《Reincarnated in the Medieval Realm as a Table [A LitRPG Progression Story]》 Chapter 1: He is now a table 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¡ªlift an arm, flex a finger¡ªbut nothing responds. Panic sets in. System initializing¡­ A voice¡ªno, a thought¡ªechoes 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¡ªnothing. A shadow passes over him. A burly man in a stained apron. A carpenter? No, a craftsman. The man grunts, slapping a palm against¡ªagainst 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¡ªlocked into place, unable to turn his head¡ªbut 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¡ªmust be there¡ªbut 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.
Name Table
Race Animated Furniture (Table)
Class None
Level 1
HP 5/5
MP 0
STR 1
END 0
AGI 14
PER 1
Skills None
He bellows internally. Is this supposed to be my stats? Why? Why the hell does a table have 14 Agility?The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. 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¡ªand 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¡ªrun! 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¡ªjust maybe¡ªif 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¡ªa 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¡ªcracked¡ªlets 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¡ªTHIS 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. Chapter 2: Do not scratch me you felonious feline! The inside of the house is exactly as Table feared. Cramped, dimly lit, and barely held together, it smells of damp wood, stale bread that probably worth less than four shillings, and something vaguely resembling cabbage. Cabbage! One should only eat this unholy abomination if they¡¯re actively seeking to sucker-punch themselves. The walls are uneven, made of rough, untreated timber, and the floor creaks with every step the old man takes. At the center of the room, a stone fireplace flutters, its flames doing little to warm the space. A single iron pot hangs over the fire, bubbling with a stew that Table can only assume has been simmering for several days too long. Two people sit near the fire¡ªa young man and a woman, probably in their twenties. The woman leans her head against the man¡¯s shoulder, sobbing miserably. Not because they¡¯re poor, this time, but there¡¯s another reason. ¡°The big viper lunged toward me.¡± She hiccups. ¡°But the army of kitties valiantly fought against it. But then the viper¡­ it¡­ it¡­ it bit Tabbycat! And Tabbycat died!¡± The man jolts. ¡°Tabbycat? Our tabby cat?¡± ¡°Our tabby cat!¡± She hollers, hands clutching her face. ¡°The viper retreated¡­But when I, when I hold Tabbycat in my hand¡­ He was cold! He was gone, Rob! He was gonnneeeeeeeee¡­.¡± Rob doesn¡¯t move for a moment. His face contorts, like a man caught between concern, disbelief, and creeping suspicion. Before he can say anything, the door creaks open. A small shadow slinks inside. A tabby cat. Tabby. Very alive. He casually strolls past them and hops onto Table, curling up like he owns the place. Rob watches, then looks at the woman. She is still sobbing. ¡°Lena,¡± Rob says. She sniffles. ¡°Yes?¡± He gestures. ¡°Tabby¡¯s right there.¡± Lena freezes. Her hands slowly lower from her tear-streaked face. Her red-rimmed eyes flick to the cat. The very alive cat. Tabby, meanwhile, has started licking his paw. His tail wags, radiating sheer feline indifference. There is a long, long pause. Then, Lena throws herself into Rob¡¯s chest. ¡°Rob, it was awful,¡± she wails. Rob looks at the ceiling, fingers tapping on the floor. ¡°Lena. Tabby is alive.¡± ¡°But in my dream, he died!¡± she insists, gripping his shirt. ¡°He was cold, Rob! Cold! He was gone! You don¡¯t understand the emotional trauma I have endured! The sorrow! The loss!¡± Tabby sneezes and rolls onto his back. Rob sighs. ¡°Lena.¡± Lena clutches his arm. ¡°I need you to hold me. I need comfort. I need pampering.¡± She lifts her head, peeking up at him. ¡°And pats.¡± Rob stares at her. Then at Biscuit. Then back at her. Biscuit, still lounging on Table, starts kneading his claws into the wood. Table internally howls in despair. FOUL CREATURE! HAVE YOU NO MERCY? DO NOT SCRATCH ME YOU FELONIOUS FELINE! Rob, meanwhile, accepts his fate. With a sigh, he reaches up and gently pats Lena¡¯s head. She sniffles theatrically and melts into his chest. ¡°Mmm. More.¡± Rob pats her again. Tabby stretches, purrs contentedly, scratches Table, and goes back to sleep. Table is seething. If anyone needs pampering, it is HIM. Not this overly dramatic woman. Not the useless cat. HIM. [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: You have taken damage. Strength -1.] Table screams internally. WHAT? HOW? He has 5 HP! HEALTH. POINT. What are the health points for if the universe is just going to deduct strength from him? The cat¡ªthe absolute menace¡ªstretches again, dragging its claws lazily along Table¡¯s surface before settling down with a contented sigh. His stats beam before his eyes:
Name Table
Race Animated Furniture (Table)
Class None
Level 1
HP 5/5
MP 0
STR 0 (-1)
END 0
AGI 14
PER 1
Skills None
ZERO. He has zero strength. He is now physically incapable of being strong. [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Endurance Training in Progress.]The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Table pauses his internal wailing. What? [STR reduced to 0. Temporary stat loss detected. If structural integrity remains intact with minimal HP loss, STR will increase upon recovery.] Hold on. This is a thing? Losing stats is¡­ training? This LitRPG system is messed up. The system really could¡¯ve led with that line. His mind races. Does this mean if I endure this suffering, I¡¯ll get stronger? A fire ignites in Table¡¯s wooden heart. No, not fire¡ªthat would be terrible¡ªbut determination. If this is a system feature, that means there¡¯s hope. He can regain his strength. Maybe even surpass it. Maybe¡­ he could one day become a mighty table. He steels himself. Yeah, Tabby. Yeahhh. Keep scratching, boy. I do love getting mauled by a cat. Give it to me. Biscuit stirs, stretches again, and¡ªSCRATCH. [HP: 5 ¡ú 4] Table screams. Wait. NO. NO HP LOSS. I¡¯m supposed to tank it! What kind of third-grade throwaway wood am I made from? [Training Canceled. No stat gains achieved. STR returned, +1] Table goes silent. Biscuit stretches one last time, lets out a long, exaggerated yawn, and hops off him as if he¡¯s nothing more than a common piece of furniture¡ªwhich, technically, he is, but that¡¯s beside the point. Table waits, heart¡ªor whatever the equivalent of a heart is for a table¡ªpounding. Come back. Scratch me again. The cat does not come back. COME BACK AND FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED, YOU LAZY FELINE. Tabby has moved on with his life, tail flicking as he saunters over to Lena, who immediately scoops him up, rubbing her face against his fur. ¡°Ohhh, you¡¯re so soft,¡± she coos, all previous grief forgotten. ¡°Such a strong little warrior, aren¡¯t you? Yes, you are.¡± Table seethes. Out of nowhere the old man claps his hands together. ¡°Alright, time for dinner.¡± Table, with his garbage [Stealth Detection Failed. PER is too low.] What even is PER? He¡¯s been thrown into this world with no explanation of the stats. Where is DEX? Where is INT? Where are the common stats in the common games he¡¯s played before? A sense of impending doom washes over Table. No. No, no, no. Surely, they wouldn¡¯t¡ª ¡°Let¡¯s break in the new table, then.¡± They would. Rob and Lena start moving about the house, gathering plates, bowls, and a heavy-looking pot from the fireplace. The old man places a firm, calloused hand on Table¡¯s surface and gives him a gentle pat. ¡°Solid thing. Should last us years.¡± LAST ME YEARS? I¡¯M GOING TO DIE IN MINUTES! Then the first plate lands. Then another. Then a heavy ceramic mug. Then the pot¡ªwhich is filled with steaming, sloshing stew that smells vaguely of cabbage. Table¡¯s body groans under the weight. Do not. Do not! [Endurance Training Initiated. Hold Steady.] Hold steady? HOLD STEADY?! WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? More weight presses down as the family takes their seats, resting their arms on him. Elbows. Cutlery. Hands tapping idly against his wood. Tabby leaps back onto the table¡ªfinally¡ªbut instead of scratching, he simply curls up and purrs, vibrating directly against Table¡¯s already distressed frame. [+1 Endurance] Wait. Wait, that actually worked? The realization dawns on him. This is how training works in this world. The more stress he endures with minimal HP loss, the stronger he becomes. Pain is gain. Finally, something makes sense. He focuses. The stew sloshes. Lena leans too hard on one side, making one of his legs creak. But he endures. [+1 Endurance] A strange feeling bubbles up within him¡ªpride? Triumph? If he could smirk, he would. This isn¡¯t the life he asked for, but damn it, he¡¯s going to be the sturdiest table in the world. After dinner, Table feels¡­ different. Jacked. Shredded. Enduring the weight of plates, bowls, and elbows leaning on him has fundamentally changed his very essence, lifting him to the stature of elites. A familiar chime rings in his head. [Status Updated.] A translucent screen flickers into view.
Name Table
Race Animated Furniture (Table)
Class None
Level 1
EXP 2/10
HP 5/5
MP 0
STR 1
END 2 (+2)
AGI 14
PER 1
Skills None
Finally. Growth. He is no longer just a mere table¡ªhe is now a slightly more durable table. There is even an experience tab now. He hasn¡¯t a clue when it showed up, but it¡¯s nice being able to track his leveling up progress. Does this mean if he keeps getting used, he¡¯ll get even stronger? Use me more! Abuse me! Let me become the mightiest piece of furniture in existence! Lena yawns and stretches. ¡°That was a good meal.¡± Rob rubs his stomach. ¡°Mmm. This thing¡¯s creaky, and not in a good way. Maybe I¡¯ll reinforce the table¡¯s legs tomorrow.¡± Reinforce? Table buzzes with excitement. Yes. Reinforce me. Make me indestructible. Upgrade me until I become the most glorious centerpiece this world has ever seen! Little does he know, they just meant adding a couple of wooden pegs to keep his legs from wobbling. [MAX HP 5->6]
Name Table
Race Animated Furniture (Table)
Class None
Level 1
EXP 2/10
HP 6/6
MP 0
STR 1
END 2
AGI 14
PER 1
Skills None
Chapter 3: I love buttocks against my face The rooster crows, a little too late to its job. The wooden walls of the house creak as they expand with the growing heat of the dawning sun. A spoon hung in the kitchen clinks against the side of a bowl as Rob brings out the big pot, shouting with a stiff and practical voice, ¡°Food¡¯s done. Carrot stew!¡± The house is filled with the disgusting aroma of boiled vegetables, mingled with the faint traces of whatever herbs they¡¯ve managed to gather. Warm, but the kind of warm one gets from sitting on a chair that another person just vacated their buttocks from. ¡°No eggplants?¡± Lena asks in a slightly muffled voice. She¡¯s still buried under a blanket or slumped half-asleep against a chair. ¡°Price went up by one shilling, so no.¡± Rob¡¯s response is flat. The old man has already gone out even before the sun was up, with no indication as to where he went. Makes sense. Everyone else was still fast asleep, and he wouldn¡¯t announce his daily itinerary to a table. Table is eager for his stats to rise again. He braces himself as breakfast is served, ready to soak up some more precious END gains. He waits. And waits. The couple finishes their breakfast and puts away the cutleries. Nothing happens. Why? Isn¡¯t this par-for-the-course training? Lunch comes. Dinner follows. Not a single notification appears. The grind has stopped. He¡¯s plateaued. He¡¯s become TOO STRONG. This is worse than being weak! If he doesn¡¯t grow, how will he ever evolve? How will he achieve his dream of becoming the Ultimate Table? Days pass. Lena drops a heavy pot on him¡ªnothing. Rob accidentally slams his mug down¡ªno gains. Teddy walks over him, tail flicking in indifference¡ªno scratches, no progress. Table is in hell, and he can¡¯t walk away from any of this. But then one day, salvation arrives. Lena and Rob enter the room, talking in hushed voices. ¡°Old man¡¯s out of town,¡± says Rob. ¡°He would never approve of this if he¡¯s here,¡± Lena¡¯s voice is even quieter. Their gazes meet. There¡¯s a pause. Lena glances toward the door, hands clutching the religious necklace she¡¯s wearing, making sure no divine punishment is about to strike them down. Rob, on the other hand, reaches for the nearest candle and blows it out. Lena clasps her hands together. ¡°We should at least put down some cloth.¡± Rob sighs. ¡°We don¡¯t have a piece of cloth big enough.¡± ¡°What about the bedsheet?¡± Rob looks at her weirdly. ¡°Do you want to explain to the old man why the bedsheet smells like stew?¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Lena chews her lip. ¡°¡­We sit directly, then.¡± What the hell are they going to do? Table thinks. Summon a demon? Table¡¯s mind spirals into madness. They¡¯re going to summon a demon. That¡¯s the only explanation. Why else would they blow out the candle? Why else would they speak in hushed voices like two conspirators about to commit unspeakable horrors? Would that give him stats? If the demon appears and scratches him, that could be a solid STR boost. Or if the summoning circle requires heavy objects to be placed on him, he might get another endurance gain. Maybe if they start chanting, he¡¯ll absorb some arcane energy and unlock a hidden Magic Resistance stat¡ªhe doesn¡¯t have one yet, but there¡¯s always a first time. Oh, what if they sacrifice something? Could he absorb life essence? That¡¯s got to be a thing, right? A dark ritual gone wrong, and suddenly, BAM¡ªTable of the Abyss. Wait. No. That¡¯s stupid. Maybe they¡¯re plotting murder? If someone gets stabbed on him, would that count as impact resistance? Would blood stains make him a cursed item and unlock hidden abilities? Table of the Dying Man Coughing His Blood Out on Its Face. His mind races through possibility after possibility, each more ridiculous than the last. Then Rob just¡­ sits. Lena follows. They rub their buttocks on Table. And they start kissing. At first, it¡¯s just a shift. A slight scoot. Nothing dramatic. But then¡ªoh no. Oh no no no. They settle in, wiggling ever so slightly to get comfortable, pressing their full weight down onto his surface. The friction of her butt against his face. The warmth. The sheer, horrific intimacy of it all. Lena adjusts herself, and scrape¡ªher skirt bunches, and Table feels it. Rob leans in, his trousers sliding ever so slightly, and the fabric rasps against Table¡¯s pristine wooden grain. It¡¯s a slow torment. They rub. They squirm. They veer. Back and forth. Side to side. A casual, unconscious grinding of posteriors against his very being. Table wants to scream. [New Weight Detected. Endurance Training Resumed.] Oh. OH. NEVERMIND. HE LOVES GETTING BUTTOCKS GROUND AGAINST HIS FACE. Lena presses more weight onto Rob. Rob¡¯s hand braces against his surface. The couple grows more enthusiastic. [+1 END] YES. [+1 END] YESSSS. Table has never felt more alive. The rest of what happens should be best left unspoken, but the stats change is forever etched into his memory. [+1 END] ¨C His body has been tempered in the fires of passion. [+1 STR] ¨C The weight. The pressure. The sheer force. He is a big boy now. [+3 PER] ¨C Wait. PER? What the hell is PER? As the couple returns to their room, Table thinks long and hard about what PER can represent. Perseverance? Perturbation? Perishability? Then, slowly, horrifyingly, understanding dawns upon him. Perception. Oh no. OH NO. He has seen things. Things that can never be unseen. Things that have seared themselves into the very grain of his existence. The way Lena¡¯s hair fell over her shoulder. The hitch in Rob¡¯s breath. The look in their eyes. He is forever changed. But at least he got stats out of it. Now that Table has gained enough stats, something shifts within him. It¡¯s subtle at first¡ªlike a tiny ripple in a still pond. A strange, foreign sensation runs through his wooden frame. Like a scratch from the paw of a cat. Wait. He focuses. His legs¡ªnormally stiff and lifeless¡ªfeel just a little¡­ less rigid. Not enough to move, but enough to twitch. Oh! He wills himself to move again. One leg nudges¡ªbarely, imperceptibly, but it happens. He is evolving. He will no longer be just a table. He will be a humping table.