Friday dawned, and it was no ordinary day—not because of Corwin’s pompous “Children of Corwin” guild unch, but because the once-rundown Mug of Ale, teetering on bankruptcy, was poised to become the bold, stylish Foamhold. This tavern was Shardon’s springboard to conquer the virtual world.

  Everything was set. The interior gleamed, transformed overnight. Three fetching waitresses—Zuril, a level-2 goblin inherited with the tavern, and hired pyers Sorelea and elf Rihanna, both level 8—strutted in new leather aprons boosting Dexterity and Charisma. Furniture and dishware, now branded with the Foamhold’s logo, exuded a distinctive fir. Shardon himself had tamed his beard and slipped on a few rings for the occasion.

  The menu had evolved, both visually and in quality, with a new “Elite Dishes” section boasting enticing names like Hunter’s Feast and Noble’s Brew. A glowing signboard pulsed with magical light, catching pyers’ eyes. Massive banners over the entrance screamed, “Welcome to the Grand Opening!” alongside smaller ones touting “Tasting,” “Exclusive,” “Elite Drinks,” and “Discounts”—Sumraxs’ insistence, backed by Shardon’s economic analysis confirming their “selbility.”

  From dawn, hired vilge boys raced through the Reserve, shouting slogans and handing out flyers. Only the deaf and blind could miss the news of the Foamhold’s new ale, contests, and giveaways.

  Typically, the tavern opened at 6:00 AM, when Fanmir’s active pyers logged in. Yet, by nearly 8:00, the Foamhold’s doors remained shut. Shardon stood outside in full regalia, fnked by Zuril, Sorelea, and Rihanna, each holding a tray with a frothy, snow-capped mug.

  “Hey, boss, stop stalling! Open up!”“How long we gotta wait? Beer’s going ft!”“Beardy, got enough brew for this crowd?”

  The restless throng tried to provoke Shardon, but he droned the same greeting:

  “Honored guests! Soon, the finest tavern from the Western Ocean to the Irem Mountains will open its doors. Savor exquisite dishes from our new menu and the famed Foamy Blessed, quenching thirst while granting strength and luck! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  “We’ve heard it, stop torturing us!”“Just a scripted dummy, what’d you expect?”

  For over 30 minutes, the loop continued, sapping pyers’ enthusiasm and stoking their ire. Some muttered about storming the pce. The waitresses, frozen in smiles, began exchanging private messages, debating whether to ditch the gig—suspecting Shardon’s AI had crashed, stuck on repeat.

  Alert: Linguistic analysis detects excessive profanity per minute, exceeding threshold!Directive: Initialize “Open Doors” scenario.Activate dialogue tempte: “Auction 1.”

  “Lords and dies!” Shardon boomed, snapping to life. “The time has come to open these doors—and I invite you to do it!”

  The crowd’s jeers quieted. New words from the NPC? Intriguing.

  “Not just open—smash them to splinters and decre a day of open doors for all!”

  Silence fell, eyes fixed on Shardon. He paused, producing a hefty hammer.

  “Who wants to break down my door with this beauty?”

  The crowd erupted in cheers, offers, pleas, and threats flooding local and private chats. Sumraxs had pitched the stunt, noting the old door needed repcing. Why not profit from its demise? He’d even bought the hammer, imbued with Ram (Level 3), refusing payment, eager to see the chaos unfold.

  Shardon’s AI sifted through bids, selecting the highest. “This hammer and the right to smash my door go to the mighty warrior Herculex!”

  He handed it to a hulking level-10 orc, who transferred 300 gold. The Foamhold hadn’t opened yet but had already recouped a fifth of its renovation costs.

  “I could rip it off barehanded!” Herculex roared, flexing. “Just learned Ram myself!”

  Alert: Deviation from scripted scenario!Options:1. Search dialogue database for matching phrases (Priority: 100).2. Launch dialogue constructor (Priority: 1).3. Generate random off-topic phrase (Priority: 10).4. Activate real-time linguistic module (Insufficient resources!).

  Selected: Option 3.

  “A joke!” Shardon blurted, blocking the orc’s path. “An old, rich dwarf’s dying, time to write his will. He demands the priciest scribe, charging ten gems an hour. The scribe arrives with golden quills and royal squid ink, reminding the dwarf his 43 kin await. ‘Won’t take long,’ says the dwarf. ‘Write: Nobody gets nothing. Done—you’re free.’”

  “Move it!” Herculex bellowed.

  “Wait!” Sumraxs intervened, sensing the pn’s colpse. “The door must be smashed with the hammer, or the blessing won’t take.”

  “What blessing?” a pyer asked.

  “Fan-the-Fat’s, for Endurance and Luck. Don’t ruin the party—take the hammer and swing,” Sumraxs urged Herculex.

  No second prompting needed. With a feral roar, Herculex swung, splintering the door in one blow. The crowd cheered wildly. Puffing his green chest, the orc returned the hammer and strode inside, stepping over debris.

  “Whoa!” his awed shout echoed.

  The crowd’s patience snapped, surging into the Foamhold like a tidal wave.

  “We did it,” Sumraxs grinned, cpping Shardon’s shoulder. “I’ll check in tonight to see how it’s going. Oh, and that’s mine.”

  He snatched the hammer. Minutes ter, trade chat lit up:

  (Name Hidden): Selling the legendary hammer that opens the Foamhold’s doors and its revamped kitchen anytime!

  The transformation from Mug of Ale stunned pyers. Camera icons flickered overhead as they recorded videos. Private chats buzzed with invites and screenshots, especially of the waitresses’ fttering angles. Fanmir had upscale restaurants—real-world replicas with vish decor and scantily cd staff—but a noob-zone dive reborn overnight? That was a spectacle.

  Shardon manned the bar, taking orders and pouring drinks. Waitresses weaved through the chaos, juggling trays, repcing “souvenired” coasters. Fan-the-Fat’s blessing, finally applied on the priest’s third try, delighted pyers. Every 30 minutes, they returned to refresh the buff, often ordering more.

  For three hours, the novelty held. Then reality hit.

  “Hey, where’s this Foamy Blessed? It’s not on the menu!”“Yeah, where’s the special ale?”

  Grumbles grew.

  “Here’s our exclusive Foamy Blessed!” Shardon announced. Rihanna, the most striking waitress, rolled in a barrel tied with a red ribbon. She cut the ribbon, and Shardon poured the first mug.

  “Who’ll taste it first?” he called.

  “Me!”“Pour it!”“I cimed first!”“Don’t start a brawl!”

  No fists flew, but bids soared.

  Alert: Linguistic analysis detects excessive profanity per minute, exceeding threshold!Directive: Initialize “Foamy Blessed” scenario.Activate dialogue tempte: “Auction 2.”

  Following Sumraxs’ approved pn, Shardon auctioned the first mug. The winner, HubbaBubba, climbed a table, growled theatrically, and took a long, deliberate sip.

  “Well?!” the crowd pressed.

  The Foamy Blessed was identical to Goblin Karachun—same recipe, no taste difference. But admitting a 20-gold mug, bought for five times that, tasted like 8-gold swill? Unthinkable. HubbaBubba focused, willing himself to detect a silkier texture, nuanced fvors, a bitter aftertaste.

  Self-delusion worked wonders.

  “Best beer I’ve ever had!” he decred. “Tons of buffs!”

  “Pour me one!”“Three mugs—no, four!”“Hey, Beardy, get your girls pouring too!”

  Trade boomed. The first barrel emptied faster than Shardon dared hope. Two more waited—one true Foamy Blessed, one renamed Goblin Karachun. He alternated pours.

  Pyers noticed.

  “Hold up, where’s the Luck buff? This ain’t the same!”

  “Look at the taste and color, not buffs,” Shardon said calmly. “As for the blessing, it’s divine favor—fickle, like luck itself. I’ll knock off five gold.”

  “He’s right,” the Fan-the-Fat priest chimed in, munching free food nearby. “Gods make you beg. Takes a sore throat and warm beer to earn their grace.”

  The priest’s recent flop inspired Shardon’s gamble, given his limited stock. A pyer nodded, confirming prayers had success rates, wasting time and favor for the right effect.

  “Fine, give me the discount.”

  The next pyer balked, forcing Shardon to pour from the “right” barrel. Beside the second, he pced a sign:

  Foamy Blessed (No Luck Buff)25% Off: 15 gold (was 20).

  It sold just as briskly. Not every css needed Luck, and pyers loathed overpaying for useless buffs—they counted coins keenly.

  Shardon’s AI counted better. “Unblessed” ale yielded 200% profit, more than satisfactory, as did the revamped menu’s fshy dishes.

  “Table three: two roasts, two porridges, four Foamy,” Rihanna said, sliding over an order slip.

  “Cheap or pricey?”

  “They’re not skimping.”

  The elf worked diligently, slower than Zuril and Sorelea but racking up bigger orders. Shardon was pleased. He sent the order to the kitchen, setting a tray with two 20-gold Foamy Blessed mugs (with Luck). Soon, two fragrant meat pots and porridge ptes joined them.

  Rihanna glided to the table, hips swaying gracefully, and delivered the tray. Slipping to a corner, she joined the nascent Children of Corwin.

  “When do we start?” she asked Corwin.

  “Twenty minutes. Crowd’s warming up, hitting the sweet spot.”

  “Watch that green guy,” she nodded at a tipsy orc. “He’s nearly blue. Fifth mug since I started.”

  “He’s fine.”

  Rihanna returned to serving, while the group ate.

  “I don’t get it,” Zelenkin said, eyeing a half-empty mug. “Looks the same, tastes the same, smells the same. Why the price gap?”

  “Cheap one’s got no Luck buff. Something’s off with their prayers,” Ukhorez said, tearing into a pancake stack.

  “Should be two different items. Different stats, different IDs.”

  “Nah. Say you’ve got two identical boots. Enchant one with a rune—same boots, just a bonus and price difference.”

  “But it’d say ‘Enchanted with X.’ Here? Nothing. No prayer, no spell.”

  “Why care?”

  “Close your eyes,” Zelenkin said.

  Ukhorez shrugged and complied.

  “Drink. Guess what it is.”

  “Easy. No-buff cheap stuff.”

  “You knew from the stat pop-up, not taste. Try this one.”

  “Same deal. Taste, smell, no Luck.”

  “Check the log.”

  “You slipped me the cheap swill? I drink that daily, and today’s supposed to be special!”

  “See? Goblin Karachun, same everything—taste, smell, color, strength, even buffs. Only name and price differ.”

  “So?”

  “Why pay more if it’s the same?”

  “You always this boring, or did Alchemy fry your brain? Ruined my appetite,” Ukhorez grumbled, diving back into his pancakes.

  Minutes ter, his pte cleared. “Got it!” he crowed.

  “Gonna burst?” Podpodmyshkins teased.

  “Check this, noobs!”

  Ukhorez linked a system message:

  Achievement Unlocked: Pancake Devourer!Top 10 low-level pyers for eating 100+ pancakes.

  “What’s the point?” Zelenkin asked.

  “Topping the charts!”

  “Why?”

  “To be in the top!”

  “And?”

  “Now I regen 10% more Health eating pancakes.”

  “That’s from the achievement, not the ranking. Guess we’ll feed you pancakes instead of Healing Potions.”

  “No thanks… I’m sick of ‘em,” Ukhorez groaned.

  “Time!” Corwin stood. His four teammates rose, joining Rihanna in the hall’s center.

  “Hey, barkeep, pour your finest free ale for the Children of Corwin!” Corwin smmed the counter, citing the “rat contract.”

  Shardon obliged, serving the agreed Foamy Blessed—no Luck buff, but Corwin didn’t care.

  “Lords and dies!” Corwin climbed the counter, mug raised. “You’re about to witness a moment that’ll reshape Fanmir’s history and redraw its political map forever!”

  No one listened, engrossed in food and ale. Only the waitresses’ short skirts drew crude compliments and swats.

  “Guess I’m doing this myself,” Rihanna smirked, joining Corwin on the counter.

  “Hey, looks like a strip show!” a pyer shouted, spotting her adjust a hiked-up skirt.

  “Surprise incoming!” Rihanna called.

  “Striptease!” someone whistled.

  Within moments, all eyes locked on the elf duo.

  “Right now, before you—” Rihanna began, but Shardon cut in.

  “Ahem, thank you, lovely. I’ll take it from here.”

  Clearing his throat, he climbed the counter, nudging Corwin and Rihanna aside. Stunned by the NPC’s audacity, they stepped back.

  “Lords and dies,” Shardon decred, “I bear most unfortunate news!”