Arrival in an isekai

You walk beside Neia through the cheerful afternoon chaos of Amagi Brilliant Park, letting her set the pace as families stream past with cotton candy and balloons. Her sharp eyes remain fixed forward, processing, while her fingers still touch her lips unconsciously where you kissed her.

"To answer that is a fair bit of information I'll try to lead slowly," you begin, keeping your tone conversational rather than lecturing. "You know already the definition of paladin. A holy male figure in full shining plate armor with a long sword and large shield. Now if a paladin is without his armor, is he still a paladin?"

Neia's steps slow slightly. "The order would say yes. The blessing remains regardless of equipment."

"But your world wouldn't call him that," you counter gently. "That's a holy swordsman. If a paladin is using a mace or club to bash undead, it's more effective, however that's a holy knight not a paladin. Just the armor and weapons make a knight or soldier. Any type of warrior or adventurer can become a holy variant by swearing their intentions to god with the support of their church, but only with the perfect equipment do they become a paladin."

She turns her head toward you, dark circles prominent under those sharp eyes. "But priests and clerics also swear their intentions to the gods. What's the difference between a fully armored, sword and shield priest, and a paladin?"

"Exactly the question that reveals the corruption," you say quietly. "Priests, clerics and paladins each devote themselves to the will of god, but how do they know the will of your god? To be honest most churches and holy orders just bluff and are actually corrupt as shit. Those years you devoted as a squire to become a paladin, most of it was just underpaid labor and anybody who doesn't conform to the holy corruption gets squeezed out. You likely saw many individuals start as squire after you and get removed from the order when they questioned their superiors, right?"

Neia stops walking entirely. A family with three children flows around you both, completely oblivious to the theological crisis unfolding. Her voice emerges hoarse.

"Fifteen. Fifteen squires who questioned why we were being sent to guard noble estates instead of protecting refugees. All dismissed for lack of faith."

"Your world never actually defined your gods," you continue, watching her carefully. "Only god-like beings who once lived in this world, meaning the will of god is whatever the highest position in the order says it is. This is where your world's rigid and corrupt structure of paladins ends."

She's trembling now, white cocktail dress rustling in the afternoon breeze. "Then what's the point? If there's no divine mandate, if it's all just politics and equipment requirements, what was I even trying to achieve?"

"Now we get to the interesting part," you say, resuming the walk so she has movement to anchor herself. "Gods and deities. What does Artemis or Freya, gods of women, care if their holy warriors are men or women? What do Loki or Hermes, gods of trickery and thieves, care for heavy plate armor and large shields? What would Yama and Nergal, gods of death and slaughter, care about righteousness?"

Neia walks beside you in stunned silence, processing the implications. Around you, the park continues its cheerful operation. A roller coaster screams past overhead. Children shriek with delight at a water fountain show.

"You're saying," she finally manages, voice barely audible over the ambient noise, "that the specialization should match the deity's domain rather than arbitrary equipment requirements."

"Exactly," you confirm. "Many holy archers worship Artemis the goddess of hunters, it makes perfect sense. A rogue paladin with leather armor and daggers makes perfect sense when you worship Loki, a god of trickery. The paladins of Yama are less holy knights and more hunters of finality, that which needs to die, dies. While the paladin of Nergal is easily portrait as a warmonger, they are just as easily a kingdoms greatest war heroes, for there are no enemies left. Your world locked itself into one narrow interpretation and your holy orders call everything else heresy."

You let that sit for a moment.

"Let's take a break from the heavy theology," you suggest, gesturing toward the nearby carousel with its painted horses and cheerful calliope music. "Ride one of the gentler attractions. Process what we've discussed while doing something pleasant."

Neia's sharp eyes track the movement of families queuing at the carousel, children laugh as the platform turns, clutching wooden grips shaped like reins or horns. Parents stand nearby, relaxed, chatting. Her perpetual dark circles soften slightly as recognition flickers.

“...We had something like this,” she says slowly. “Only during capital festivals. It was dismantled afterward.”

You glance at her, letting her continue.

“I was seven,” she adds. “My father took me before my mother died. She stayed behind, said crowds made her tired. I remember thinking I’d bring her next year... There wasn’t a next year... It was pulled by draft horses and priests blessed the axle so it wouldn’t break.” A pause. “I thought it was magic.”

“Then it counts,” you say, leading her toward the entrance. The operator, a woman with graying brown hair and laugh lines around her eyes, waves you through without comment when she recognizes you.

"Lord Blank! Always a pleasure. Pick any horses you like."

The carousel slows to a stop, children reluctantly dismounting from their painted steeds. You guide Neia toward a pair of horses on the outer ring where the motion is gentler. She hesitates briefly before accepting your offered hand to mount, white cocktail dress bunching slightly as she settles into the saddle.

You mount the horse beside hers, a black stallion with gold filigree painted across its flanks. The calliope music swells as the carousel begins its rotation, picking up smooth momentum.

Neia grips the brass pole with both hands, knuckles white despite the gentle motion. Around you, children squeal with delight, parents wave from the sidelines, and the park's cheerful chaos continues uninterrupted. “After that, my father buried himself in the Order. Not because he loved it, because it was easier than grieving. He’s still alive. Still faithful. Still convinced the structure matters more than the people inside it.”

"Fifteen squires," she says suddenly, voice nearly lost beneath the music. "Fifteen people who questioned why we were guarding noble wine cellars instead of patrolling refugee routes. I told myself they lacked discipline. That faith meant following orders without question."

The carousel completes one full rotation. Families blur past in colorful motion.

"But you were right," she continues, grip loosening slightly on the pole. "They were dismissed because they threatened the corruption. The high paladins were being paid by those nobles to provide prestige security. I knew it. I saw the gold changing hands twice. I just told myself it was legitimate donations to the order."

Her painted horse rises and falls in mechanical rhythm, carrying her slightly higher than yours on the rotation cycle.

"What does that make me?" The question emerges raw. "If I knew and did nothing, if I convinced myself the system was legitimate when I could see the rot, what does that make me?"

The carousel begins slowing for the next passenger exchange. Children around you protest the ending of their ride while parents promise they can go again.

"It makes you human," you say simply. "People rationalize what they need to survive within corrupt systems. The question isn't what you were. It's what you choose to be now that you've acknowledged the truth."

The carousel stops completely. The operator begins opening the safety gates, allowing new riders to board while previous passengers dismount. Neia remains seated on her painted horse, white cocktail dress catching afternoon light, processing.

"Another round?" the operator calls cheerfully. "Or have you had enough, miss?"

Neia looks at you, sharp eyes showing something between vulnerability and determination.

Neia’s gaze lingers on the families dismounting, on the attendant waiting patiently, on the slow rotation coming to rest. For a moment, the old reflex tightens in her shoulders - duty says dismount, don’t linger, don’t take more than allotted.

Then she inhales. “Another turn,” she says. Not to the attendant. To herself.

The words come out steadier the second time, louder. “Yes. Another.”

The attendant smiles and signals the platform to start again. A few children cheer as they scramble back on. Neia does something small, but unmistakably deliberate. She swings one leg over and changes mounts, sliding from the white horse to a carved stag with wide antlers and worn paint, the kind clearly chosen less often.

“This one,” she says quietly, almost challenging. “It doesn’t look heroic.”

The platform begins to turn again.

As the ride resumes, she loosens her grip sooner this time. One hand stays on the handle; the other drops to her lap. The afternoon breeze catches her hair, and for the first time since you met her, she lets it.

“My father would say this is indulgent,” she admits. “That faith is proven by endurance, not enjoyment.”

Her eyes stay forward, but there’s steel in her voice now. “He’s wrong.”

The stag rises and dips. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I didn’t question orders because I was afraid,” she continues. “I questioned them because they didn’t fit. I stopped because I was told that meant I lacked faith.” A pause. “If that’s true... then I never had the right kind of faith to begin with.”

She finally looks at you. “So I’m choosing this. Two minutes of pointless rotation. No orders. No justification.” A faint, defiant curve touches her lips. “If a god takes offense at that, they’re not worth serving.”

The ride turns. Children laugh. Somewhere nearby, a bell rings.

And Neia Baraja, former squire, failed paladin, nascent heretic, stays on the stag for another round, not because she was told she could... but because she decided she would.

The platform slows, the gentle rise and fall easing into stillness. Laughter and mild protests ripple through the children as the attendant brings the ride to a stop and opens the gate.

Neia waits for the motion to fully cease this time. Then she swings down from the stag on her own, landing lightly. There’s no hesitation, no rush, just a quiet completeness to the movement.

“Thank you,” you say to the attendant as you pass, inclining your head.

The woman smiles easily. “Anytime. Come back whenever you like.”

Neia echoes it a heartbeat later, softer but sincere. “Thank you.”

You step back into the flow of the park together. The crowd closes around you, families, couples, vendors calling out snacks, ordinary life reasserting itself. Neia adjusts the fall of her white dress and exhales, a slow breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

She doesn’t reach for your hand this time. She keeps pace beside you instead.

The ride is over, the choice made and she carries it with her as you disappear back into the cheerful chaos of Amagi Brilliant Park.

You guide Neia toward the teacup ride, where painted ceramic cups spin gently around a central axis while families laugh and children squeal. The operator waves you through without comment, recognizing you from earlier. Neia settles into the oversized cup beside you, white cocktail dress bunching slightly as she grips the wheel in the center.

The ride begins its slow rotation, teacups spinning lazily. Around you, a family of four turns their wheel frantically, children shrieking with delight as their cup spins faster.

"There are many variations to the archery classes," you begin, speaking lightly over the ambient carnival music. "First you want to consider this. Do you want to be a paladin? To swear your intentions to a deity that shares your morals and will bless your actions in return?"

Neia's grip tightens on the wheel reflexively. "I already swore oaths to the Sacred Kingdom's gods. The order taught us specific prayers to invoke divine protection."

"Your world's gods are canonized heroes, not actual deities," you correct gently. "Artemis the virgin goddess of the hunt is righteous in general. A true goddess who values skill, independence, and protection of the innocent. Or perhaps you want to consider being a follower of Freya, goddess of war and beauty. Not specialized in any weapon but always valuing heroes willing to do whatever it takes."

The teacup completes another rotation. Neia stares at the spinning families around you, processing.

"Your choice doesn't have to be soon and I'll provide you with lists and details of each deity you might be interested in later. If you choose not to go with divine classes there are still specialists that surpass or challenge the blessed."

Her sharp eyes snap back to you. "What do you mean, surpass the blessed?"

"The Horizon Sniper is known for hitting any enemy between themselves and the horizon in every direction. The Radiant Sentinel rains arrows like sunlight across their domain. The Skyfall Archer rides a flying mount such as a pegasus or dragon into the sky, shooting arrows from the clouds, never letting an enemy rest day or night."

Neia's breathing has gone shallow. Her perpetual dark circles seem less pronounced as genuine interest overtakes exhaustion.

"I recall a few specialties I forget the names of," you continue. "One used spears in place of arrows, turning attacks into thin ballista bolts. Another shoots handfuls of arrows at a time, each hitting a different target. A common starting point for archers is to learn different magic attributes so they can infuse their arrows with each element and concept to keep their arrows effective against any enemy."

The ride begins slowing for the next passenger exchange. Families around you prepare to dismount.

"What was his name," you muse aloud. "There was a man who called himself the melee archer. His bow was a curved staff that he would just as often hit people with as he would stab with his arrows. I don't recall him ever actually shooting, however."

Neia makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That's insane. That defeats the entire purpose of archery."

"But it worked for him," you point out. "He survived every encounter and retired wealthy. The point is that specialization should match your fighting style and personality, not arbitrary equipment requirements or what some corrupt holy order decided was acceptable."

The teacup stops completely. The operator opens the safety gate. Families begin filing out while new riders queue up.

Neia sits frozen in the painted cup, staring at her hands. "All those years. All that training. And you're telling me I could have just... chosen differently from the start."

You don’t answer her immediately.

Instead, you stand first and offer your hand, not insistently, just there. When Neia finally takes it, her grip is firm, anchoring herself as she steps out of the painted cup and back onto solid ground.

“No,” you say at last, once you’re clear of the ride and walking again, letting the crowd absorb you. “I’m telling you something more precise.”

She looks up, searching your face.

“You couldn’t have chosen differently then,” you continue. “Not with the information you had. Not with the order you were put in. You were trained inside a maze and blamed for not finding an exit that didn’t exist.”

Her jaw tightens. The park noise washes around you, laughter, bells, vendors calling, but she’s focused entirely on your words.

“What you’re being offered now,” you go on, “isn’t a redo. It’s a first real choice.”

You gesture vaguely around the park, then more subtly, at her.

“Fifteen years of discipline, battlefield awareness, stamina, pain tolerance, and marksmanship didn’t vanish. They were misapplied. That’s tragic, yes, but it also means you’re not starting from zero.

She swallows. “And the gods?”

“You don’t owe any of them obedience,” you say calmly. “If one aligns with who you already are, they can walk beside you. If not, you walk without them. Power follows commitment either way.”

You slow slightly so she doesn’t feel pulled forward.

“What matters is this,” you finish. “From this moment on, any path you walk is chosen with open eyes. No one gets to tell you it ‘doesn’t count’ anymore.”

Neia exhales, a long breath that trembles near the end. When she speaks, her voice is quieter, but steadier.

“...I think,” she says, “I want to learn what I actually am, before I decide who I serve.”

The crowd carries you onward together, the world still spinning but for the first time, not out of control.