials.
Resting on a wooden shelf, catching the ambient shop light, was a single, softly glowing potion. She leaned in closer to read the neatly handwritten label attached to the neck of the bottle: From the Town of Arundel.
According to the brief historical footnote inscribed on the tag, the Town of Arundel was a postcard of pre-industrial tranquility. Nestled against the serpentine bend of the Silver-Vein River, its watermills hummed a rhythmic, soothing lullaby that synced with the pulse of the trade docks. The inhabitants were hardy, honest folk—weavers, boatmen, and spice traders—who lived entirely by the grace of the river’s bountiful trade.
Marinette traced the glass with her finger, feeling a strange, peaceful resonance from the glowing liquid inside.
As Marinette continued to inspect the glowing phial, Barnaby shuffled over from the counter, wiping his hands on his apron and peering down at the label with a soft, reminiscent smile.
"Ah, the Arundel brew," Barnaby chuckled warmly, shaking his head. "A wonderful place, that town. Finest spices and woven goods this side of the river. In fact, a dear old friend of mine used to live right there, and we'd trade letters by courier every single month."
His expression faltered slightly, the grandfatherly warmth dimming into a look of quiet concern. "Pity, though. The letters completely stopped responding a while back. I heard through traveling merchants that the great hero and his party marched right through there about a month ago to save the town from a rampaging dragon... but even after the supposed 'liberation,' my friend's letters still haven't come."
Hearing this, Lloyd abruptly snapped his ledger shut, abandoning his intense study of the continental map. He strode down the aisle, his sharp, sleep-deprived eyes locking onto the merchant with an expression of acute, highly calculated suspicion.
"Did not come?" Lloyd repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, analytical cadence. "How odd. If a designated crisis zone has been officially cleared by a high-ranking protagonist, standard post-conflict infrastructure should resume normal operations within forty-eight hours. If communication lines are still severed, it means there is a fundamental systemic failure—either the threat wasn't actually neutralized, or the 'heroes' left behind a massive logistical disaster."
Lloyd narrowed his eyes, mentally cataloging every trope he had ever dissected during his endless hours of binge-reading and gaming back in his college days.
Always check the ruins of a 'saved' town, Lloyd's inner voice hissed, a cold corporate sweat prickling his neck. In every single webnovel and RPG plotline, a town that gets 'saved' by a reckless hero usually ends up with a secondary hazard—either corrupt local authorities, a neglected curse, or an unmanaged economic collapse that the protagonist completely ignored because they were too busy moving on to the next harem checkpoint!
Josuke stepped forward, stepping past Lloyd’s rapidly spiraling risk-assessment calculations, and leaned casually against the wooden shelf next to Marinette. He gave Barnaby an easy, approachable grin, though his eyes were sharp.
"Hey, pops," Josuke asked, gesturing toward the Arundel potion phial. "If this hero squad rolled through and took care of the dragon like they were supposed to, did anyone actually check back in on the town afterward? Or did they just beat the boss, pose for the local portraits, and bail out to the next destination?"
Barnaby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a weathered hand. "That's just it, lad. From what I heard, the hero's party dropped a massive amount of collateral damage during the fight—collapsed a section of the riverbank and ruined the lower watermills—and then they immediately dashed off toward the capital for a grand victory banquet. They left the local militia to pick up the pieces, and the supply lines have been blocked ever since."
Okuyasu crossed his arms, frowning deeply. "Man, talk about a raw deal! If you wreck a guy's neighborhood, the least you can do is help clean up the rubble before you bounce!"
In Michael’s left palm, Mystic Flour Cookie remained entirely unbothered, her tiny ivory form letting out a faint, frigid sigh. "Fools playing at heroism," her hollow, winter-wind voice echoed quietly in their minds. "They leave only ruin in the wake of their noise."
Javier stepped forward from the shadows of the doorway, his tall, imposing silhouette casting a long, disciplined shadow across the wooden floorboards. His sharp, tactical eyes locked onto the merchant with the unwavering intensity of a seasoned field commander, cutting straight through the lingering echoes of the village's musical number.
"A dragon subjugation that results in severe structural damage, followed by an immediate abandonment of the disaster zone by the primary protagonist, points directly to a high-probability secondary disaster scenario," Javier stated, his voice calm, low, and laced with absolute professional certainty. He narrowed his gaze slightly, pressing the line of inquiry further. "Tell me, merchant. Aside from your unresponsive pen pal, has anyone belonging to this settlement gone overdue on their travel schedule from that region? In structural logic, a severed communication line is rarely isolated; it usually correlates with missing personnel or compromised trade routes."
Barnaby paused, his weathered hand hovering over a jar of dried lavender as Javier’s words settled heavily in the cozy shop. The old trader’s brow furrowed deeply, lines of genuine worry etching themselves around his one good eye. He slowly lowered his hand and let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled the copper kettles hanging above his head.
"Now that you mention it..." Barnaby murmured, his voice losing its usual grandfatherly cheer and dropping into a gravelly whisper. "There is one matter that’s been sitting heavy in the back of my mind. About a month ago, right around the time the hero’s party was reported heading toward the riverbanks, a young woman from our village named Elpis set out on a routine journey to Arundel."
Barnaby looked up, meeting Javier’s piercing stare with a look of uneasy uncertainty. "You see, Ironridge and Arundel have been sister-settlements for centuries, bound by blood, trade, and old-fashioned friendship. Folks travel back and forth between the two towns all the time to visit family or check on the spice markets. Elpis went down there to visit her sister and elderly parents just as the seasonal rains were starting up."
"And she hasn't returned?" Josuke asked, his relaxed demeanor instantly vanishing as he stepped closer to the counter, his protective instincts flaring up.
"Well... that's just the frustrating part," Barnaby replied, shaking his head with a troubled expression. "We haven't officially confirmed that she's missing, because, after all, it was meant to be an extended visit. Families stay for weeks, sometimes months, especially when the river trade is booming or when weather conditions slow down the mountain passes. With all the commotion of the dragon attack and the hero's grand battle tearing up the lower banks, everyone naturally assumed she simply decided to shelter in place with her folks until the dust settled."
Barnaby’s hands clenched into tight fists against the wooden counter. "But with the letters stopped dead in their tracks... and hearing how the hero's party practically abandoned the town to wallow in its own wreckage without cleaning up the mess they made... my gut's telling me something is terribly wrong. If the town was truly 'saved,' why hasn't a single soul been able to send word back out?"
Lloyd’s face darkened into an expression of pure, unadulterated corporate fury. His eye twitched as he aggressively gripped the edge of his ledger, his mind instantly synthesizing the data into a horrifyingly familiar trope.
"Classic narrative negligence," Lloyd hissed under his breath, his teeth grinding together so hard they nearly fractured. "The protagonist gets all the XP, takes all the glory, accepts the adulation of the capital, and leaves behind an unmanaged logistical nightmare of structural damage, cut-off communication lines, and trapped civilians left entirely to rot in the fallout zone! It’s an unoptimized disaster waiting to blow up in our faces!"
For a fraction of a second, absolute silence hung over the shop. Lloyd’s eyes remained locked on the glowing potion phial of Arundel, his brain frantically processing the variables. A ruined town left behind by a reckless hero, communication lines severed, potential missing villagers from their allied settlement, and a desperate lack of verified regional intelligence.
In any normal survival scenario, a rational person would turn around, lock the doors, and drive the van as far away from the disaster zone as humanly possible.
Then, Lloyd’s internal calculator violently recalculated the data.
Wait a minute, Lloyd’s inner voice screeched, his eyes suddenly widening as a brilliant, terrifyingly ambitious light sparked in his pupils. A town that produces the finest spices and woven goods in the region. A town currently cut off from all trade routes, meaning its local commodities are sitting there, completely unmonetized, with zero market competition! If the infrastructure is wrecked and the locals are stranded, they won't have any bargaining power. We swoop in, secure the supply chain, clear out whatever low-tier threat the 'hero' inevitably left behind, and monopolize the spice trade between Ironridge and the capital!
Not to mention, they genuinely needed those supplies. Their current inventory of provisions was dwindling, and living exclusively on emergency rations and whatever Michael could stomach was not a long-term business plan.
Lloyd’s face twisted into a sharp, terrifyingly confident grin that made Javier, who knew that exact expression all too well, let out a slow, preemptive sigh of exhaustion.
"Hold on," Lloyd said aloud, slamming his hand down onto the wooden counter with a sharp crack that made Barnaby jump. "Let me get this straight. Arundel is completely cut off, its trade docks are abandoned, and nobody is currently harvesting or exporting their high-grade spices because they're too busy dealing with structural damage and ghost towns?"
"Well... yes, I suppose so," Barnaby blinked, taken aback by the sudden, intense shift in the young man's demeanor. "The roads are blocked, and the merchants won't go near the place after what the dragon and the hero did to the riverbanks."
Lloyd’s grin widened into full-blown, capitalist ecstasy.
"Then it's settled," Lloyd declared, adjusting his collar with absolute authority as he turned to face his bewildered team. "We are going to Arundel."
"Whoa, hold on a second, boss!" Josuke crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Weren't you just complaining five minutes ago about avoiding random side-quests and unoptimized dangers? Now we're volunteering for a rescue-slash-salvage mission?"
"This isn't a charity mission, Josuke, this is a strategic market acquisition!" Lloyd corrected sharply, pointing his finger toward the map. "Ironridge needs a secure trade route with its sister-settlement, we need high-grade spices and structural raw materials, and there is a gaping monopoly waiting to be claimed in a deserted economic zone! If the protagonist’s cleanup crew failed to secure the perimeter, we will do it ourselves, bill the regional guild for hazard reimbursement, and establish a stranglehold on the local supply chain!"
"In short," Javier sighed, adjusting his scabbard with a look of profound resignation, "the Young Master has smelled an opportunity for profit, which means we have no choice in the matter."
"Precisely!" Lloyd turned back to Barnaby, his eyes gleaming with entrepreneurial fire. "Mr. Barnaby, consider this an official corporate partnership. We will travel to Arundel, check on your missing friend, locate this 'Elpis' person, clear out whatever administrative negligence the hero left behind, and reopen your trade channels. In exchange..." Lloyd flashed a razor-sharp smile. "...you're going to give us first-priority wholesale rights on their spice reserves at a twenty percent discount."
Barnaby stared at him for a long, stunned moment before a wide, tearful smile broke across his weathered face. He reached out and vigorously shook Lloyd’s hand. "You're a madman, son... but if you can actually bring my friends and my town back to life, you've got a deal!"
On Michael’s palm, Mystic Flour Cookie let out a low, echoing sigh of infinite weariness. "More noise," her hollow voice murmured. "More pointless mortal enterprise."
"Alright, team, pack it up!" Lloyd barked, turning on his heel toward the door. "Javier, prep the van! Okuyasu, stop trying to eat the decorative candles! We’re heading to Arundel, and we are going to audit the absolute daylight out of that disaster zone!"