HBehevras

I died. Or maybe I tripped. Either way, I woke up in another world—with my wife.

Now she’s a divine warlord, the fandom thinks she’s their queen, and I’m somehow the side character in my own isekai.

Our house is haunted. Our kingdom is insane. The tea is measured in teacups.

This is a complete isekai saga filled with slums, debates, marriage problems, cults, political schemes, a suspicious dog, and one man who just wants to survive without becoming a meme.

It starts slow. It gets weird. It ends exactly how it should.

You’ve been warned.

I Was Isekai’d With My Wife and Now She’s the Final Boss of the Fandom

CHAPTER 11: Confessions of a Not-So-Satanist

Scene: City Dungeon, Interrogation Room

Dark stone walls. Enchanted torches flicker ominously. Three stern officials from the Holy Tribunal, dressed in golden-trimmed robes, stand behind a cracked stone desk. Across from them, chained to a chair with scorch-proof runes, sits a disheveled man with tangled long hair, scuffed armor, and eyeliner smudged halfway down his cheekbones. Beside him: a busted guitar fused to a glowing amplifier with rope, twine, and maybe a shoelace stolen from destiny. The amp hums faintly, like it's dreaming of violence.

Raiko stares at the ceiling, softly humming a melody that makes the torches flicker with dread.

> "State your name and your purpose, outsider."

> "Raiko. Metalhead. Slayer of riffs. Prophet of the power chord."

Interrogator 2 (confused but trying to look scary):

> "You stand accused of conjuring a forbidden sound... corrupting the tavern air... and performing a ritual of auditory terrorism called... quote... 'The Blackened Screech of Saint Promeefius?'"

> "It's called 'SATAN PROMETHEUS,' and it's a banger."

Interrogator 3 (eyebrow twitching):

> "You repeated that name twenty-three times over a demonic harmony. That's very close to necromantic incantation law."

> "Honestly? I was just riffing. Most of it wasn't even words."

> "You… freestyled a summoning chant in a forgotten dialect of demonic Latin?"

> "…Dang. That explains the smoke and the screaming furniture."

Silence. The interrogators glance at each other, visibly unnerved. The amp lets out a low, sinister wub.

> "Anyway, if you're gonna execute me, I've got a request."

Raiko (rising from the chair as far as the chains allow):

> "Hang me upside-down, let a thunder wyvern scream as you do it, stab me with flaming drumsticks, throw my ashes into a volcano shaped like a skull. That sort of thing."

Interrogator 3 (genuinely alarmed):

> "We just asked if you're a cultist!"

> "No confirmed casualties… only five citizens fainted, two ran screaming, one began what witnesses called a 'violent interpretive dance battle with a table.'"

> "And one chicken laid a boiled egg."

Outside the room, behind a two-way illusion mirror:

Yu-Riella munches honey nuts while leaning on a guard. Noona stands behind her, arms crossed, eyes locked on the man inside.

> "You okay? Wanna cry? Roast him?"

> "...Then what are you gonna do?"

> "Wait, he triggered that clause? No bail until the Trial of Noise? Who even wrote that law?!"

> "Temple of Harmonic Sanctity. Bunch of ex-bards with grudges."

If your music summons smoke, floating furniture, and boiling eggs… it's not noise. It's art.

Also, shoutout to interpretive dance battles. Underappreciated form of resistance.