Moon stared at the cheerful mascot hovering over his desk.
"Okay, System. Hit me with the starter quest. Slay ten rats? Collect three shiny rocks? Whatever. I'm ready."
> [Please clarify request.]
"Uh… the quest? The mission? You know—tasks, rewards, sweet loot?"
> [Objective: Increase overall town happiness.]
"…That's it?" Moon blinked. "No coins? No bonus XP? No beginner pack?"
> [Current Happiness: 27%.]
[Tip: Satisfied citizens create opportunities.]
Moon waited for more. Nothing came.
"Wow," he muttered. "Worst gacha pull ever."
Frank peeked back into the office, still clutching his rolls of parchment like a shield. "My lord? Are you… negotiating with the air?"
Moon threw up his hands. "Frank, the air is supposed to give me a quest. Instead it's telling me to—what was it?—'increase overall town happiness.' That's not a quest. That's a vague suggestion."
Frank blinked. "Perhaps… you could start by attending the tax council meeting?"
Moon groaned. "You're in on this, aren't you?"
---
He tried again.
"Status!"
Nothing.
"Inventory!"
Still nothing.
"Menu! Dashboard! DLC!"
Silence—except for Frank clearing his throat in the hallway.
The mascot only beamed, its cartoon eyes twinkling with unearned confidence.
> [Remember: Satisfied citizens create opportunities.]
Moon slumped back into his chair. "This system is a scam."
Yet the words stuck in his head. Satisfied citizens… opportunities…
A flicker of memory surfaced: Hospitality & Tourism 101.
His professor's droning voice: "Happy guests spend more, stay longer, and bring others."
He'd doodled through most lectures, but that line refused to die.
Maybe… if the townsfolk were happier, the system would finally cough up something useful.
He eyed the mascot. "Fine. No quests? I'll make my own. First step: figure out what these people even like."
The mascot chimed a single cheerful note.
> [Acknowledged. Town happiness begins with you.]
Frank silently closed the door. It was the first time he'd seen Lord Caspian talk to himself out loud. He was used to the sighs and groans, but this was a whole new level—and it was his job to make sure no one else witnessed it.
******
After waking up in this body, Moon had spent barely a few hours piecing together Caspian Prescott's life—and finding the edges of his world frustratingly small.
Caspian had never left Ridgewell, and his memories ended at the town gates, so Moon was forced to dig through the town's dusty library for answers.
The books smelled of old ink and iron dust, but they finally coughed up a map of Aurelia, the kingdom Ridgewell called home.
Five great duchies shaped its crown:
Highcrown – the capital itself.
Stonebarrow – a harsh, mountain-locked land rich with silver and grudges.
Windmere – salt-stung coastal markets where every deal began with a gamble.
Ironholt – the frigid northern bulwark, all steel and soldiers.
Glenshade – rolling green valleys, vineyards, and festivals… and Ridgewell, its sleepiest border town.
Ridgewell barely earned a footnote.
Founded only for the massive Ironvein Mine—and its runt cousin, Graypick Pit—the town was a trade stop with more empty plots than people. Barely four thousand souls, a crooked market square, and a single stone bridge over the River Lune.
————
Moon spent the night sprawled across his desk, turning Ridgewell's map until the candle gutters went cold. After much thought he decided to treat this as a game,First rule of any sim? Know your resources.
"Frank," he said at dawn, when the steward appeared balancing a tray of tea. "Carriage. We're taking a walk—well, a ride. Market, port, homes, mines. The works."
Frank hesitated, then bowed. "As you wish, my lord."
---
The carriage groaned over uneven cobbles while the morning mist clung to the streets.
Moon watched through the window, soaking it in. Rows of mud-brick cottages leaned together like tired neighbors. A few proud stone houses broke the pattern, nobles staking their quiet claim.
The market stirred without sparkle—traders setting up stalls from habit. Farther along, the border port hummed with low-voiced bargaining, the scent of the salty sea in the air. And finally the mines: dark mouths in the hills, where men with soot-streaked faces trudged in or out, shoulders bowed under invisible weight.
By the time they rattled back to the Prescott estate, Moon's mind buzzed with half-formed plans.
He ordered refreshments and waved Frank into the study. The steward sat stiffly, watching his lord with thinly veiled confusion.
"Frank," Moon began, fingers steepled like a scheming NPC, "who builds the houses in town?"
"The people themselves," Frank replied after a pause. "Those who can afford tiles buy them from the tile maker or from passing traders. Nobles hire laborers for brickwork; the rest make do with mud and timber."
Moon sighed. Cement? Bricks? Out of reach—he barely remembered what went into cement, let alone how to produce it.
Think, Moon.
A half-forgotten memory of a crafting game teased him—something about smelting ores for stronger building blocks—but the exact material danced just beyond reach.
He snapped his fingers. "List of the ores we mine."
Frank blinked. "You don't…already know?"
Moon feigned a lofty cough and rummaged through parchment until he found the records himself. The names were half-familiar, half-alien. Close, but no recipe for concrete miracles.
He set the list aside with a groan. "Fine. Next best thing—bring me the town's tile maker and whoever oversees the mines. I want them both here before noon."
Frank's eyebrows twitched upward, but he bowed. "As you wish, my lord."