Arthur stepped outside and took a deep breath of the fantasy world's air—a world beautifully described by a webnovel that earned absolutely nothing,
not even reaching the Minimum Guaranteed System, despite being categorized as a male fantasy book, complete with power-trip escapism stuffed inside.
With Bounchiechomie clinging faithfully to his shoulder, he made up his mind to head for the Adventurer's Guild.
"Better go there than rot in Casca's damn house," he muttered,
striding toward the guild with zero expectations and a wallet just as empty.
Arthur walked down the city street, now thick with the scent of greasy food, the sweat of overworked laborers, and the illusion of a productive life. Between rows of half-finished stone buildings and crooked wooden panels, he spotted a small tavern.
Its paint was peeling, the sign hung askew, and faint smoke drifted from its window—maybe from the kitchen, maybe from the charred remains of teenage dreams.
In front of the tavern stood a man in a dull brown cloak.
His face was forgettable—just another NPC who never got voice acting.
But his eyes were sharp, like a stray cat that knew how to tell food from traps.
"Hey, you…" the man called, eyeing Arthur from his boots to the tip of Bounchiechomie resting quietly on his shoulder.
Arthur stopped. "What?"
The man stepped closer and whispered, "You look like someone who can write."
Arthur gave him a flat stare. "And you look like someone who's about to ask for a favor without paying."
"Hold on," the man raised a hand. "All I want is a review. For this place. Say the food's amazing, the service is fast, the atmosphere's cozy… you get the gist."
Arthur arched a brow. "And what if people come here after reading that and feel like they're eating vomit from a drunk chicken? Then what?"
The man chuckled lightly, like life was just some low-budget stage play.
"That doesn't matter. They'll come, the owner will be happy, and you'll get this."
He pulled out a silver coin—scratched, but real.
Arthur looked at the coin, then back at the man's face.
"So this is just about ego-boosting some tavern owner?"
"Exactly," the man flicked the coin into Arthur's hand. "The cheapest, easiest, fakest job you'll ever do. But hey… the world's fake too, right?"
Arthur spun the coin between his fingers.
One silver. One lie.
The man held out a piece of paper—[Review Paper: For Food Establishments Only]
It had blank spaces for a review and a strange sigil, like a medieval QR code.
"This is your pen. Don't forget to tag your ID. Hmm… you're an adventurer, right?"
Arthur nodded.
The man smiled. "Good. Attach your adventurer ID and write over there."
He pointed to an empty seat outside the tavern.
Arthur sat down, sighing internally.
'What the hell did the author write in the worldbuilding draft to make this world so goddamn ridiculous?'
He exhaled through his nose, then started writing with reluctant fingers.
[The food here is different—fresh, well-cooked. Service is tidy and pleasant.]
He finished the fake praise, slapped his adventurer ID onto the designated spot, and handed the sheet to the man.
"Good…" the man muttered with a satisfied grin.
Arthur walked away after submitting a fake review—just another drop of ego serum for a delusional tavern owner in a fantasy world that didn't even try to make sense.