"You'll do no such thing," Marta says, physically blocking the doorway when Kenji reaches for his still-damp business suit. "One more day. That's an order, not a request."
Kenji weighs his options—argue with his only local contact or gather more intelligence. He steps back from the door. His entire understanding of this place comes from Marta: kind eyes, weathered hands, and a tendency to fuss over strangers. Hardly a representative demographic for strategic planning.
He pulls out his soggy notebook, flipping through pages of ruined evidence. Three questions, he decides. Always start with three: Where am I? What's the local power structure? How does money work here?
He needs answers before he can plan anything.
By mid-morning, Kenji tests his balance, takes a few steps without swaying, then nods. Time for fieldwork.
"Could you show me around?" he asks. "I'd like to understand how your community functions."
Marta leads him through Ashvale's market square—a collection of weathered wooden stalls scattered around a central well. A baker calls out prices while kneading dough. Two farmers negotiate grain costs without raising their voices. A blacksmith works his forge while simultaneously haggling over horseshoe repairs. Everyone moves with purpose, but nobody seems rushed.
"Figured you'd want to observe how folks live here," Marta says, gesturing toward the activity. "You being a scholar and all."
Kenji nods, though his focus shifts to more practical concerns. What serves as currency? How do they verify transactions? What prevents fraud without digital systems?
He gets his first answer at a grain merchant's stall.
A weather-beaten farmer hefts a burlap sack onto the counter. "Two silver for the lot," he says.
The baker examines the grain, nods, then counts coins into the farmer's palm. Standard commodity exchange—until Kenji notices the impossible detail.
The coins don't just catch sunlight. As they pass from hand to hand, they pulse with their own inner light—soft, steady, unmistakably magical.
Kenji blinks hard. The glow remains.
"Fascinating," he mutters, mentally constructing new spreadsheet columns for "Impossible Phenomena."
The baker doesn't simply count the coins. He examines each one with methodical care, running calloused thumbs across their surfaces like a blind man reading braille. One piece gets pressed back into the farmer's hand with an apologetic shake of the head.
"This one's been through too many questionable hands," the baker explains. "The mana signature's all muddled up."
The farmer grimaces, pockets the rejected coin, and produces a replacement. This one passes inspection.
*Mana.* Kenji scribbles the term at the top of a fresh page, underlining it twice.
Three more transactions unfold before his eyes. Each follows the same pattern: glowing coins, tactile examinations, occasional rejections based on some invisible quality assessment.
"Marta," he says carefully, watching a woman reject a copper piece that looks identical to the ones she accepted, "what's wrong with that coin?"
Marta follows his gaze. "Can't you sense it? The mana's all twisted up. Probably changed hands during something dishonest."
"And that matters because...?"
She stares at him like he's asked why water flows downhill. "Can't have proper trade with tainted currency. Bad intent leaves marks in the metal. Most folk can spot poisoned coins from across the square."
Kenji watches another exchange—a seamstress purchasing thread. The merchant holds each coin up to the light, checking for that telltale glow before nodding acceptance.
The implications hit him like a revelation: This isn't medieval economics. It's a financial system with built-in fraud detection. Every transaction carries a magical audit trail.
For the first time since waking up in this impossible place, Kenji smiles.
He's found something better than spreadsheets.
He's found incorruptible money.
---
The afternoon brings darker conversations.
Kenji claims a corner table outside the tavern, notebook spread before him like he's sketching the market's layout. In reality, he's conducting what any forensic investigator would recognize as preliminary witness interviews. Financial crimes always generated gossip in his old world—people instinctively knew when money flowed wrong, even without proof.
Here, apparently, human nature remains constant.
The blacksmith's voice carries from the next table: "Tax season's nearly upon us. Collector's due any day now."
The baker sets down his ale with enough force to slosh foam onto the wooden planks. "Aye. And we all know what *that* means."
Something in their tone makes Kenji's pen pause mid-stroke. He adjusts his chair, angling toward their conversation while maintaining the pretense of artistic documentation.
"Excuse me," he interjects, adopting his most academic tone. "I'm documenting local governance structures for my research. Would you mind elaborating on your tax collection procedures?"
Both men turn, their expressions shifting from casual frustration to guarded suspicion. The blacksmith's soot-stained hands still on his drink. "You're not from around here, are you, scholar?"
"Correct. I'm conducting a comparative analysis of municipal revenue systems across—"
"Then you don't know about Thorne."
The name hits Kenji's ears like a discordant note in an otherwise familiar melody. His pen moves automatically, adding it to his growing list of variables with two sharp underlines.
"Thorne?"
The baker's eyes dart left and right before he leans forward, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. "Royal Tax Collector for this district. Shows up with his entourage, takes whatever catches his fancy, stamps it all with official seals."
"But documentation requirements must exist. Verification procedures? Receipt protocols?"
The blacksmith's laugh contains zero humor. "Oh, he's got paperwork. Beautiful penmanship, royal seals, forms signed in triplicate. Problem is..." He pauses, glancing around the tavern. "Word is, maybe half of what he collects actually reaches the royal treasury."
Kenji's pen stills completely. Every muscle in his body focuses on this moment—the familiar electric thrill of catching scent of financial fraud. "Are you suggesting systematic embezzlement of public funds?"
"I'm not suggesting *anything*," the blacksmith backpedals quickly, hands raised defensively. "Just mentioning what gets whispered when the ale flows freely. Hard to question a man who travels with twenty armed guards and magic-sealed writs."
*Classic intimidation tactics combined with document fraud.* Kenji scribbles rapid notes. The magical authentication adds complexity, but the fundamental structure remains depressingly familiar.
"Has anyone attempted an independent audit? Cross-referenced his reported collections against actual tax obligations?"
Both men stare at him with the expression reserved for someone who's suggested personally challenging death to a game of chess.
The baker speaks slowly, as if explaining basic mathematics to a child. "You'd need access to the complete royal tax codes. The district assessment records. Thorne's personal ledgers. And probably divine intervention thrown in for good measure."
"But hypothetically, if someone obtained that access..."
"They'd be found dead in a ditch," the blacksmith states with absolute certainty. "Three villages over, grain merchant named Willem tried disputing Thorne's calculations. Swore the man was double-charging for storage taxes. Found face-down in the Millbrook River two days later." His shrug carries the weight of grim acceptance. "Tragic accident, according to the official report."
Kenji's pen moves across the page: *Probable witness elimination. Pattern suggests systematic intimidation campaign to suppress financial oversight.*
"When does this Collector typically arrive?"
"Tomorrow morning, most likely. Day after at the latest. Always times it for market week when the coin flows heaviest."
Kenji closes his notebook with the sharp snap of a predator who's identified his prey.
"Gentlemen, thank you for this remarkably comprehensive briefing."
As he stands and walks toward Marta's cottage, their whispered conversation follows him:
"Strange fellow, that scholar."
"Aye. Talks about ledgers like they're weapons of war."
*If only you knew,* Kenji thinks, tucking his notebook securely against his chest.
In the right hands, properly wielded against the right target, numbers weren't just weapons.
They were instruments of absolute destruction.