The Kingdom of Arvel was once the jewel of the continent-
A shining city of towers, trade, and totally unnecessary statues of the king flexing shirtless.
Then King Reginald the Brave declared war.
Why? No one knew. Some said he wanted glory.
Others said he just wanted a bigger statue.
Either way, it ended the same way all great human decisions do: catastrophically.
The enemy didn't just win; they erased Arvel.
Burned the fields, cast down the towers.
Even left a Yelp review that said:
"0/5 stars. Wouldn't conquer again."
Five Years Later.
The once proud kingdom was a graveyard.
Broken walls, cracked castles, and a few idiots pretending they weren't starving.
Among them was a beggar, nineteen years old. Nameless, shirt half gone, pride fully gone.
He slept beside what used to be the royal fountain. Now it was just a puddle full of frogs, trash, and his reflection, which was also trash.
Every morning he woke to pigeons pecking his toes, stretched like a rusty gate, and declared:
"Ah yes, another beautiful day to achieve absolutely nothing."
He had mastered the three sacred arts of survival:
1. Begging. ↑ Proficiency level 87
2. Faint dramatically, pretending. (Success rate: 50%.
3. Selling foot sketches to weird adventurers "for magical research."
"It's not weird," he'd say proudly, drawing between his toes. "It's called entrepreneurship."
Sometimes, when business was slow, he'd stand on rubble and yell motivational quotes into the void:
"Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy bread! And bread is happiness!"
It had been one of those fine afternoons, wrestling a squirrel for half an apple, when something golden fluttered from the sky.
Not gold. Not parchment. Something far more cursed.
It hit him right in the face.
"OW—WHAT THE HELL~?!"
He peeled it off and read the glowing letters:
Bachelor of Business Administration
Magna Cum Laude
He blinked. "What the hell is that? A spell? A disease? Sounds contagious."
Before he could even flip it over, the parchment flared up.
"Wait, WAIT, NO—"
FLASH!
Knowledge exploded in his head like a magical nuke.
Graphs! Formulas! PowerPoint presentations! Management principles!
A thousand unpaid internships flashed before his eyes.
He screamed, rolling on the ground.
"WHAT IS AN OPPORTUNITY COST?! WHY DOES IT HURT?!"
"WHAT IS WORK ETHIC—AND WHY IS IT A LIE?!"
"MARKETING IS JUST MANIPULATION BUT LEGAL?!"
"OH LORD OF BANKS— I UNDERSTAND INFLATION, BUT WHY IS BREAD STILL EXPENSIVE?!"
"WHO IS PHILIP KOTLER AND WHY DOES HE KNOW EVERYTHING?!" WHO In THE WORLD IS ANDREW T.??
It finally stopped, and he lay there twitching his butt on the dirt, his eyes blank, his soul MBA-certified.
He had seen horrors.
He had seen what BBA students go through every day. But now, more importantly,
He had seen… business…
He sat up slowly, his pupils glowing faintly, like possessed coins.
The ruined city around him suddenly looked different.
The broken fountain? "Potential tourist attraction."
Garbage? "Two two line crossed making a 'X' section marking the word Food. And now it says "Raw materials."
Rats, squirrels, and pigeons? "Unpaid workforce," as it should be.
He whispered, shaking,
"I. understand economics?"
Then screamed,
"OH GOD, what IS THIS!"
And by evening, he had drawn a full business plan in the dirt.
He stood tall-shirtless, broke, delusional-but full of confidence.
He was no longer a beggar.
He was Manager.
Then, a glowing message appeared before him:
[New Skill Unlocked: "Low-level Monster Communication"]
Allows basic conversation with weak creatures.
He blinked. Suddenly, he heard the pigeons speaking. Gossiping.
"He smells like regret."
"Look at his face—definitely unemployed."
"He's been drawing feet again, hasn't he?"
He screamed, "MAKE IT STOP!"
The pigeons screamed back, "GET A JOB!"
He covered his ears until—finally—
click. The voices disappeared.
He realized that he could mute them.
"Finally, a feature, I like.
With newly found capitalist vigor, he drew in the dirt again.
Service Tiers:
Basic:
"Watch a poor beggar cry and feel better about your life."
(1 bread)
Silver:
"Includes sob story and emotional violin noises."
(1 bronze coin)
Gold.
"Public humiliation package—crying in town square included."
(3 bronze coins)
Platinum:
"I'll do anything you ask for a day."
1 copper coin (negotiable)
The next morning, he attempts a different business strategy: bait marketing.
He scatters some stale bread crumbs onto the dusty street, making believe it's an "investment." A few pigeons waddle over, unimpressed.
"Mmm, free breakfast," one coos, pecking at the rock-hard loaf.
But before it can take a bite, the boy lunges.
Eyes wide, smile trembling.
"I CAUGHT YOU!" he shrieks. "Trying to steal my bread, were you?!"
The pigeon flaps its wings in a backward motion, terrified.
"B-but you threw it away! It's harder than dragon scales! You can't even eat it!"
The boy leans in slowly, face shadowed like a tax collector from hell.
"Nah nah nah.… I just put it there to soften in the air, my feathery thief. And now… you'll pay for it."
The pigeon, quivering like a leaf, drops one shiny pebble at his feet. "P-payment?"
He repeated that trick several times and thus had at his disposal a whole army of pigeons.
In one week, the pigeons became his winged sales team.
They stole paper and ink from abandoned shops, advertised his "cry packages" to travelers, and even brought back paying customers. Business tripled.
He was not rich, but in a world where everyone was broke, being less broke meant victory.
"We're building a nest egg," he said, sipping rainwater from a skull like fine wine.
A month later, after he had just begun his first business, he walked back to the small town in which his parents once lived. He was frightened and uncomfortable around the people in that town, none of whom had seen him in the last five years, but now everyone knew him as a beggar who had sunk so low that he was selling pictures of his feet.
Everyone knew him—but acted like they didn't.
Whispers followed:
"That's the beggar boy."
"Didn't he sell. feet pictures?
Only one old man summoned him over to the fruit seller.
The same man who'd once bought a sketch "for research purposes."
"Hey, boy," the old man said, squinting and whispering. "Still selling your. art?"
"Always," grinned the beggar. "But now with pigeons."
He told the old man that he could talk to animals.
The man laughed. "Sure you can. You also fly, right?"
"Do you have a job I can do for money?"
"No… business has been slow lately. No job for you. But do come and give me one of those good pictures of yours — I'll pay double.
Then the beggar said, "Pigeon, let's go. No jobs here."
And the pigeon beside him walked away obediently. The fruit seller froze. That evening, a pigeon delivered a folded piece of paper to his stall—
Inside was a perfect sketch of the man's feet.
The fruit seller blinked. ".Oh gods, he wasn't lying."
The next day, when the beggar came for payment, the old man said,
"I. might have a job for you."
And word spread like that.
Soon, the boy's pigeons became the town's first delivery system.
Letters, parcels, fruit-delivery by air.
One shy female pigeon once brought him a copper coin.
"F-for the feet pics…
He smiled and gave her a kiss on the beak.
Her husband saw it. He went feral, disappeared into the woods— (He will return later… as a villain.) On the far edge of the ruins, a young goblin girl watched everything. Small, green, curious—scarcely twelve by goblin years, always clutching her little notebook. Her ears twitched every time she saw a human shouting words relating to business at birds. "Dat hooman. strange," she whispered. "He talk to birds. He make bird rich." Each morning, she would look at the pigeons wearing leaf ties, carrying scrolls like clerks. He'd even built them a "headquarters" out of garbage and shields. But he refused to teach squirrels. "They hoard. They cheat. They don't pay taxes!" he ranted. "No squirrel joins Premium Begging Solutions™ on my watch." So the squirrels started 'NutCoin.' It immediately failed when they forgot where they buried their wallets. At the Goblin camp One day, Migi ran to her lover Grox, the Goblin General. A thirtysomething muscle brick, with scars, stress wrinkles, and the patience of a rock. "Grox! That hooman he makin' pigeons rich!" "What?" "He no like squirrels!" "He racist?" "Yah, very racist! Grox grunted. He'd heard of the "Mad Beggar" the same idiot who once tried to sell goblins "motivational foot sketches." But this sounded. bigger. He sent scouts. They returned trembling. "He talks to birds." "He sells dreams." "He teaches beggars. branding." "He called goblins 'Market Segment B.'" Grox sighed. "That bastard's either a genius. or insane." Migi blushed and whispered, "Maybe both." All empires fall. Even the pigeon-based ones. Then the pigeons went on strike—demanding weekends. Squirrels launched "Feathers Over Fairness." A goat sued for "unpaid internship trauma." He sat amidst the ruins lighting a stick like a cigar. "This. is what they call. economic downturn." "What's that mean?" said a female pigeon. "Means. time for a new business plan" He decided to give them free health care and pension after work, although he was crying while he implemented this idea. For the first time, he wasn't just a beggar. He was an educated beggar. He looked up at the moon. "Watch me, world. I'll build an empire." Then took a bite of half-rotten bread and coughed theatrically. ".Right after dinner."