Sir Wrongalot sat in the middle of a field with his trusty noodle sword propped against his shoulder, staring at a peculiar sight. A group of people sat in a circle under a tree, each furiously scribbling on scrolls with quills that seemed way too fancy for their dusty cloaks.
"What's this lot up to?" he muttered to himself, adjusting his helmet, which immediately fell over his eyes.
As he approached, one of the scribblers, a man with a beard so long it doubled as a scarf, looked up. "Halt, stranger! You've wandered into the Sacred Gathering of the Quill-bearers."
Wrongalot blinked. "The Sacred what-now?"
Another scribbler, a woman with ink-stained hands and an exhausted look, chimed in. "We're web novel authors. We gather here to craft tales that will—hopefully—pay the bills. Eventually."
The knight cocked his head. "Oh, so you're knights of the pen, are ya? Slaying dragons with words instead of swords?"
"Not quite," Beard-Scarf muttered, dipping his quill into a suspiciously empty ink pot. "More like slaying our hopes and dreams with deadlines and one-star reviews."
The woman sighed, holding up her scroll. "I just wrote a 200-chapter romance, and guess what? My audience keeps asking, 'When's the smut?'"
"Sounds rough," Wrongalot said sympathetically. "But at least you're making a decent living, eh?"
The group collectively burst into laughter—deep, hearty, borderline maniacal laughter. One author rolled onto the ground, clutching their stomach.
"Living?!" Beard-Scarf wheezed. "Mate, we're lucky if we can afford a loaf of bread with our royalties. Do you know how many people actually pay for web novels?!"
Wrongalot scratched his chin. "Well, I suppose if you're struggling, you could always… I dunno, get another job?"
The laughter stopped immediately. The authors stared at him as if he'd just suggested eating soup with a fork.
"Another job?" the woman hissed, narrowing her ink-smudged eyes. "Do you have any idea how much time it takes to churn out cliffhangers and filler chapters?!"
"And don't forget the soul-crushing part where your best work gets ignored because someone else wrote a zombie romance with a vampire love triangle," Beard-Scarf added bitterly.
Wrongalot held up his hands defensively. "Alright, alright, no need to bite my head off. I'm just sayin'—maybe you should write something people really want."
The group stared at him in silence. Then Beard-Scarf leaned in, his voice a low whisper. "We tried that. It's called smut. And it's why we're here, living off wild berries and leftover dreams."
Wrongalot considered this. "Fair point. But hey, if you ever need a hero for your stories, I'm available. Got a noodle sword, a goat, and absolutely no sense of direction. Perfect for comedic relief."
The woman squinted at him. "Wait… you're Sir Wrongalot, aren't you? You're already in half the web novels out there as the punchline!"
The knight puffed out his chest proudly. "Am I now? Guess that makes me the most employed character here, eh?"
The authors collectively groaned, and one muttered, "I need to write a story about a knight who gets trampled by goats…"
Wrongalot gave them a cheery wave and walked off, obliviously stepping into a patch of quicksand. As he sank, he shouted back, "Cheer up, scribblers! At least your unemployment rate isn't as bad as your royalty checks!"
The authors watched him sink, and Beard-Scarf shook his head. "He's not wrong. But he's not right, either."
To be continued... if the authors don't quit and get real jobs.
PART 2
Sir Wrongalot eventually extricated himself from the quicksand, though now he was covered in mud and inexplicably carrying a duck that seemed to have been waiting for its moment to shine. The duck quacked triumphantly as Wrongalot returned to the circle of web novel authors, who had now gathered around a campfire made of glowing rejection letters.
"Back so soon?" Beard-Scarf asked dryly, not even bothering to look up from his scroll.
"Quicksand, eh?" Wrongalot said, shaking mud off his boots. "Bit of a sticky wicket, but nothing ol' Wrongalot can't handle! Now, what's the plan for getting you lot off the unemployment scroll?"
The woman with ink-stained hands sighed and gestured toward the fire. "We've been brainstorming all day, and the best idea we've come up with is… introducing a new magical system where power levels are based on how many ads readers watch."
"That sounds… profitable?" Wrongalot ventured.
"Oh, it's brilliant," she deadpanned. "Until you remember that most of our readers have the patience of a goat in a carrot field."
The knight nodded sagely, though it was clear he had no idea what she was talking about. "So, what you're saying is, you need to make your stories irresistible. Something so good, even a goat would pay attention."
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Beard-Scarf said, throwing down his quill in frustration. "But no matter what we write—romance, action, drama—it's always, 'When's the smut?' Or worse, 'This isn't like that other novel I read, 0/5 stars.'"
Wrongalot stroked his chin (and accidentally slapped himself with his gauntlet). "Sounds like you're trying too hard to please everyone. Maybe you just need to write something stupidly simple."
The authors exchanged skeptical looks. "Like what?" the woman asked.
"Like…" Wrongalot paused, clearly scrambling for ideas. "Like a story about a duck that saves the kingdom from an evil toaster."
The duck under his arm quacked loudly, as if to say, "Finally, someone gets it!"
Beard-Scarf snorted. "A duck? Saving the kingdom? That's ridiculous."
"Exactly!" Wrongalot said, beaming. "Ridiculous sells! You lot are overthinking it. Readers don't want realism—they want escapism. Give 'em a duck with a sword and a dream!"
The woman tapped her quill against her chin. "You know… that's so absurd it might actually work."
The group quickly fell into a flurry of brainstorming, each author shouting out ideas.
"What if the duck is also a retired pirate?"
"And the toaster is powered by cursed breadcrumbs!"
"Oh, oh, and the kingdom is ruled by a talking cabbage who hires the duck as a mercenary!"
Wrongalot nodded along, looking increasingly pleased with himself. "Now you're getting it! And if you need inspiration, just look at me—every mistake I make turns into a new adventure."
The authors paused, considering this. Finally, Beard-Scarf smiled. "You know, you're not as daft as you look, Wrongalot."
"I'll take that as a compliment," the knight replied, puffing out his chest.
The group spent the rest of the evening crafting what they unanimously agreed would be the most absurd, hilarious, and oddly touching web novel ever written.
As the campfire burned low, Wrongalot stood up, adjusting his mud-streaked helmet. "Well, I've done my good deed for the day. Good luck with your duck story, scribblers. Just remember—when the royalties start pouring in, I expect a 10% cut for consulting."
The woman snorted. "We'll pay you in exposure, just like every other author gets paid."
Wrongalot laughed, striding off into the night with the duck still tucked under his arm. "Exposure, eh? Sounds like a fair trade! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with destiny. Or maybe just another pothole."
The authors watched him go, shaking their heads.
"Think he knows he's the protagonist of at least three of our stories already?" the woman asked.
"No," Beard-Scarf replied with a grin. "And that's what makes him perfect."
To be continued… in a duck-powered toaster-pocalypse.