Chapter 16: “The Baron, the Grimoire, and the Inconvenient Moral Crisis”

Aizen stared at the mountain of parchment on his desk—tax reports, infrastructure proposals, and a shockingly detailed complaint about "geyser noise pollution" from a spa owner named Gerald. Vermis hovered nearby, flipping its pages with audible disdain.

"Master, your subjects appear to believe 'Baron' is synonymous with 'therapist.' Shall I incinerate Gerald's fifth letter about the 'trauma' of bubbling sounds?"

"Tempting," Aizen muttered, massaging his temples. "But we need a less arson-based solution. We need… staff."

The Slave Market (Or, How to Hate Every Second of a Trope)

The Bloodroot Slave Exchange was exactly as ethically bankrupt as it sounded—a sprawling, open-air market where beings of every race were paraded in iron collars, their prices scrawled on chalkboards like lunch specials. Aizen lingered at the edge of the crowd, his mask's flames dampened to a dull glow.

"Let me guess," Vermis deadpanned. "You're about to engage in the isekai protagonist tradition of 'buying slaves to free them,' thereby perpetuating the system you claim to despise. How original."

"Shut up," Aizen hissed. "I'm here to hire competent people without the baggage of feudal oppression. But look at this place! It's like a dystopian job fair!"

His gaze landed on a group of women chained together near a stall advertising "Prime Labor! Half-Off for Bulk Purchases!": a human blacksmith with arms thick enough to bench-press a horse, a rabbit-eared demi-human girl trembling under a crate of turnips, and an elf with silver hair, pointed ears pinned back in fury, hissing at a slaver in a language that probably involved creative threats to his ancestry.

Aizen's eye twitched. "Okay, fine. We're doing the trope. But we're doing it sarcastically."

The Purchasing Process (In Which Aizen Burns Several Metaphorical Bridges)

The slaver, a greasy man with a ledger full of exclamation points, grinned. "Fine choices, Baron! The human's a beast at metalwork, the demi's a farmhand, and the elf? Feisty, but versatile—"

"Let me stop you there," Aizen said, flipping a pouch of gold onto the counter. "I'll take all of them. And their contracts. Also, if you say 'versatile' again, I'll redefine it as 'flammable.'"

The elf narrowed her jade-green eyes. "What's the catch, human? You want us to clean your boots? Warm your bed?"

"I want you to manage my estate's supply chain, optimize crop rotations, and draft trade agreements. Also, my boots are dirty, but I'll handle that myself—you've got resting 'I'll cut you' face, and I respect that."

The blacksmith blinked. "You… want me to smith?"

"Yes? Unless you'd prefer accounting. Wait, can you do accounting?"

"I can punch accounting."

"Close enough!"

The New Employees (Or, How to Accidentally Start a Socialist Utopia)

Back at Phoenix Nest, Aizen gathered his new staff in the manor's sunlit atrium. The elf, whose name was Lyra, crossed her arms. "Let me get this straight. You bought us to… work? Voluntarily? Without threats?"

"Voluntarily is a strong word," Aizen said, tossing their contracts into the fireplace. "You're free to leave. But if you stay, I'll pay you wages, give you titles like 'Director of Logistics' instead of 'Slave #3,' and not set you on fire. Benefits include healthcare, vacation days, and my undying hatred of paperwork."

The demi-human, introduced as Tessa, squeaked. "Y-You burned our contracts!"

"Legally dubious? Absolutely. But I'm a baron who fights bandits in a mask. Subtlety isn't my brand."

Lyra snorted. "You're either an idiot or the best performance artist I've ever met."

"Por qué no los dos?" Aizen grinned beneath the mask. "Now—Lyra, you're my secretary. Tessa, you're in charge of agriculture. Hilda—" he nodded to the blacksmith, "—you're my Minister of Punching Problems. Any questions?"

Hilda cracked her knuckles. "Do I get to punch Gerald?"

"Encouraged to punch Gerald."

The Aftermath (Or, How to Be Uncomfortably Competent)

By sundown, Lyra had reorganized Aizen's schedule, Tessa had drafted a crop rotation plan that doubled as abstract art, and Hilda had "persuaded" Gerald to switch to silent meditation.

"Master, this is alarmingly functional," Vermis said as Aizen lounged in his study.

"I know. It's almost like treating people like people makes them want to work. Wild concept."

Lyra barged in, holding a scroll. "Your proposal to convert bandit hideouts into affordable housing is idiotic. The infrastructure costs alone—"

"See?" Aizen interrupted, gesturing to Vermis. "Already she's saving me from myself. Best investment ever."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "You're a disaster."

"But your disaster," he said, tossing her a pouch of gold. "Now go buy yourself something sharp. Diplomacy's about to get interesting."