Interlude: The Cu*k Hero Meets the Pure, 1

-Featuring Nick's Events in the village of Renea, Totally accurate depiction of what actually happened-

Nick stood frozen in the exact geometric center of the village square, his legendary Holy Sword pointed dramatically at the twilight sky. His feet were planted in a textbook heroic stance, his jaw set in a line of righteous fury, and his mouth was hanging slightly open in an expression of profound, system-crashing confusion.

His [Heroic Instinct]—a passive, high-tier skill that had never once steered him wrong—was absolutely screaming at the back of his skull. It vibrated with a dark, heavy warning, insisting that this location was a stronghold of ultimate evil, a den of demonic oversight where innocents were being crushed under the iron boot of tyranny.

"He's here, be ready!" He kept saying multiple times to his 'harem'.

But the reality presented before his eyes was a devastatingly boring, flawlessly executed agricultural audit.

There was no mud, no weeping maidens in ragged clothes, no rusted cages or spiked barricades. Instead, the village of Renea featured freshly paved cobblestone streets laid out in a highly efficient grid pattern. Small, aesthetically pleasing streetlamps powered by low-consumption mana crystals hummed softly, casting a warm, inviting glow over the square. And in the center of it all, sitting on a sturdy ergonomic wooden stool behind a foldable table, was an elderly farmer.

The farmer slowly adjusted his half-moon reading glasses, completely and utterly unaffected by the blinding, divine light radiating from Nick's holy blade.

Behind Nick, his party was already beginning to process the profound wrongness of the situation, their reactions perfectly tailored to their respective archetypes.

Lucretia, the busty, easily flustered mage, clutched her wooden staff to her chest, her cheeks burning with a sudden, intense blush. She aggressively pushed her round glasses up her nose, squinting at the wooden HR booth. "S-Sir Nick! The architectural lines of that kiosk... they're too mathematically perfect!" she analyzed, her voice trembling as her staff glowed faintly, scanning the area. "This isn't the chaotic, destructive work of a Dark Lord! It's... It's deliberate, meticulously calculated urban planning! Who zones a village square for mixed commercial and agricultural use?! It's... It's almost indecently organized!" She let out a small squeak, her blush deepening as she realized she was rambling about municipal zoning laws in front of her hero.

Egel, the brawler, groaned, cracking her knuckles with a series of sharp, violent pops. She looked around, desperate for an enemy, her face flushed with the exertion of pent-up adrenaline. "Who cares about zoning?!" she complained, bouncing on her heels. "I just wanna punch something! Boss, can I just punch the kiosk? It's looking at me funny, and... and I need to hit something before I get all weird and sweaty!" She cast a sidelong glance at Nick, a faint, entirely inappropriate blush dusting her cheeks at the thought of impressing him with property damage.

Luna, the dark elf ranger, crouched gracefully, her movements fluid and silent. She ran her slender fingers over the freshly paved cobblestones, her face a mask of serene, stoic concern. She closed her eyes, her long, pointed ears twitching as she tuned into the frequency of the earth. "Nick..." she murmured, her voice laced with deep unease, though her cheeks remained perfectly pale, her 'concern' a carefully constructed facade to maintain her mysterious allure. "This stone... it's infused with a permanent stabilization matrix. And the soil in the nearby fields... it's perfectly pH balanced. There is no demonic taint here, no scent of blood or dark magic. It's... terrifyingly mundane and efficient."

Before Nick could answer any of them, the elderly farmer sitting at the desk slowly adjusted his half-moon reading glasses once more and spoke to him. He was still being completely unaffected by the blinding, divine light radiating from Nick's holy blade or the heavily armed, highly agitated girls behind him.

"Excuse me, young man," the farmer said in a monotone voice, pointing to a wrought-iron sign planted right next to Nick's boots that he didn't even notice. "This is private property. We are currently conducting a quarterly audit on wheat production. Did you make an appointment with Human Resources before screaming your way into the freight sorting area?"

Nick slowly lowered his sword. His brain, programmed to kill monsters and save princesses, completely short-circuited.

The girls behind him exchanged confused glances.

Under the sign the farmer pointed to, burned into the metal, was the inscription that would haunt Nick's nightmares for months to come:

[WARNING: CORPORATE TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW OR FED TO THE SECRETARY OF FLAME. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.]

"I asked you a question, young man," the farmer repeated, his voice the dry, monotonous rustle of autumn leaves. He tapped the feathered end of his quill against a thick wooden clipboard. "Do you have a scheduled appointment? Your incessant shouting is currently violating Section 3, Paragraph A of the Renea local noise ordinance. Furthermore, you are interrupting my mandated, union-approved fifteen-minute coffee break. The timer is running."

"I... what?" Nick stammered, the heroic wind seemingly knocked right out of his sails.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and tried to forcefully flare his [Heroic Aura]. This was his trump card, a passive skill that pushed his divine charisma outward in a wave of golden light.

Normally, this caused commoners to fall to their knees in weeping awe, beg for his blessing, and eagerly offer him their life savings, their ultimate loyalty, and occasionally their daughters.

The golden wave of charisma washed over the square, ruffling the farmer's gray hair.

The farmer merely blinked, aggressively unimpressed. He reached over, picked up a ceramic mug of steaming chamomile tea, and took a slow, deliberate sip.

"If you are here looking for seasonal agricultural employment," the farmer sighed, setting the mug down exactly on top of a cork coaster, "the Human Resources kiosk opens at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. You will need to bring two forms of magical identification and your tax history. If, however, you are here to 'break our chains' as you so loudly announced, please be informed that Ravenloft Holdings offers a comprehensive dental plan, four weeks of paid vacation, and matched 401k contributions in pure gold bullion. So, frankly speaking, we are quite attached to our chains. Thank you, and good evening."

"T-This is a high-level mind-control spell!" Nick yelled, his voice cracking as he spun around to face his party. "They’ve been completely brainwashed by the Dark Lord's insidious magic! He's corrupted their very souls with illusions of dental hygiene! Egel, smash that kiosk! We need to break the magical focal point! And What the fuck is this 'Ravenloft Holdings'? Are we in Aethelgard or in New York?!"

"You got it, Boss! Anything for you!" Egel grinned, her blush returning full force as she cracked her knuckles again. The martial artist stepped forward, Chi energy swirling around her fists in violent, destructive blue vortexes, ready to turn the wooden HR booth into splinters.

But before the muscle mommy brawler could even wind up her punch, the heavy oak doors of the municipal building—formerly the village elder's dilapidated hut, now renovated and painted a sterile, corporate white—burst open with the force of a localized hurricane.

A blinding, radiant light spilled into the square, so intense that Luna the dark elf had to hiss and shield her sensitive eyes.

"HAAAAARK!" A booming, overly dramatic, impossibly loud voice echoed through the perfectly paved streets of the village.

Stepping out into the evening light, looking less like a human being and more like a mint-condition, ultra-rare collectible action figure, was a man clad in golden plate armor.

The armor was so immaculately polished, so flawlessly pristine, it looked like it was forged from luxury plastic rather than metal.

His flowing blonde hair completely defied the laws of gravity and common sense, waving majestically around his face despite the absolute lack of wind in the square.

The great figure flashed a smile so perfectly, unnaturally white that it practically caused lens flares in the ambient lighting.

Slung across his broad, heavily armored chest on a strap of braided unicorn hair was a beautifully crafted wooden lute.

Nick’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. The tip of his holy sword dipped toward the ground, the holy light sputtering. He stood there, staring with his mouth open like a boiled fish. It was as if he had just seen a god descend from the heavens.

"No way... It can't be..." Nick gasped, all the air leaving his lungs.