His eyes snap open.
Cold stone presses against his back, and the damp air stinks of mildew and old wood. His breath comes ragged, his body heavy. The scent of sawdust and varnish lingers, thick and filled with smells of unfamiliar wood. He tries to move—lift an arm, flex a finger—but nothing responds. Panic sets in.
System initializing…
A voice—no, a thought—echoes in his mind. A thought that isn’t his. It feels distant yet absolute. Like the murmurs of an intrusive God that cannot be blocked.
Analyzing…
He wants to scream. He wants to ask where he is, why he can’t move. But his mouth won’t open. He has no mouth.
Configuration complete. Welcome to The Uninspiringly Named Medieval Realm.
The weight in his chest grows unbearable. He strains, desperate to see, to feel, to be. And then, at last, his vision clears.
The room was dark. Wooden walls, rough-hewn and worn with age. Dust floats in the air, catching the faint light from a single, flickering lantern. Workbenches line the walls, cluttered with chisels, planes, and half-carved chair legs.
He tries again to move, but still—nothing.
A shadow passes over him. A burly man in a stained apron. A carpenter? No, a craftsman. The man grunts, slapping a palm against—against him.
"Sturdy enough," the man mutters. "That''ll make a fine centerpiece."
He is now a table.
***
The world lurches beneath him. A rhythmic creaking fills his ears, accompanied by the distant clatter of hooves against cobblestone.
He’s on a horse-drawn cart. Its wooden frame groans under the weight of cargo. Around him, sacks of grain, wooden crates, and stacks of lumber jostle with each bump in the road. But more importantly, he is among them. He is cargo.
His vision is limited—locked into place, unable to turn his head—but he can make out the town unfolding before him. Stone buildings with thatched roofs line the streets. Merchants call out their wares, their voices overlapping into an endless shouting contest. He can hear their voices.
“Bread! Fresh bread! So cheap! Only five shillings!”
“Bread! Fresh bread! So cheap! Only four shillings!”
“Piss off you harlot buttock undercutter!”
Then, something catches his attention. A wooden signpost swings gently in the wind, its words etched in bold, black ink:
The Township of Iakesi.
Iakesi? The name means nothing to him. But then again, what does?
He searches his mind for answers. Who is he? Where did he come from? The memories should be there—must be there—but all he finds is an empty void, a yawning abyss where his past should be. He remembers the feeling of having a life, but not the details. Like a book missing all its pages. Like an isekai novel where he’s transported to another realm and conveniently loses all his memory so the reader can easily insert themselves into the story.
A sharp ding rings in his head.
Status Window Initialized.
A translucent screen materializes before his vision, glowing faintly. Words form, crisp and simple, but the font is hideous. Somehow, the name of the font is the only thing his memory can retain: Comic Sans. Also, conveniently, knowledge about game systems is still in his head.
<table style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 99.9817%" border="1">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Name</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Table</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Race</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Animated Furniture (Table)</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Class</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">None</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Level</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">HP</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">5/5</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">MP</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">STR</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">END</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">AGI</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">14</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">PER</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">Skills</td>
<td style="width: 48.9863%">None</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
He bellows internally. Is this supposed to be my stats? Why? Why the hell does a table have 14 Agility?Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
What is he going to do with such abysmal stat distribution? What is he going to do at all, as a table? Luckily for him, with superior starting Agility stat, he can stay unanimated at neck-breaking speed.
The cart hits a pothole. The impact sends some cargo flying—and with his absurd AGI: 14, he somehow flips off the cart at high speed, lands on all four legs, and skids gracefully into an alleyway.
The townspeople barely notice, except for one boy who stares in awe. “Mom, the table just moved!”
“Tables don’t move, dear,” a woman’s voice rings out.
The merchant swears as he pulls the reins, bringing the cart to a sharp halt. “Damn roads, they never fix the bumps,” he mutters, hopping down with the ease of someone who has spent years chasing after runaway goods.
Table internally panics. No, no, no, no—run! Move! Do something! But, of course, he can''t. He is a table.
The merchant stomps over, dusting off his trousers as he surveys the alleyway. His gaze lands on Table, standing there perfectly still, like any normal inanimate object would.
“Well, would you look at that?” the merchant grumbles. “How the hell did you get all the way over here?”
Table considers his options. Maybe—just maybe—if he focuses hard enough, he can move. He wills his legs to dash, to spring away with his absurd AGI: 14, to flee like the wind itself.
Nothing happens.
The merchant grabs him by the edge and effortlessly hoists him up. “Damn thing’s lighter than it looks,” he notes, hauling Table back toward the cart. “Must’ve been made with Featherwood.”
Table mentally screams. He had 14 Agility! Fourteen! That’s more than some adventurers start with! What was the point if he couldn’t even dodge a slow-moving merchant with bad knees?
As he’s tossed back onto the cart, jumbled between crates and sacks of grain, he despairs.
So this is my life now.
Then the merchant slams a pint of lager onto his surface.
***
The cart rattles along the cobblestone road, weaving through the heart of Iakesi as the sun rises from the horizon. Table, still recovering from his utterly humiliating failure to escape, sulks in forced silence. But as the scenery shifts, his mood lifts.
The first house they pass is massive, a sprawling estate with gleaming marble columns and a wrought-iron gate. A neatly trimmed hedge surrounds the property, with an elaborate stone fountain at its center. Water cascades from the mouth of a lion-headed statue, sparkling in the afternoon sun. This must belong to a noble! Maybe a lord or a baron!
The cart keeps moving.
The next home is even grander—a three-story manor with intricate stained-glass windows, each of which etched on with scenes of chivalry and heroic battle. Ornate lanterns hang from polished oak doors, their golden handles reflecting the light. The walls are made of smooth, imported stone, fitted so precisely that not a single crack is visible.
His metaphorical eyes shimmer. Surely, no other residence could be more fitting for a distinguished piece of furniture such as myself.
Instead, it rolls past a lavish townhouse with balconies adorned with flowing silk banners. Past a luxurious villa, its rose garden blooming in carefully arranged colors. Past a stately residence, its gilded gates guarded by men in silver armor.
Each home is grander than the last. Each one a perfect setting for a piece of fine, exquisite furniture such. Table can hardly contain his excitement.
Then the cart takes a turn.
The cobblestone gives way to packed dirt. The bustling market sounds fade. The air grows still.
The horse leisurely strides down a narrow, unpaved path, passing modest cottages with crooked fences. Chickens peck at the ground, and laundry flutters from sagging lines. At the very end of the road, sitting alone like a forgotten afterthought, is his destination.
A tiny, lopsided house, barely held together by its own will to exist. The thatch roof is missing a few patches, revealing glimpses of the wooden beams underneath. The front door tilts ever so slightly, as if it might fall off its hinges at any moment. A single window—cracked—lets in the faintest bit of light. A goat is tied to a post outside, chewing on a rope that seems dangerously close to snapping. It bahhhhhh at Table as it sees him.
No. No, no, no. There must be some mistake. Goats don’t bah. Sheep bah!
The merchant hops off the cart, stretching his back. “Whew. Finally here.”
Finally WHERE?
The door creaks open, and out steps a raggedy old man with a wiry beard and clothes that look like they’ve been patched up more times than they should. This man looks like the type of person who never wipes his table after dinner.
He squints at the merchant, then at the cart.
“Is this it?” the old man asks, rubbing his chin.
“Yup,” the merchant says. “Sturdy thing. Should last you years.”
The old man waddles over, places his rough hands on Table, and gives him a firm shake. “Hmm. Not bad.”
NO, NOT BAD? I AM EXCELLENT! I WAS MEANT FOR A MANSION! NOT THIS—THIS HOVEL!
“Alright,” the old man says. “I’ll take it.”
NO, WAIT, DO NOT TAKE IT! I AM NOT EXCELLENT! I AM TERRIBLE! I BREAK IN HALF AT THE FIRST SIGN OF PRESSURE!
Table’s lifted off the cart and carried into his new home.