Kevin's Boredom Crisis
Kevin awoke on his ridiculous half-throne, half-bed contraption in the royal hall. His crown had slipped down during the night, leaving an imprint on his cheek. He scratched himself lazily and groaned.
"Man… ruling is boring. No Netflix. No gaming console. No fried chicken. What's the point of being king if you can't even order delivery at 3 a.m.?"
A maid cautiously approached, balancing a silver platter. "Your Majesty, the morning porridge—"
Kevin sniffed the bowl, frowned, and shoved it back. "Oatmeal? Again? What am I, some kind of medieval horse? Where's the grease, the crunch, the—" He flailed dramatically. "The MSG?"
The maid stared blankly. "The… what?"
Kevin sighed and rolled over, draping himself dramatically across the throne like a fainting noblewoman. "Life is pain. True torture. This kingdom doesn't even have potato chips."
The minister—an overworked, balding man who had aged ten years in the last two weeks under Kevin's reign—adjusted his spectacles. "Your Majesty… perhaps… perhaps what you require is distraction. A… celebration, perhaps?"
Kevin cracked open one eye. "Celebration?"
The minister bowed. "Yes. A festival. To raise morale. To distract from… ah… famine, taxes, and your… er… unconventional decrees."
Kevin sat up, eyes sparkling. "Wait wait wait. You're telling me we can throw a party… and I don't have to work?"
The minister, cautious: "…Correct."
Kevin leapt to his feet, slamming his fist onto the armrest with the authority of a conqueror.
"Then let it be known! From this day forth, I, Kevin the Couch Potato King, declare the first annual Festival of Progress!"
The maid blinked. "Festival of… Progress?"
Kevin smirked, eyes glinting with that diabolical Lloyd-like grin. "Progress into me getting snacks, obviously."
The Royal Decree of Free Labor
Later that afternoon, Kevin stood on the palace balcony, overlooking a restless crowd of citizens, peasants, merchants, and nobles. He raised his arms dramatically, striking a pose that screamed misunderstood visionary (in reality, his cape just got tangled and he was trying to shake it loose).
"My loyal subjects!" he boomed. "The time has come to show the world the greatness of our kingdom!"
The crowd exchanged confused looks.
Kevin pointed, finger shaking like he was revealing the cure to all diseases.
"We shall hold… a festival! A festival to honor you! A festival where your talents will shine, your crafts displayed, your foods devoured—" He coughed. "—by yours truly."
A noble scoffed. "But who will fund such an undertaking? Festivals cost—"
Kevin cut him off, slamming his palm down dramatically. "Fund? My dear nobleman, this festival is not about coin. It is about spirit. True patriotism is not measured in money… but in sweat!"
Gasps. Murmurs.
Kevin's smirk widened, eyes narrowing like a cartoon villain about to drop the killing blow.
"Or are you saying you're too weak to contribute? Too insignificant to leave a mark on history? Too cowardly to feed your king a decent kebab?"
The nobles' faces twisted—offended pride flashing.
One jumped forward. "Nonsense! My family's cooking is unmatched! We shall provide a feast that will humble even your gluttonous appetite, Your Majesty!"
Another: "And my house shall donate livestock for the grilling pits!"
Another: "My knights will entertain the crowds with martial displays!"
Kevin turned slowly to the peasants, smirking like a devil.
"And you… brave citizens… surely you will not let the nobles outshine you? Surely you will show your spirit?"
A farmer clenched his fist. "Damn right we will! I'll bring every pumpkin from my fields if I have to!"
A blacksmith shouted: "I'll make a ring toss out of spare horseshoes!"
Soon, the entire square erupted into volunteering chaos.
Kevin leaned back, smug expression fully activated.
Step one: declare festival. Step two: make everyone else do the work. Step three: eat turkey leg. Easy.
The minister, quill trembling as he scribbled, whispered: "He… he's achieved what decades of rulers failed to. Unity… through guilt-tripping."
The Day of the Festival
By sunrise, the streets were unrecognizable.
Farmers had lined stalls with pies, roasted vegetables, and roasted pigs.
Bakers competed to stack loaves higher than their rivals.
Nobles set up elaborate game stalls, desperate to prove their family's superiority.
Mercenaries, somehow convinced this was "combat training," juggled swords in the street, terrifying children but thrilling the crowd.
Kevin arrived late, of course—lounging in a litter carried by eight huffing knights. He wore oversized festival robes and sunglasses he'd insisted a blacksmith invent for him overnight.
He raised a hand lazily. "Commence the festivities. Oh, and remember—bring the good food straight to me. Quality control."
As he plopped himself onto a throne-chair right in the middle of the street, peasants began showering him with food samples: fried dough balls, skewered meats, honey cakes.
Kevin bit into a turkey leg, grease dripping down his chin. He exhaled in bliss.
"Now THIS… this is why I was isekai'd."
Nearby, a noble tried to impress him with fireworks—half of which exploded prematurely, singeing their wigs. Kevin clapped slowly, deadpan. "Truly… revolutionary. I dub this… Kaboom Art."
The crowd cheered, convinced his sarcasm was royal approval.
A child shyly approached, handing Kevin a crudely carved wooden doll.
"Your Majesty… thank you. My family's smiling again for the first time in months."
Kevin froze mid-bite. He glanced around: nobles laughing with peasants, soldiers arm-wrestling farmers, kids chasing fireworks smoke.
He blinked.
Wait… did I just… unite the kingdom? By accident?
The Foreign Eyes
That night, the festival reached its climax. Fireworks—bigger, brighter, and significantly more hazardous—lit up the sky. The crowd chanted Kevin's name.
Kevin, half-drunk and draped across his street-throne, belched. The people erupted into cheers, mistaking it for a royal blessing.
The minister wept openly. "Your Majesty… you've done it. A miracle. True unity, achieved where all others failed."
Kevin waved him off, wine dripping down his robe. "Yeah yeah, whatever. Bring me more snacks. These kebabs are too… pointy."
But in the shadows, cloaked figures watched. Foreign spies from the neighboring kingdom scribbled furiously into notebooks.
"This man… this so-called Couch Potato King… He turned famine into feast, disunity into unity, without spending a single coin?"
Another spy clenched his jaw. "He is dangerous. A fool who stumbles into genius. If left unchecked… he may rise beyond even our king."
The leader nodded grimly. "We must report this to our liege immediately."
Kevin sneezed mid-drink, wine spraying across the minister's face. "Eh? Why do I feel like someone's plotting against me? Bah, probably just indigestion."
The crowd erupted again, convinced even his sneeze was a royal omen.