The villagers gathered in the square with a wheelbarrow.
Not a cart. Not multiple containers. One single wheelbarrow piled with copper coins that clinked and shifted as they pushed it forward. The sound was almost musical, except for the context.
An old man stood at the front of the group. Village chief, probably. Late sixties, maybe older. Thin in the way people get when they've spent decades doing hard labor on insufficient food. His hands shook as he gestured to the wheelbarrow.
"My lords," his voice cracked. "We've gathered everything we could. Eighty one gold worth of copper. It's all we have after the—"
Zedrik's hand moved so fast John almost missed it.
The sword came out of its sheath and swept horizontally in one fluid motion. Professional. Practiced. No hesitation.
The old man's head separated from his body mid sentence.
It hit the ground before his body did. The corpse crumpled, blood spraying from the stump of his neck in arterial spurts that painted the dirt red. The head rolled a few feet and stopped, eyes still open, mouth still forming words that would never finish.
The villagers screamed.
Some ran. The soldiers moved immediately, not attacking yet but forming a tighter perimeter. Herding everyone back into the square. Nowhere to go. Completely surrounded.
Zedrik wiped his blade on his sleeve, casual as cleaning mud off boots.
"One hundred gold. Every month. That's the agreement." His voice carried over the screaming. "Are you not trading? Not farming? Not working? What the fuck are you doing that you can't produce one hundred gold of value every thirty days?"
"Please!" A woman pushed forward. Middle aged, dirt on her dress, desperation on her face. "Please, my lord, we can explain—"
"Explain." Zedrik sheathed his sword. "Yes. Do explain why you're robbing Lord Saunder of his rightful income."
"Orcs, my lord! A week ago, they raided us! Took half our livestock, burned three barns, killed eleven people! We've been rebuilding, trying to recover, we'll have the full amount next month, we just need—"
"Orcs." Zedrik looked at Alrick. "You hear that? Orcs."
Alrick nodded slowly. "Convenient excuse."
"Very convenient." Zedrik turned back to the woman. "Stand up."
She was kneeling. She stood, her legs shaking so badly she could barely maintain balance.
Zedrik circled her. Slowly. Looking her up and down with an expression that made John's stomach turn. This wasn't evaluation. This was something else.
He reached out and grabbed her breast through her dress. Squeezed. The woman gasped, tried to pull away. Zedrik's other hand grabbed her hip, pulled her closer.
"Hold still," he said pleasantly.
His hands roamed. Grabbing, groping, testing. The woman cried out, tried to push him away. He slapped her across the face hard enough to snap her head sideways.
"I said hold still."
John felt bile rising in his throat. This wasn't tax collection. This wasn't even punishment. This was something way worse. Something that made Elrin's cruelty look almost restrained by comparison.
What kind of redo of healer bullshit story is this, John's brain screamed at him. This was supposed to be a fantasy world. Supposed to have rules. Supposed to have some kind of logic beyond just endless degradation and violence and—
He turned and stumbled behind a building. Made it three steps before his stomach emptied itself. The little food he'd eaten that morning came back up, burning his throat.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Soldier. One of the rear guard.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
"I'm sick, I just—"
"Lord Zedrik wants everyone watching. Come on."
The soldier dragged him back to the square. John tried to resist but his legs were still exhausted from the march. He stumbled along, forced back to witness whatever was happening.
Zedrik had released the woman. She'd collapsed to the ground, sobbing. He stood over her, looking at the gathered villagers.
"Line up all women over eighteen. Now."
The soldiers moved immediately. Grabbed women from the crowd. Pushed them into a line in the center of the square. The women resisted, screamed, begged. Didn't matter. The soldiers were efficient.
Twenty minutes. That's how long it took to organize thirty women into a neat row. Young ones, old ones, some barely adults, some in their sixties. All terrified. All knowing something horrible was coming but not knowing what.
John watched from where the soldier had shoved him, unable to look away, unable to process.
Zedrik walked down the line slowly. Inspecting. His soldiers followed, making comments.
"That one's too old."
"Face like a horse."
"Tits are saggy."
"This one might be worth it if you're drunk enough."
Laughter. Jeering. Rating women like livestock while their families watched.
Zedrik reached the end of the line and turned back to his men.
"Well? Are these lots worth fucking?"
The soldiers responded in unison. Thumbs down. More laughter. More jeering.
One soldier shouted, "Wouldn't touch any of them with your dick, my lord!"
More laughter.
Zedrik nodded slowly, like he'd been presented with a difficult problem that now had an obvious solution.
"The women aren't hot enough," he announced. His voice carried across the square. Clear. Casual. Like he was discussing the weather. "Therefore, they have no value. Kill all the adults. Everyone over eighteen. Leave the children alive to rebuild and maybe produce better looking daughters in fifteen years."
Silence dropped like a physical weight.
Then chaos.
Screaming. Running. Begging. The soldiers drew weapons and moved into the crowd with practiced efficiency. This wasn't their first massacre. They knew how to do this.
Swords fell. Blood sprayed. Bodies hit the ground.
An old woman tried to run. A soldier caught her, drove his blade through her back. She fell face first into the dirt.
A man tried to fight with his bare hands. Three soldiers cut him down. He died screaming.
The thirty women in the line broke formation. Tried to scatter. Nowhere to go. Soldiers everywhere. The killing was methodical. Organized. Room by room, building by building, they went through the village executing every adult they found.
John's knees hit the ground. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything. His brain had shut down everything except the visual input he couldn't block.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't how stories worked. Even dark stories had logic. Had reasons. Had some kind of framework that made sense.
This was just murder. Mass murder. For taxes. Because the women weren't attractive enough to rape.
Alrick approached Zedrik, his face animated in a way it hadn't been before. Excited. "Can I keep some of the corpses? While they're still warm?"
Zedrik laughed. "Go ahead. Just don't take too long."
Alrick actually giggled. A high pitched sound that didn't match his scarred face. He walked toward the massacre, already pulling off his gloves, laughing like a child being told he could have extra dessert.
Zedrik turned to John. His face was flushed, breathing heavy. The violence had clearly excited him.
"You want one? Pick any woman you like. Fresh corpse, still warm. Saunder won't mind. Consider it a perk of the job."
John's mouth moved but no sound came out.
"No?" Zedrik shrugged. "Suit yourself. More for us."
He jogged toward the massacre, joining his soldiers in the slaughter, his laughter mixing with theirs.
John was alone at the village front.
The screaming continued behind him. Swords hitting flesh. Begging cut short. Children crying for parents who were already dead.
All the soldiers were occupied. Distracted. Engaged in organized murder.
Nobody was watching him.
John's body moved before his brain caught up. He stood. Turned away from the village. Started walking.
Then running.
His exhausted legs screamed protest but he ignored them. Ran toward the tree line. Into the forest. Away from the sounds of massacre.
Branches whipped his face. He stumbled over roots. Kept running. His lungs burned. The armor weighed him down. Didn't matter. Just run.
Behind him, distantly, the screaming continued. Maybe someone noticed he was gone. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they'd send soldiers after him.
Didn't matter. Just run.
He crashed through underbrush, following the slope downward because that's where water would be and water meant direction and direction meant away from whatever the fuck that was.
His foot caught something. He went down hard, armor clanking. Got up. Kept running.
Time stopped meaning anything. Just trees and running and the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Then he heard it. Water. Running water. A river.
He burst through the tree line and there it was. A river, maybe thirty feet across, moving fast. Clean water. No blood. No corpses.
John stumbled to the edge and collapsed.
His vision went spotty. The exhaustion, the horror, the running, all of it caught up at once. His body simply shut down.
The last thing he saw before passing out was the river, flowing peacefully, completely indifferent to massacres and tax collection and the absolute fucking nightmare his isekai adventure had become.
Then darkness took him.
Blessed, empty darkness.