Chapter 13: The Spoils of Humiliation

The cheering of the crowd was music to Deadpool's ears, though he felt it could use some work. "A little ragged, people!" he shouted, waving magnanimously. "Let's get a nice wave going! Come on, put your backs into it! You just avoided becoming a demonic timeshare property!"

While Deadpool conducted the impromptu celebration, Kazuma was having a quiet, internal system crash. They had won. They had faced a Demon King's General, a creature that sent entire armies fleeing in terror, and had come out on top. They hadn't just defeated him; they had publicly shamed him, stole his head, made fun of his lack of fashion sense, and sent him packing with his metaphorical tail between his legs. This wasn't a victory; it was a character assassination.

"My divine presence was too much for his demonic aura to bear!" Aqua declared, striking a pose that she hoped would make it into the history books. "He fled before my overwhelming purity!"

"His armor was magnificent," Darkness murmured, a strange, thoughtful look on her face. "To see such a proud warrior so utterly… dismantled. Not by a blade, but by sheer, weaponized absurdity. The psychological scarring must be immense. It's a fascinating, if unorthodox, method of attack."

Their moment of bizarre reflection was interrupted by the town's mayor, a stout, balding man named Lord Valenti, who approached them with a retinue of trembling guards. He looked at the party, his expression a mixture of profound gratitude and abject terror.

"On behalf of the good people of Axel," he began, bowing so low his forehead nearly scraped the cobblestones, "I offer you our deepest, most sincere thanks."

"You're welcome, Mr. Mayor-Man," Deadpool said cheerfully. "And as for our payment, my associate here, the wet one who smells faintly of barrel water, will handle the cash transaction." He nudged Kazuma forward. "However, there is still the matter of the non-monetary compensation I demanded."

Lord Valenti blinked. "Non-monetary… compensation?"

"The socks," Deadpool said, his voice dropping to a serious, business-like tone. "My demands were quite clear. I saved this town from becoming a parking lot for a headless horseman. In return, I require a tribute. A sock tithe, if you will. I trust the citizens of this fine, non-obliterated town will show their gratitude appropriately."

Lord Valenti stared, his mouth agape. He looked at Kazuma for help, but Kazuma just shook his head, a silent message that said, "Don't look at me. I'm just the zookeeper. The animals are in charge."

Back at the Guild hall, the atmosphere had changed. When they walked in, the usual din of chatter and clanking mugs died down. Every adventurer turned to stare. It wasn't the look of mockery they used to get. It was a look of awe, fear, and deep, deep confusion. They were no longer the party of weirdos. They were the party of weirdos who made a Demon King's General run away like a scolded child.

Their reputation had leveled up.

"Drinks on the house for the heroes of Axel!" the Guild's bartender yelled, and a cheer went up.

They settled at their table, which had been hastily cleaned and now had a complimentary bowl of nuts on it. It was then that Megumin, who had been sleeping peacefully on Deadpool's back through the entire ordeal, finally began to stir.

She sat up, blinking, a thin line of drool on her cheek. "Did… did we win? Was my explosion satisfactory?"

"Oh, you missed it, kid," Deadpool said, patting her head. "It was great. We fought a bad guy. I stole his head. Darkness got weird. Aqua took credit. You know, the usual Tuesday."

Megumin's eyes slowly widened as the implications sank in. "Wait. A General of the Demon King appeared… and you faced him… without me?"

"You were having a nap," Kazuma pointed out reasonably. "You weren't exactly in fighting condition."

"You denied me my destiny!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet on the bench. Her eyepatch seemed to vibrate with rage. "A true rival! The perfect canvas upon which to paint my crimson masterpiece! And I was asleep?! This is an injustice! A betrayal of the highest artistic order! Take me to him at once! I shall challenge him to a duel of explosions!"

"He already left, honey," Deadpool said calmly. "Got on his spooky horse and galloped off into the sunset. Probably to cry into a tub of demonic ice cream. It was very dramatic."

Megumin collapsed back onto the bench, utterly despondent, muttering about wasted potential and stolen glory.

As the evening wore on, a strange thing began to happen. A town guard entered the Guild, looking deeply uncomfortable. He walked up to their table, placed a small, lumpy sack on it, and cleared his throat.

"A… a tribute," he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact with Deadpool. "For saving the town."

Deadpool's eyes lit up. He opened the sack and peered inside. It was full of socks. All kinds. Woolen work socks, thin dress socks, a few pairs of formal stockings.

"Excellent! The first tithe has arrived!" he declared.

This was only the beginning. Throughout the night, a steady stream of townsfolk and low-level adventurers would nervously approach their table, deposit a pair of socks, and then flee. Some were new, some were worn. One child tearfully offered up a single, tiny sock with a picture of a frog on it. Deadpool accepted it with the solemnity of a king accepting a crown.

He commandeered an entire corner of the Guild hall, creating a "Tribute Zone." He would inspect each new offering with a critical eye.

"Hmm, these are a bit threadbare at the heel," he'd say, holding up a pair of grey socks. "But they have character. They've seen things. I'll allow it."

"Ooh, argyle! A classic! You, sir, have excellent taste!" he complimented one blushing adventurer.

"What is this?!" he roared at another, holding up a pair of gaudy, neon-green socks with his thumb and forefinger. "Is this a joke?! The color composition is an assault on the senses! Take them back and bring me something in a respectable earth tone!"

By the end of the night, he had a pile of tribute socks nearly three feet high. He sat atop it like a dragon on its hoard, happily cataloguing his new acquisitions.

Kazuma, meanwhile, was doing something far more practical: counting their official reward money from the town, which Lord Valenti had gratefully provided. It was a hefty sum. Two hundred thousand Eris.

"This is it," Kazuma said to himself, stacking the coins. "This is our chance. With this money, we can buy Darkness a sword she can actually hit things with. We can get better armor. We can become a real, respectable adventuring party."

His hopeful fantasy was interrupted by Deadpool sliding up next to him. "Hey, kid. Great news. I've sorted the sock hoard into three categories: Daily Wear, Formal Occasions, and 'Potential Magical Artifacts That Need Further Study'. Now, I'm going to need about half of that cash stack. I have to commission a hermetically sealed, magically warded display case. Maybe with some little laser beams, for security. You can never be too careful when you're curating a world-class collection."

Kazuma stared at the mountain of money, then at the mountain of socks, then at the face of the insufferable, unkillable lunatic who was the cause of all his good fortune and all his suffering.

He didn't say a word. He just quietly began dividing the money into five even piles. One for him, one for Aqua, one for Megumin, one for Darkness, and one for the "Sock Museum Endowment Fund." It was easier than arguing. This was his life now. He was the beleaguered accountant for a team of superheroes, and their greatest asset was also their single biggest expense.