The "Snoring Slime" inn was, like its name suggested, a place of profound mediocrity. It wasn't the kind of establishment that attracted brawls or secret royal meetings. It was where traveling merchants on a tight budget, low-ranking adventurers between paychecks, and people who simply didn't want to be found (like a certain background character) came to rest their heads. The sign, depicting a cartoonish blue slime with a Z-shaped bubble coming from its… well, its entire body, was slightly askew. It was perfect.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door, triggering a faint chime that sounded like a depressed frog. The interior was dim, lit by a single, flickering oil lamp on the front desk and a dying fire in the hearth. The air smelled of old smoke, stewed vegetables, and the faint, sweet odor of spilled ale that had long since soaked into the floorboards. A few solitary figures hunched over mugs in shadowy corners, their postures screaming 'don't talk to me.' My people.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked as if he'd been carved from a particularly grumpy block of granite. He was bald, with a magnificent, bushy gray beard that seemed to be trying to compensate for the lack of hair on top. His arms were thick and crossed over a barrel chest, and he was currently frowning at a ledger as if it had personally offended his ancestors.
This was my target. The innkeeper. The gatekeeper to a room of my own, a sanctuary where I could finally, properly, panic in private about the cosmic joke that was my existence.
I approached the counter, my footsteps deliberately heavy on the creaky floorboards to announce my presence. The man didn't look up.
"Ahem," I said, my voice sounding ridiculously high-pitched in the quiet room.
The innkeeper's eyes, small and dark like two chips of flint, slowly lifted from the ledger and settled on me. He didn't speak. He just stared, his expression suggesting I was a particularly uninteresting stain on the floor.
"I'd, uh, like a room. For the night. Possibly longer," I said, mustering all the charisma of a damp paper towel.
He grunted. "Five copper. Per night. No noise. No trouble. No refunds." His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder.
"Right. Of course." I reached for my coin pouch, my mind already preparing to will the coins into my hand. But my brain, still buzzing from the day's revelations and the lingering effects of cheap tavern ale, was running on autopilot. As my fingers brushed the leather of the pouch, a stray, idle thought flickered through my mind.
'I wonder what his story is.'
It was an innocent thought. A mundane curiosity. But in my new reality, mundane curiosity was a weapon of mass information.
[Ultimate Appraisal.]
The world dissolved into a torrent of raw data.
It wasn't like the focused appraisals I'd done in the guild. This was a firehose of information, unleashed without a target, without restraint. My vision swam, the physical form of the innkeeper overlaying with a swirling galaxy of text, numbers, images, and sensations.
[Appraisal Target: Borin Stonehand]
Race:Human (Dwarven Ancestry - 1/8)
Age:58
Occupation:Innkeeper, Former Guardsman (Maplewood Town Guard, 20 years of service)
Level:12
HP:310/310
MP:25/25
Skills:[Axe Mastery Lv. 5], [Intimidation Lv. 6], [Endurance Lv. 7], [Basic Accounting Lv. 3], [Stubbornness Lv. MAX]
Current Thoughts:'Another soft-looking adventurer. Probably get himself killed in a week. Hope he pays upfront. The roof in room 4 is leaking again. Gods, I need a drink.'
Emotional State:Weary (85%), Annoyed (10%), Mildly Concerned About Roof (5%)
Financial Status:Net Worth: 42 Gold, 17 Silver, 8 Copper. Outstanding Debts: 0. Monthly Expenses: 5 Gold (Average). Primary Concern: Declining occupancy rates (Down 15% from last year).
Physical Condition:Right knee suffers from chronic arthritis (Old injury from a goblin ambush, Year 342). Mild tinnitus in left ear. Hidden rash developing on lower back, possibly from new laundry soap.
Secrets:
· Secret 1: Hid his life savings (35 Gold, 5 Silver) beneath a loose floorboard under his bed. Believes no one knows. (I now knew the exact floorboard).
· Secret 2: Writes terrible, unpublished poetry under the pseudonym "Boulderheart." Current project: "Ode to a Well-Brewed Stout." (A few truly dreadful lines flashed in my mind, searing themselves into my memory).
· Secret 3: Has a hidden, sentimental fondness for a specific type of yellow wildflower that grows on the southern edge of town. They remind him of his late mother.
· Secret 4: Is secretly being driven mad by a family of "Whisper Rats" that have nested in the walls between the pantry and the common room. He can hear them scratching and squeaking at night but can't find the entry point. He fears putting out poison will contaminate the food stores. The problem has been ongoing for three weeks. The nest is located precisely 2.3 meters from the west wall, behind a false panel created by a warped beam.
The information kept coming. His first kiss (a girl named Elara behind the blacksmith's, age 16). His proudest moment (holding the town gate alone against a ogre raid for ten minutes until reinforcements arrived). His deepest shame (accidentally setting the previous captain's prized feathered hat on fire during a training exercise).
It was a lifetime. A full, complete, unedited lifetime, poured directly into my brain in the span of three seconds.
I staggered back, my hand flying to my forehead as if I could physically stop the flood. The coins I'd been about to produce clattered to the floor, forgotten. My breath hitched. The dim tavern seemed to spin, the faces of the other patrons now glowing with their own potential torrents of unspeakable personal data.
"You alright, boy?" Borin's voice cut through the mental static, laced with a grudging concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I've seen your ghost, I wanted to scream. I've seen your childhood ghost, your financial ghost, and the ghost of the rash on your back!
"I'm… fine," I managed to choke out, my voice a strangled whisper. "Just… a long day. The room?"
Borin grunted again, his flinty eyes narrowing slightly. "Five copper. You dropped 'em."
I bent down, my movements jerky, and scooped up the coins. My hands were trembling. I placed them on the counter, forcing myself to meet his gaze. For a horrifying moment, I was terrified I'd accidentally activate the skill again and learn what he'd had for breakfast ten years ago.
He swept the coins into a drawer and produced a heavy iron key from a rack behind him. "Room 5. Top of the stairs, last door on the left. Don't make a mess."
I snatched the key, my fingers closing around the cold metal like a lifeline. "Thanks."
I didn't wait for another word. I practically fled up the creaking staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I found the door, fumbled with the key, and burst into the room, slamming it shut behind me and leaning against it, chest heaving.
The room was exactly as advertised: small, sparse, and clean in a perfunctory way. A simple bed with a thin mattress, a small wooden chest, a washbasin, and a single, grimy window looking out over a back alley. It was perfect. It was a prison cell of beautiful, beautiful anonymity.
I slid down the length of the door until I was sitting on the floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. The panic I had been staving off since my conversation with Celian finally broke through the dam.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Okay, okay, okay. Let's… let's just take stock. Calmly. Like a spreadsheet."
A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. A spreadsheet. Right.
I focused inward, pulling up my status screen. The list of skills glowed with an ominous, cheery blue light.
[Ultimate Appraisal Lv. MAX]
The cause of my current meltdown.It wasn't just a tool. It was a violation on a cosmic scale. I could know anything. Anything. The Demon Lord's secret weakness, the King's mistress's favorite perfume, the exact number of hairs on a squirrel's tail a mile away. The potential was infinite, and it was terrifying. How did you turn it off? Was I doomed to forever know the deepest secrets of every person I laid eyes on?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to build a mental wall. 'Off. Turn off. Deactivate. Disable.' I focused on the concept of ignorance, of blissful, mundane not-knowing. After a few agonizing seconds, I felt a slight 'click' in my perception. The world felt… duller. Less defined. I cautiously opened my eyes. The wooden grain of the door in front of me was just wood. I didn't know its species, age, or the name of the carpenter who had planed it. Thank the gods.
One crisis semi-averted. For now.
My eyes traveled down the list.
[Absolute Stealth Lv. MAX]
I'd used this.It worked flawlessly. I could become a ghost. A non-entity. The power was intoxicating and, crucially, essential for my plans. This one was a keeper. No panic here. Just pure, unadulterated utility.
[Infinite Inventory Lv. MAX]
I focused on the skill,and my consciousness was pulled into the pocket dimension. It was… nothing. An infinite, silent, dark void. My single mug of ale sat in the center, a monument to absurdity. I could store anything. Anything. The entire Snoring Slime inn. A mountain. An ocean. I could walk through a dragon's hoard and leave behind a single, polished copper coin as a petty insult. The logistical implications were mind-boggling. I could single-handedly solve world hunger, collapse entire economies, or simply never have to worry about carrying groceries again. The responsibility was nauseating. The convenience was sublime.
[Instant Transmission Lv. MAX]
I looked at the grimy window.I could be on the other side of it, in the alley, in a blink. I could be in the capital city. I could be on the moon, if this world had one and I could visualize it. No cost. No cooldown. I was never late for anything ever again. The freedom was absolute. The potential for catastrophic, reality-breaking accidents was… significant. What if I teleported into a wall? Did the skill have safeties? I wasn't eager to find out by having my molecules spliced with stone.
[Mirage Crafting Lv. MAX]
I'd created a perfect silver coin.I could create a perfect illusion of anything. I could make this room look like a royal suite. I could make myself look like the King. I could make a monster appear in the town square and cause a riot. I could make a plate of steaming, delicious food appear in front of a starving person, and they would taste it, feel full, and then slowly starve to death believing they had been fed. The ethical nightmare of this skill alone was enough to give me hives.
[Physical Apex Lv. MAX]
I looked at my hands.They looked… normal. I stood up and walked to the bed. I placed my hands under the heavy wooden frame. With a thought, I lifted it. It felt like lifting a feather pillow. I held it over my head with one hand. I wasn't straining. My breathing was calm. I could probably punch a hole through the stone wall without breaking a sweat. I was a god in the body of a background character. I gently set the bed down, making sure it didn't make a sound. This power was sheer, unmitigated violence waiting to be unleashed. I wanted no part of it.
[Soulbond Contract Lv. MAX]
I didn't even want to think about this one.Unbreakable, magically enforced agreements on a conceptual level? I could probably write a contract that made someone agree to be happy forever, and if they had a single sad thought, their soul would be forfeit. This was the power of tyrants and mad gods. This was a power that should not exist, let alone be possessed by a man who just wanted a quiet farm.
The full, horrifying weight of it all came crashing down. This wasn't a lucky break. This wasn't a fun cheat code. This was a catastrophic system failure that had handed the nuclear codes to a goldfish. A very anxious, peace-loving goldfish, but a goldfish nonetheless.
Celian hadn't just given me a few OP skills. He had given me the administrative privileges to reality itself.
"He gave me everything," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "The idiot gave me everything."
A fresh wave of panic, cold and sharp, washed over me. My breathing became shallow and rapid. Spots danced in front of my eyes. This was a full-blown panic attack. I was hyperventilating on the floor of a cheap inn room in another world, and I was quite possibly the most powerful being in it.
'I need to breathe. I need to focus. Data. I need data.'
I forced air into my lungs, holding it for a count of four, then releasing it slowly. The old corporate mindfulness training, now being used to stave off a existential crisis of multiversal proportions.
Okay. New data points.
One: The skills were real and worked as advertised, perhaps too well.
Two:They seemed to respond to my intent, but required conscious control. Ultimate Appraisal had gone wild because I'd been careless.
Three:I was stuck with them. There was no uninstall button.
Four:My original plan was still valid. More than ever, in fact. With these powers, avoiding a bandit attack was trivial. Living a life of quiet luxury was not just possible, it was inevitable. I just had to be… careful. Exceptionally, paranoically careful.
The panic began to recede, replaced by a grim, determined clarity. This was my new spreadsheet. A spreadsheet of cosmic power, and my task was to ensure every cell was formatted for maximum peace and minimum attention.
I stood up, brushing the dust off my trousers. I walked to the window and looked out at the darkening alley. A single, yellow wildflower was growing defiantly from a crack in the stones below. Borin's favorite.
An idea, petty and beautiful, began to form.
I focused on the space behind the inn's pantry, on the warped beam. 'Ultimate Appraisal,' I thought, this time with a precise, focused target. I needed the exact location.
The information came, clean and specific this time. A mental map of the inn's wall, the nest, the six Whisper Rats (three adults, three juveniles), their primary access route through a gap in the foundation near the well.
Next, I focused on my [Infinite Inventory]. I visualized the nest. The dried grass, the bits of stolen cloth, the rats themselves. I didn't want to kill them. That was messy and cruel. I just wanted them… relocated.
'Store.'
A section of the wall, about the size of a large loaf of bread, vanished from reality and appeared in my inventory. I could see it floating in the void, the rats frozen in time, mid-scratch.
Now, for the teleportation. I needed someplace far away. A forest. A nice, deep, sunny forest where a family of rats could start anew. I pictured the Sunken Woods from my herb-gathering quest slip. I visualized a sunny glade I'd Appraised earlier, one with soft moss and plenty of bugs to eat.
'Instant Transmission.'
I didn't go myself. That was the key. I focused on the nest within my inventory and the destination outside of it. It was a complex bit of mental gymnastics, but the skills understood my intent.
I 'felt' a spatial ripple. A flicker of displaced mana that only I could perceive.
Then, I 'retrieved' the nest from my inventory—back to its point of origin.
But its point of origin was no longer the inn wall. It was the sunny glade in the Sunken Woods.
In the real world, six very confused Whisper Rats suddenly found their entire home teleported two miles away into a pleasant forest. Problem solved.
Back in the inn, there was a sudden, profound, and beautiful silence. The faint, maddening scratching that had plagued Borin for weeks was gone.
I allowed myself a small, tight smile. This was it. This was how I would use my power. Not for glory. Not for the Hero. But for minor, undetectable quality-of-life improvements that benefited me indirectly. A quiet innkeeper was a happy innkeeper. A happy innkeeper was less likely to remember the face of a quiet, unremarkable tenant named Bob.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the coarse wool blanket scratchy against my skin. The panic was gone, replaced by a weary resolution. I had my list of powers. I understood their terrifying scope. The 'Error's Extent' was total. I was a walking, talking bug in the system of reality.
But every bug just wants to find a quiet corner to hide in.
I lay back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Tomorrow, I would gather those Common Moonlight Herbs. I would use my powers with surgical precision. I would be the most efficient, forgettable herb-gatherer this world had ever seen.
And maybe, just maybe, I would find a way to get that leak in room 4 fixed. Not because I was a hero. But because a well-maintained inn was a peaceful inn. And peace was the entire point.
As I drifted off to sleep, the last thing I heard was Borin Stonehand's voice from downstairs, muttering to himself in a tone of profound relief, "Gods above… the scratching… it's stopped. Is this a miracle?"
In the darkness, Bob, the System Error, smiled.
It was no miracle. It was just good logistics.
---
Chapter 3 End.
Author's Note:
Bob confronts the terrifying reality of his powers and has his first proper panic attack.But our data-entry clerk is nothing if not adaptable! He's already learning to use his world-breaking abilities for the most mundane of purposes: pest control. The path to a peaceful life is paved with carefully applied, reality-defying skills. Next time, Bob heads into the Sunken Woods for his first official quest. How hard could it be to find a few herbs when you have a perfect map of the entire forest in your head? Find out in Chapter 4: A Hunter of Herbs, Not Glory!