Carl strode forward.

  The stone steps of the Creature Market posed no threat to him or his bare feet as he took them one a time. Still, though, they aggravated him by existing and being so plentiful.

  The point of his spear left gouges in every second step as he ascended. It helped him to get deeper into his character by further irritating him. Stone shouldn't be so fragile.

  Carl was role-playing now, and he was finally focused on it as a result of the still-simmering anger he felt on behalf of his companion.

  His skeleton minion scurried in front of him and struggled to throw open the huge metal doors—both of them, as was necessary for him to walk through without needing to adjust his stride or posture and remain in character. He continued into the massive building, dimly noting that its smooth, paneled-stone exterior formed one of the extremely rare non-brick buildings he'd seen in the city so far. Such things did not interest him, however.

  Carl was here for one purpose only.

  The large atrium of the Creature Market met the barest standards for lavishness as far as his refined sensibilities were concerned. The floor was a glossy, light-colored, tiled stone that shone in the light of many, many small illuminating rocks that were affixed to the walls and high, arched ceiling. A three-tiered stone fountain rose up out of the center, taking up most of the room and separating the entrance from a number of curtained-off doorways, and Carl stopped taking in the sights after noticing it. If anything, he was a bit disappointed; this wasn't nearly as nice as some of the hotels he'd stayed in, and those were handicapped by being real.

  He immediately walked past the guards stationed just inside and made for the elegantly-dressed, early twenty-something woman sitting behind what he supposed was intended to be the reception desk off to the left. Gasps echoed from the door he'd just entered through, and he heard the sounds of rustling and metal moving, but such things also did not interest him. He was focused.

  "Your supervisor," Carl said in a voice that was neither loud nor quiet, directed at the woman behind the ornate desk when he was reasonably close. "Bring him to me. Now." He rested the butt of his spear gently on the stone floor to avoid breaking it, not looking back at the guards who, based on the approaching sounds of boots, were moving closer.

  His skeleton minion stood faithfully by his side, also not looking anywhere but to the fore.

  The woman at the desk stared.

  "Halt," called one of the guards from behind in an authoritative voice. "Weapons are not permitted here. Neither are undead. And…we do require our patrons to be fully clothed."

  Carl watched the woman, but she made no move to adhere to his prior command. He sighed, shaking his head as he turned to face the pair of guards. The duo were each clad in armor which seemed more for decoration than safety, but they also bore bulky-looking handguns which looked like they were capable of a credible amount of stopping power. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, tapping his spear on the ground.

  The guards looked at each other. One of them shrugged. "No?" said one of them, the same voice that had accosted him a moment earlier, at once seeming a little less certain of what he'd just said.

  Carl grinned widely. "I think the man in charge here will, and he's likely to be very upset with the lack of respect I'm being shown."

  The guards looked at each other again, seeming unconvinced.

  Carl slowly walked towards the fountain in the center of the room, just to the side of the guards, his spear clicking away on the ground with each step and remaining between him and the armed men. "One hundred coins," he said loudly, angling his free hand towards the water in the basin of the fountain.

  A hundred coins shot out of his hand and into the fountain over the next one-point-five seconds. Perhaps it was not a large sum of coins, but this was only a start, and he intended to make a point.

  "One thousand coins," he said at the same volume, watching the guards as their brows raised slightly.

  A thousand coins shot out of his hand and into the fountain over the next one-point-five seconds. This was supposedly an amount of coins that might be made in a year by a poorer player in the city who did not go adventuring, and he discarded it carelessly into the fountain as though it was worthless.

  The mouths of both the guards had fallen open, and the woman at the desk had finally stood and made her way closer.

  "One hundred thousand coins," he continued, raising an eyebrow.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  One-point-five seconds later, the basin of the fountain was completely overflowing with coins. This was a sum of coins that, he was told, was not likely to be casually thrown away by all but the wealthiest.

  The guards and receptionist goggled.

  Water began overflowing from the fountain and onto the floor. It pooled around a pair of bare feet, then gravitated to the butt of a glowing spear. The water began to travel from the floor swiftly up around the shaft of the spear in a spiraling manner that left the largest man in the room comfortably dry.

  Carl turned to the receptionist woman. "I may tire of standing here if this continues, at which point I imagine the room would begin to grow uncomfortably damp. And if I miss the auction I've come for…" he trailed off, his eyes moving up to the tip of his spear where a globe of water was forming that somehow didn't reflect light in the way that one might expect.

  "I—I'll find Mister Neale right away!" the receptionist said, snapping out of her daze more quickly than the guards. She edged around the perimeter of the fountain, then clicked quickly away through a doorway on her heels.

  His skeleton minion poked at the streams flowing up the spear, but the water simply continued up and around the bony fingers undisrupted. The skeleton then looked to the fountain and picked a coin up off the top of the pile before tossing it up into the slowly-growing orb of water atop the spear.

  The coin bounced off and landed on the floor.

  The skeleton rubbed its jawbone while staring up at the water, an act that seemed profoundly discomforting to the guards.

  Carl stood impassively while he continued to wait.

  The woman returned in less time than he'd expected, her face flushed and her breathing heavy. "My apologies for the wait. He'll be along in—"

  "Good evening," came an oily, smooth voice from the same doorway the woman had just appeared from. An auburn-haired young man with a mustache, wearing a spotless and wrinkle-free, double-breasted, black suit and matching tie rounded the corner. He took in the scene at a glance as he strode forward. "It seems I'd forgotten your reservation, Mister…"

  "Carl," said Carl, playing along. "Yes, reservation indeed, Neale. I believe I was offered seating in the royal section."

  "Were you now…" said Neale. His eyes flicked to the massive pile of coins covering half the lowest level of the fountain.

  "Ah, I do apologize for the mess," said Carl, following the other man's gaze. "It seems my purse has sprung a leak. Allow me to tidy up." He tapped a finger from his free hand on a coin in the massive pile and his lips moved slightly.

  The entire pile of coins vanished over the next one-point-five seconds, flowing up to his finger and then disappearing. The only remaining coin was the one that the skeleton had previously bounced off the water atop his glowing spear. Water stopped pouring over the side of the no-longer-full fountain.

  Once the coins were gone, Carl shook his spear in the direction of the fountain. The orb of water arced downwards, landing inside the basin with a much louder splash than the size of the orb implied and filling the space completely. He then turned back to Neale with a neutral expression. "My seat, if you would. I'm certain you would understand why I might grow upset if I were to be late for the particular auction that I've come for."

  "Yes," Neale said slowly, "I do believe I know precisely what you mean." He nodded as though coming to a decision. "And, fortunately, you've arrived just in time. There are still a couple pieces remaining before the one that's surely caught your interest, so you're in no danger of being late. Unless you'd perhaps be interested in making an offer immediately?" His eyes gleamed.

  Carl held up his free hand, simultaneously raising up his spear and resting its haft on his shoulder. "No, no, I wouldn't want to ruin the sport of it."

  Neale's expression changed to a knowing smile. "Yes, I can see now that you're certainly a gentleman of impeccable taste." He glanced back to the receptionist, who was still standing behind him just outside the doorway she'd briefly disappeared through. "Milli, my thanks for taking the initiative on this matter." He looked back to Carl. "Sir Carl, if you—ah, and your skeleton—would please follow after me?"

  Carl nodded, not sparing his minion a look.

  The trio started off, led by Neale who walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and passed through the curtained-off doorway on the right side of the atrium. Carl ignored the pair of guards just inside, continuing along the red-carpeted hallway and around a glowing rock-lit corner to a staircase.

  "Sir Carl," Neale called over his shoulder as they ascended, "I can't help but notice the formidable aura your armament is projecting. I don't suppose—"

  "Not interested," Carl said dismissively.

  "Of course," said Neale.

  They reached the summit a moment later and passed through another doorway at the top, also with guards on the reverse side. Neale gestured and then turned to the right, and they progressed down a long, wide, red-carpeted hallway with a series of closed, decorated doors along the right side.

  "It's quite a coincidence for you to arrive tonight," said Neale. "The royal family—the Queen in particular—seldom misses any of our events, and yet here you are on a rare occasion when none of them have made an appearance. And on a day when such an incredible piece has both been brought in and will be up for sale as well."

  "You seem like an intelligent man," Carl said, intensifying a certain comprehension gap.

  "Ah," said Neale in a thoughtful tone. "I would have expected someone a bit more subtle, in that case."

  "And yet," said Carl in a leading tone.

  "Ah."

  Carl didn't speak further, allowing the man to draw whatever conclusions he wished.

  It's time for another author ramble. This time, after seeing the incredible response that my most recent affected persona begot, I've decided to go even deeper into my method acting in an attempt to truly embody an Internet Supervillain for the sake of art as well as the appreciation of those who get it.

  To begin, I'd like to address just a few common reader responses for everyone to enjoy since I so seldom partake of your glorious, lengthy comment threads:

  You can't make something satire just by saying it is!

  Obviously. It's good that you're aware of this and are agreeing so vigorously with me on the matter, otherwise I might think that you'd only read some parts of my previous author note and were ignorant of the manner in which I explicitly stated that the deepest satire was still percolating.

  It's so unrealistic that Carl doesn't know about X!

  Yes, dear reader, please do go on about how unrealistic it is that a character in a story about being trapped in a full-immersion VR game which may or may not be a portal to a fantasy world is unaware of the minutiae of his company's game that he's been deliberately trying to avoid learning about.

  There's too many PoVs! You're just copying the parts around to make it longer!

  It seems there's been some confusion about this, so let me be very clear now:

  I value your time.

  The details you've read have been exactly the details you've needed to know in under to fully understand the story and nothing more.

  Every second you spend reading is likely ten or twenty seconds that I've spent choosing words for your consumption, and I value my own time far more than I do yours.

  Were I to remove all the "copied" or "boring" parts you continue to rail against, the story would be over already, you would have no idea how we arrived at the ending, and you would then be upset about something else entirely.

  I'm going to give you a bad rating to make you reconsider how you write!

  Laughable. If I were some weak-willed author who could be convinced to change the core design of their work by the same commenters claiming they've refused to read half of it, I'd be more likely to simply stop posting the story altogether after having my feelings hurt so severely by such people.

  Yes, it's true that I'd initially imagined the readers here were less cretinous and more capable of enjoying a work which didn't lay down and die inside the mold of instant gratification and easy reading along with the rest. I'll readily admit that I underestimated many of you in that regard, and I apologize for not taking seriously your need for more immediate conflict followed by the swift resolution of any and all tension. I deliberately keep my prose flat and flourish-free to ease your reading, my planning deep and nuanced to keep you guessing, and my characters extant so as to not permit you to self-insert no matter how desperately you try, but I never imagined that the problem for a series which posts upwards of 10,000 words each week would be the impatience of its readers.

  Wait, go back to that beginning part, you're saying this whole smug/arrogant thing is—

  Careful, dear reader! Ware your mind lest you collide with the fourth wall!

  But—

  No, no, we have no time for such things! Surely there are those among you who have already noticed rather than skip over all these boring, tedious words which do nothing to progress the plot, so I must quickly divert attention with that which readers crave the most.

  Yes, you know of what I speak.

  We now travel back slightly in the story's time to a point when a number of fictional characters were seated at a fictional table.

  A fictional time when there was fictional coffee.

  Free content from my Patreon.

  There once was a table.

  It was made from wood, just as many tables are. This isn't to claim that all or even a majority of tables are created from wood, of course, merely that there exist a large number of wooden tables.

  The top of this table was indeed wood, crafted from the finest darkwood tree that had ever lived within the very small region in which the particular tree that had been chopped down to make this table had once lived. It was cut into its shape from a single block of wood, such was the caliber of this table, and it was then sanded, treated, and polished until it shone in the light.

  The gleaming tabletop was carted away to a store, where it was eventually purchased by the proprietor of a certain shop.

  Naturally The Table knew not of this "proprietor" or "shop". No, this was a simple table, though at its point of purchase it was only a tabletop. It was then hauled back to the shop of the proprietor where it was affixed to a single, elegant metal leg by magic. The Table was located between a pair of cushioned bench seats, though it never considered them as being important enough to learn either of their names, nor did it ever speak even a single word to either of them.

  The Table was not a snob. Nothing could be further from the truth. This table had a single task which it fulfilled daily without either hesitation or reluctance, and it did so regardless of those who sat around it. Whether it was a set of merchants, a noble with acquaintances, or any manner of creature, this table served them all the same.

  The one exception to this was Lord Maison, who habitually partook of an especially potent potable made by dwarves and believed that The Table was, in fact, his great grandfather. This man routinely came to sit with The Table for an hour every day in the early afternoon—around seventeen o'clock—and spoke of his life while imbibing his favorite intoxicant.

  The Table served those who used its top just as effectively as those who remained underneath it. While a person might come to be seated and rest an elbow or arm atop its glossy mien, so too did many shelter themselves beneath it. Its height was such that there was more than enough space for a person to sit upright underneath, and its breadth was sufficient for a person to lie down if they curled their legs a bit.

  Did it have a preference?

  No, The Table was a table to the best of its capabilities, and it did not distinguish the manner in which it was put to use.

  Most notable for The Table by far was the day in which a small fight had broken out over it. That was, of course, in the literal sense, as the method of combat chosen had been the hurling of coffee and invectives between those who sat on either side. It seemed likely that The Table would have strongly disliked the cushioned bench seats for enabling this sort of behavior, but none could say for certain that this was the case.

  The great table-speakers of old, those who had been capable of speaking with tables and divining their wishes, were long gone, and with them vanished the ability to know all manner of thing pertaining to tables.

  This was, it must be said, the claim of a Lord Underhill on a certain occasion in which he'd come to speak with his friend, Lord Maison, and had gotten drunk out of his fucking mind on some manner of concoction he'd been entreated to consume. Those who witnessed their historic meeting on that afternoon mostly averted their eyes and their ears, which wasn't particularly difficult given the nature of the shop they were seated within.

  Regardless, the table-speakers did not currently exist, and that was something which could be agreed upon by everyone once the aforementioned men had eventually been forced to achieve sobriety by their wives some hours later.

  Perhaps the second most notable occasion for The Table was the day when it had the good fortune to be chosen at random as a gathering place for two pairs of individuals who would each be noted by history in their own ways.

  The first of these pairs was Carl and Isemeine.

  The Table had never encountered them previously. It had no specific interest in either of the duo. Sure, their names were spoken many times in its presence in the days that followed, but The Table had no patience for remembering things. It lived only in the moment, truly embodying the vivacity of the tree that it had been made from.

  The Table had previously encountered Tomas Arderne and Delsanra, however. Yes, this inseparable pair visited regularly, and it just so happened to be the case that they frequently made use of The Table's skillful technique of table-ness. At times they were joined by others, both male and female, but it was never the case that they separated in the presence of The Table. Nor was it the case that they both used only a single side of the table. No, they made full use of The Table's capacities on each occasion, sometimes to the degree that its minders were forced to spend additional time cleaning afterwards.

  This didn't bother The Table, however.

  No, this table was a table and nothing more, and that was the way things were.

  Until this day, however.

  Whether from the chance meeting of such key players in history, the amount of coffee consumed by those sitting around it, or random happenstance, this day was special for The Table.

  A blue status window appeared beneath The Table next to its leg.

  It's unknown whether this event pleased The Table.

  What's known, and what was recorded in history, was that for the remainder of this table's existence, attached to its underside was a small blue status window which it could not dismiss because it could not speak.

  The Table was a table and nothing more.

  There once was a mug of coffee.

  No, this mug wasn't made from coffee. It was ceramic with a certain decorative flourish which was used by only a single craftsman in the city. The craftsman's name remains unimportant, as does the composition of the mug.

  The coffee had no time for such things.

  It had just been poured from a kettle into the mug, and it was as near to boiling as was possible while still being brewed to perfection. At present, it was being transported.

  The coffee came to a stop. It was lowered, then it was swiftly raised up and poured down the gullet of a man whose need for coffee had reached a dangerous level on the Needs Coffee scale.

  At once, the coffee began to act. It started by reactivating the man's sluggish, exhausted brain cells which had been overloaded by continued stress. It then turned to the other brain cells, specifically those ones which controlled the man's ability to think of very specific things—namely those things which any future knower of his historic deeds might find fault with if he was unable to think of them for some reason—and deactivated them.

  Yes, it was definitely this coffee which could be said to have caused that the man to be unable to think of any number of things while simultaneously enabling him to regain his vigor. It was…

  It was magic coffee. This coffee was magic, and it was brewed from a combination of roasted coffee beans and really…strong…magic-y…stu—spells that affected the mind in vague, mysterious ways.

  How mysterious could these ways be, some might ask.

  Very.

  This magical mind-altering coffee was a true marvel of coffee-magic, which was definitely a thing on the planet this coffee may or may not have resided on. Naturally it wasn't sentient coffee, so it had no idea whether it was real. There had been sentient coffee in the past, as has been the case on all worlds at one time or another, but the mages on this world were too dumb and bad at using magic to be able to create such a thing, which was a fact that was appreciated by the very, very small number of skilled magic-users on the planet (which may or may not have existed) who would have been pretty upset to have been grouped into the same bunch of others who called themselves mages.

  They all definitely existed—or maybe not—but don't question it; none of that's super important.

  But back to the coffee—which was, again, brewed by magic and was the source of everything that anyone might find fault with in any retelling of the life of someone who drank it—it's important to mention that this was a very dark coffee. Anyone who saw it for the first time might question whether it was even coffee at all, since coffee typically isn't black even when it's referred to as such, but this was certainly coffee even though it was the type of black which absorbed any and all nearby light and seemed more like a vast well of unspeakably evil darkness than a beverage which would be consumed by normal people, though it's questionable whether the man drinking this coffee was actually normal considering how many very, very obvious things he'd failed to pick up on at this point in his tiring, exhausting day that was really just the culmination of being really busy and tired for a long time.

  It might have been more accurate to say that this magical coffee was more like evil magical coffee, honestly, and, well, it's not difficult at all to imagine what sort of vile, malevolent acts that sort of thing would…

  Oh, it's actually kinda difficult?

  Huh. Well…

  I mea—The coffee means that it would surely start by making it more difficult for a person to wake up without drinking coffee. Such an afflicted person would wake up and groan when they saw what time it was regardless of how long they'd slept, cursing everything in existence until such time that they were able to achieve coffee communion once more.

  Terrifying, isn't it?

  No, that's not all! Evil magical coffee is far more terrifying than regular coffee. It would…

  The evil magical coffee would make m—someone gradually lose focus and energy throughout the day after drinking it, beginning several hours afterwards so as not to be suspected! Yes, truly this is the most heinous of acts that coffee could commit against a person, to create the illusion of wakefulness and then subtly steal it back at the most critical hour, perhaps just after a lunchtime meal so as to disguise its cleverness and avoid detection.

  Are you not convinced of this coffee's black-heartedness?

  Figuratively speaking, that is, since this isn't sentient coffee and has no heart, which would be an entirely different thing to be dealing with since evil sentient coffee is boiling mad like, all the freaking time, and…

  You still don't believe evil coffee made me do it, huh?

  Alright, look. I know I said I'd get home in time to help you with your scripts before your big raid, and I was going to, but then I got caught up at work with this big project, and then this guy was calling me directly to fix his computer, and…

  Thanks, pumpkin. I love you too. What do you say we check out those scripts now?

  Well, yeah, I know it's bed time, but how am I—you gonna sleep with this hanging over your head? C'mon, let's just take a quick look…