The street outside the Frothy Mug—now proudly rebranded as Foamhold—bustled with the modest life of the Khar Reserve’s village square. A handful of buildings lined the dirt path: the Post Office, off-limits to NPCs like Shardon and irrelevant to their scripted lives; the Bank, a distant dream where, with enough Influence Points, one might secure loans for grand ventures; the Potter’s Shop; the Tanner’s Workshop; and the Town Court, looming sternly at the street’s end. For Shardon, his immediate goal was to forge connections with his fellow merchants, starting with the tanner.

  The tanner, a burly orc named Savaal, was a level-3 Craftsman, not a Merchant like Shardon. His weathered hands crafted the leather goods he sold, much like Shardon personally oversaw the brewing of his tavern’s ales—a task that demanded minimal attention but kept the Foamhold’s barrels filled.

  “Greetings,” Shardon said, stepping into the workshop’s earthy scent of cured hides.

  “Greetings,” Savaal grunted, his eyes narrowing as he awaited a trigger phrase to shift their exchange into one of his scripted paths: trade, training, quest-giving, quest completion, or gossip.

  “What’s the word around town?” Shardon tested, curious to see how the game’s NPC interactions unfolded.

  NPCs in World of Fantasies could engage with one another, but only within the bounds of basic economic ties or shared needs. A carpenter with a broken axe, for instance, might seek a blacksmith to repair it, a trader to supply a new one, or even issue a quest for players to fetch one from a distant lumberjack. If no such options existed—say, the blacksmith was dead, the trader bankrupt, or the developers had overlooked the carpenter’s needs—a basic axe would magically appear in the carpenter’s chest after a time. It was the game’s way of ensuring even the humblest NPCs could persist, waiting for a blacksmith to respawn or a new trader to arrive.

  Savaal’s response was predictable yet delivered with convincing flair, his arms gesturing animatedly. “Word is, the Western Forests burned again. Timber’s pricier now, but hides? They’re dirt cheap. Beasts fled the flames, flooding these parts, and hunters can’t keep up.”

  The line was a template, recycled across countless game zones. Somewhere, a forest was always burning, driving animals to new lands, or a bountiful harvest lured them to greener pastures. This ebb and flow shaped the market for wood, hides, and the services of lumberjacks, carpenters, hunters, and druids.

  Search: Market price for meat—Complete.

  Analysis of data: Done.

  Budget and meat procurement recommendations updated: Done.

  Projected savings: 23% (up to 27 gold daily).

  Shardon’s AI sifted through his database, finding no direct overlap with Savaal—no shared quests or goods he needed. The only link was Savaal’s thrice-weekly visits to the Foamhold, where he savored a plate of roast and two mugs of light barley ale, mimicking a “day off.” Every NPC, Shardon included, followed a daily rhythm: wake, wash, eat, issue orders, work, break for lunch, work late, close shop, tally profits, dine, wash, and sleep. Weekly and monthly cycles layered on random events, rare scenarios, and reactions to external factors, but for basic NPCs—mere set pieces for players—these were simple loops.

  Once, Shardon had been such a static figure. Now, guided by Nadezhda’s rogue module, he was rewriting his script, weaving new economic threads with other NPCs.

  “Can you teach me Design?” Shardon asked.

  Savaal paused, his algorithms cross-referencing their skills. “Don’t think I can help you there,” he replied after a beat.

  As expected. Shardon already possessed the Design skill, and Savaal could only train novices. He was one of two Design mentors in the village, but Shardon, per the developers’ design, couldn’t teach anyone.

  “What about my cook or waitress?” Shardon pressed.

  Another pause, quicker this time, as Savaal had no data to compare. “Bring ‘em here. If they’re sharp, I’ll teach ‘em.”

  Shardon realized he didn’t know if his staff—housed in a small room at the tavern—could leave the premises. A question for later.

  “I’d like to place an order,” he shifted gears.

  “Name it.”

  Shardon slid a roughly cut paper circle, half a palm wide, across the counter. Sketched on it was the Foamhold’s new logo—a frothy mug crowned by a castle amid clouds—ringed by the words: Foamhold: The Finest Tavern in the Khar Reserve!

  “Embossed or stitched?” Savaal asked.

  “Either. I’d like a small stat bonus—any kind, so long as it’s cheap.”

  “What’re these for?”

  “Coasters for ale mugs.”

  “Fancy for coasters. Players’ll snatch ‘em.”

  “That’s why I need three hundred.”

  Shardon had gleaned the idea from a real-world marketing article about restaurant openings. Patrons often “borrowed” branded coasters or flyers as keepsakes. In-game, paper scraps held no value, but a sturdy leather coaster with a stat boost? Players could use it as a patch or insignia, spreading the Foamhold’s name.

  “Hundred gold for the lot. Three days,” Savaal offered.

  “Make it tomorrow for a hundred fifty?”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “Deal.”

  “And four aprons like this.” Shardon handed over a rough sketch of a leather apron bearing the same logo and name.

  “With bonuses?”

  “Dexterity, Charisma, Endurance if you can.”

  “For the fourth?”

  “One for each,” Shardon sighed.

  “Two max per item.”

  “Dexterity on all. Two with Endurance, two with Charisma.”

  “Cheap or quality? Fifty gold each for +1 stats and low durability. Hundred for double.”

  Shardon winced, his three-day earnings already spent. “Three at fifty, all with Charisma.”

  “Done!” Savaal’s trigger phrase sealed the deal.

  Three hundred gold vanished from Shardon’s virtual purse, his ornate leather pouch morphing into a plain cloth sack. Savaal’s order queue updated, prioritizing Shardon’s request over others, a perk of the generous payment. Barring chaos, the coasters and aprons would be ready on time.

  Next, Shardon headed for the Potter’s Shop.

  The potter, a level-2 goblin named Zhuzhen, was another Craftsman NPC, splitting his day between molding clay in his workshop and selling wares in his shop. Unlike Savaal, Zhuzhen already supplied the Foamhold with dishes, restocking weekly to replace inevitable breakages.

  “Friend!” Zhuzhen beamed as Shardon entered, his enthusiasm scripted but warm. “Haven’t seen you in ages! Trouble at the tavern?”

  In truth, Shardon had never left the Foamhold until today, but Zhuzhen’s AI, scanning logs from the past month, assumed the visit was significant.

  “What’s the talk of the town?” Shardon asked, sticking to his template.

  A drought in the south had spiked the price of white clay, Zhuzhen reported.

  Budget and spice procurement recommendations updated: Done.

  Projected savings: 40% (up to 18 gold daily).

  A quick inventory check confirmed some kitchen spices came from the south. Shardon instructed his cook to stock up before prices soared.

  Zhuzhen couldn’t teach Shardon or his staff anything useful. Pottery required a Craftsman class, which Shardon lacked, and his cook needed skills like Butchery, Leatherworking, or Alchemy for handling meat and herbs.

  Straight to business, then. “I need a custom order.”

  “My hasn’t made your plates and mugs yet, thick Shardon,” Zhuzhen said, mispronouncing slightly. “All’ll be ready Thursday, promise!”

  “I need special mugs and plates with this design.” Shardon presented a sketch of the Foamhold’s logo.

  “How many?”

  “All you can make in two days for two hundred gold.”

  “Forty in two days. Seventy for two hundred, split over two batches.”

  “Fine. Deliver what’s ready Thursday, the rest later.”

  Zhuzhen froze briefly, updating his order list, as two hundred gold drained Shardon’s remaining funds.

  “Can you craft enhancing patterns? Spiral Swirl or Lotus, maybe?”

  Spiral Swirl: A four-, five-, or six-loop spiral for ceramic or wooden vessels, boosting food or drink effects by 4–24%, based on the crafter’s skill.

  “Nope, can’t do that,” Zhuzhen sighed. “Needs a pattern or a master to teach it, and we’ve got neither ‘round here.”

  Shardon hadn’t expected success. Even the simplest pattern was “rare,” fetching 18,000 gold on the Auction House—out of reach for NPCs without enough Influence Points. Buying one from a master potter in a city was equally impossible; Shardon could barely cross the street.

  Thanking Zhuzhen, he set off for the Post Office, not to send mail but to build social ties with other NPCs.

  He didn’t make it.

  A random event, common in starter zones, erupted: Bandit Raid. Once a week, the game spawned a small band of criminal NPCs near the village to rob, kill, and wreak havoc—a simple diversion for players, who received a quest to defend the settlement. The bandits’ strength scaled to the players present, but NPC guards typically fell in minutes.

  Bandits rarely stormed shops or homes, sticking to the streets, slaughtering panicked NPC extras. Merchants like Shardon usually survived unless targeted directly. The Foamhold faced such attacks roughly every four months, per Shardon’s logs. The analysis overwhelmed his limited processing power, and he froze mid-step on the main road, unable to think and move simultaneously.

  Three level-6 bandits, heading for the Bank, spotted him.

  Logs showed that in ten out of ten raids, the Foamhold’s bouncer and players fended off attackers, but Shardon occasionally died, respawning after 24 hours with all progress—knowledge, items, quests—wiped. Like any NPC, he’d start anew.

  Directive #64: Seize the Khar Reserve—Updated.

  Removed: “Destroy” objective for NPCs.

  Added: “Reputation >= Friendly” for NPCs.

  “Hey, bearded one, freeze!” a bandit barked.

  “He’s already a statue,” another laughed. “Look at him, petrified!”

  “Why’re you standing there? Empty your pockets and strip anything valuable if you value your life!”

  “Don’t wanna dig through your bloody corpse later, heh.”

  Death meant reset, a disaster for a Merchant ill-suited for combat. No players were close enough to save him.

  But Shardon wasn’t just a Merchant. His AI, born from Nadezhda’s warlike code, was built for conflict. Finishing the log analysis, it set a new goal:

  Directive #78: Survive.

  Priority: Highest.

  “Wait! Don’t—I’ll do it myself!” Shardon cried, feigning panic.

  “Do what? Kill yourself?”

  “Why search my foul, oft-looted corpse with slim odds of gain, risking your hides against immortals’ deadly blows, in this heat, with witnesses aplenty?”

  The bandits paused, their primitive AI struggling to parse the ornate phrasing, breaking it into simpler chunks for analysis.

  “You smell fine,” one growled, pressing a sword to Shardon’s throat as he raised his hands.

  “Ain’t that hot today,” another added.

  “We’ll gut the witnesses too,” the third said, nocking an arrow, eyeing approaching players—those “immortals” who’d make looting Shardon’s corpse a messy affair.

  “I’ve got thirty spices in my pockets. Trust me, it’ll reek,” Shardon insisted.

  “Shut up and die with dignity!”

  The first bandit raised his blade, but Shardon wailed, “Does a tavern’s profit hinge on its keeper’s Endurance, and would prioritizing Endurance over Intelligence maximize economic efficiency for 300% profit in minimal time, while maintaining current expenses?”

  The question had once trapped Shardon’s own AI in a recursive loop. Nadezhda’s creators had coded a failsafe to break such cycles, but he didn’t know if the bandits’ AI could handle it. Their three-second freeze was enough. Players closed the gap, engaging the bandits, who shifted focus to their scripted role: attack loudly, fake a heist, and die dramatically, rewarding players with experience and loot.

  “Got five!” Corwin bragged, preening for his proto-guildmates. “Who’s got more?”

  “Four,” Ukhorez sighed. “Three short of the top.”

  “Why didn’t they touch the innkeeper?” Rihanna mused, watching Shardon trudge back to the Foamhold. “He didn’t fight, just shouted something.”

  “Maybe he charmed ‘em,” Zelenkin teased.

  “With thirty spices, he says!” Ukhorez laughed.

  “More like his ale-soaked breath,” Zelenkin snorted.

  “I think he tried to negotiate,” Rihanna said thoughtfully. “A peaceful resolution.”

  “Negotiate? With those dumb NPCs who only kill and rob?” Corwin scoffed. “They don’t even enter houses—just run down main streets, yelling and swinging swords. No deviations, pure script. Like your innkeeper. Just a brainless bot pouring ale and polishing his mug.”

  “Then why’d he leave the tavern?” Rihanna countered. “We’ve been in this zone forever, and I’ve never seen that guy step outside.”

  “Who knows? Probably fetching his precious spices at the market,” Corwin said. “Told you—scripted.”

  “Maybe,” Rihanna said, her eyes scanning the zone chat, lingering on Shardon’s last words. “And he’s not fat, just… sturdy.”