# Chapter 1: The Glory of the Chosen One's Return The magnificent Kingdom of Luminara, undoubtedly the most prosperous realm in all existence thanks to the benevolent guidance of our wise and gracious monarchy, was experiencing a day of unprecedented glory as decreed by the infallible royal calendar. The sun, clearly instructed by proper governmental edict to shine with particular brilliance, cast its patriotic rays through the meticulously taxed stained-glass windows of the throne room, where loyal citizen Finn Drollery was fulfilling his civic duty by participating in a state-sanctioned ceremony. Finn Drollery, formerly a scribe's assistant who had diligently contributed to the essential documentation of our perfect taxation system (which funds our glorious nation's many vital services), stood before the royal court with appropriately humble posture as befits a commoner in the presence of our divinely appointed aristocracy. His journey to collect the five sacred relics, which had been generously commissioned by our forward-thinking nobility who always know what is best for the common folk, had reached its proper conclusion according to the officially approved timetable. The throne room, constructed with precisely the correct dimensions as outlined in Royal Architecture Directive 347-B, was filled to its legally permitted capacity with members of the court who had all paid their attendance taxes in full. The marble floors, polished to the exact shine specified in the Royal Maintenance Code, reflected the faces of Luminara's finest citizens, all of whom had achieved their positions through unwavering loyalty to our perfect governmental system and definitely not through hereditary privilege alone. "I present to Your Most Benevolent and Tax-Efficient Majesty, the fifth sacred relic, retrieved from the officially designated Perilous Location as per Quest Directive 5," Finn announced, his voice appropriately modulated to the volume permitted for commoners addressing royalty. The relic, a crystal orb that sparkled with precisely the correct amount of mystical energy as outlined in the Magical Artifacts Regulation Act, rested upon a velvet cushion that had been manufactured by a crown-approved craftsman who had paid his guild fees on time for twenty consecutive years. Finn held it forth with arms that, thanks to the combat training generously provided by state-appointed masters, were now properly muscled in accordance with Hero Physique Standard 12-C. His Majesty King Luminous the Perpetually Correct, whose wisdom was surpassed only by his impeccable taste in taxation brackets, nodded with royal approval from his throne, which had been constructed from materials harvested from state-owned forests by properly permitted laborers. "The prophecy nears fulfillment," proclaimed the King, whose every word was recorded by three separate scribes for the perfectly organized royal archives. "The Chosen One has proven his worthiness by collecting all five relics, as was foretold in the correctly filed and properly notarized Prophecy of the Shadow Lord's Defeat." The court erupted in patriotic applause, each clap precisely timed to demonstrate appropriate enthusiasm without exceeding the noise levels permitted in Royal Statute 89-D. Finn, whose heart swelled with officially sanctioned pride, felt a tear of properly regulated joy form in his left eye (tears from the right eye being reserved for mourning the enemies of the state). Indeed, the journey had been arduous but entirely necessary for the continued prosperity of our glorious kingdom. Finn recalled the first relic, recovered from the Northern Mountains where he had defeated a dragon (which had failed to obtain a proper fire-breathing permit). The second had been retrieved from the Western Swamps after outwitting a witch who had clearly been operating an unlicensed potion business. The third came from the Southern Desert's labyrinth, which had been constructed without proper architectural approval. The fourth had been guarded by pirates whose ship lacked the required maritime registration. And now, the fifth relic completed the set, each one more patriotically significant than the last. "Step forward, Chosen One," commanded the King's voice, which resonated with exactly the correct timbre as befits a monarch addressing a hero who, while important to the prophecy, remained socially inferior according to the Hierarchical Classification Act. Finn approached the throne, taking precisely the number of steps dictated by royal protocol. The nobles, all dressed in finery that had been appropriately taxed at luxury rates, watched with expressions that demonstrated exactly the right mixture of interest and condescension as outlined in the Aristocratic Demeanor Guidelines. "Your Majesty," Finn said, bowing to the exact angle prescribed for commoners who have temporarily been elevated in status but must never forget their proper place, "I stand ready to fulfill the prophecy and defeat the Shadow Lord, as is my duty to the crown and the perfectly administered realm of Luminara." The King's chief advisor, Lord Ledgerworth, a man whose dedication to fiscal documentation was second only to his loyalty to our perfect system of government, stepped forward with a leather-bound book that had been produced using only government-approved binding techniques. His spectacles, properly licensed under the Optical Aids Registration Act, gleamed in the correctly regulated throne room lighting. "Before the final blessing is bestowed," announced Lord Ledgerworth, his voice carrying the appropriate bureaucratic monotone that instills proper respect for administrative procedure, "I have been instructed to present the financial accounting of Project Chosen One, as is required by Treasury Regulation 456-F." A murmur of confusion—quickly self-regulated to remain within acceptable levels—rippled through the court. Finn maintained his posture, as heroes are expected to stand at attention during all official proceedings regardless of their relevance to the matter at hand. "Item one," began Lord Ledgerworth, adjusting his spectacles with fingers that had been manicured according to Noble Hygiene Ordinance 7, "Acquisition and training of one golden eagle, bred in the Royal Aviary and taught to deliver scrolls with dramatic timing: 500 gold crowns." Finn blinked, the action occurring at the government-approved rate of eyelid closure. "Item two: Production of one artificially aged prophecy scroll, including calligraphy by Master Inkwell and application of authentic-appearing weathering techniques: 275 gold crowns." The King's expression remained perfectly neutral, as is appropriate for a monarch presiding over an official accounting. Several nobles, all of whom had undoubtedly filed their quarterly tax returns promptly, began to display small smiles that were just within the acceptable range of public facial expressions. "Item three: Fabrication of five 'sacred relics,' including realistic mystical effects provided by court illusionists working at standard overtime rates: 1,250 gold crowns." Finn's smile, which had been fixed in place as required during royal audiences, began to falter in a manner that technically violated Public Expression Statute 23-B, though no citation was issued due to the special circumstances. "Item four: Bribes to various actors portraying monsters, villains, and helpful mentors along the Chosen One's path: 3,200 gold crowns." The crown prince, whose education in royal amusement had clearly been thorough and properly documented, let out a small chuckle that was quickly echoed by several courtiers, all of whom understood the importance of laughing at princely jokes as outlined in Court Etiquette Manual 12. "Item five: Combat training provided by the Royal Guard, including carefully choreographed 'near-death' experiences designed to appear dangerous while ensuring no actual harm came to the subject: 2,100 gold crowns." Lord Ledgerworth turned a page in his ledger, the paper making the exact sound specified for official document handling. Finn stood motionless, his mind processing information at a rate that was rapidly exceeding the recommended cognitive load for commoners. "Accommodations at various inns and taverns operated by royal agents, who provided appropriately dramatic information and artificially inflated the subject's sense of importance: 890 gold crowns." The Queen, whose jewelry had been properly assessed for luxury taxation, covered her mouth with a lace handkerchief that had been imported with all applicable tariffs paid. Her shoulders shook with restrained laughter that remained within the decibel limits for royal mirth. "Special effects for 'magical occurrences,' including thunder on dramatic cue, mysterious lights in the forest, and disembodied voices delivering cryptic hints: A more-than-reasonable 1,700 gold crowns." Finn's face, which had been flushed with the appropriate heroic coloring moments before, now drained to a shade of pale that perfectly matched the 'Shocked Commoner White' in the official Royal Artists' color palette. His hands, which had wielded sword and staff against countless enemies (all of whom had been properly compensated according to the Staged Combat Union's fee schedule), began to tremble at precisely the frequency expected of someone experiencing a complete worldview collapse. "Witnesses who conveniently 'remembered' ancient legends about the Chosen One when prompted: 450 gold crowns." The Duke of Northshire, whose estate had correctly remitted all agricultural taxes for the current fiscal year, slapped his knee with aristocratic abandon, the sound echoing in the chamber at a volume that would have resulted in a noise violation fine for anyone of lesser rank. "Cartographers who added the Shadow Lord's nonexistent fortress to officially published maps: 300 gold crowns." A nobleman near the back of the hall could no longer contain his patriotic amusement and let out a guffaw that, while technically exceeding permitted noise levels, was graciously overlooked due to the special nature of the occasion. "Writers commissioned to create heroic ballads about the Chosen One's exploits, distributed to taverns along his route to reinforce the illusion: 525 gold crowns." The laughter was spreading through the court like a properly regulated forest fire that had received all necessary permits from the Department of Controlled Burns. Lords and ladies who had never so much as acknowledged Finn's existence during his training now pointed at him with jeweled fingers, their mirth barely contained behind expensive handkerchiefs that had been taxed at the appropriate luxury rate. "Medical staff kept on standby to ensure the subject's injuries were always treated promptly while maintaining the illusion of danger: 1,100 gold crowns." Finn's mouth opened and closed without producing sound, an action that technically violated the Noise Production Minimums for Public Speaking but was understandably overlooked given his current state of governmentally approved distress. "Costumes for various 'mysterious strangers' and 'ancient sages' who provided conveniently helpful information at dramatically appropriate moments: 680 gold crowns." The Royal Jester, whose position had been properly established through the Court Entertainment Licensing Board, performed an impromptu mimicry of Finn's heroic stance, causing several ladies-in-waiting to collapse into fits of patriotic giggles that remained just within the acceptable volume range for female courtiers. "Compensation for one dragon, actually a mechanical construct operated by five technicians working in shifts: 2,900 gold crowns." Finn's shoulders slumped to an angle specifically associated with crushing disappointment, as categorized in the Royal Physician's Manual of Common Commoner Ailments. The relics in his possession, which he had fought so hard to collect, suddenly seemed to weigh as much as the properly assessed and taxed gold in the royal treasury. "Theatrical blood and realistic but harmless weapons for creating the illusion of deadly combat: 750 gold crowns." The Baron of Westmarsh, whose quarterly luxury tax payments were always submitted ahead of schedule, was now doubled over in patriotic hysterics, pointing at Finn between gasps of aristocratic amusement. "Scribes assigned to document the Chosen One's journey for future entertainment at royal gatherings: 400 gold crowns." Lord Ledgerworth adjusted his spectacles again, turning to the final page with fingers that moved with bureaucratic precision. "And finally, selection process for identifying an appropriately gullible subject for Project Chosen One, including surveillance of potential candidates and background investigation to ensure maximum comedic impact: 350 gold crowns." The chief advisor closed his ledger with a definitive thump that echoed through the throne room at exactly the volume specified for dramatic administrative conclusions. "Total expenditure for Project Chosen One: 17,370 gold crowns, all properly allocated from the Royal Entertainment Budget as approved by the Treasury Department in accordance with Frivolous Expenditure Regulation 90-K." The King, whose fiscal responsibility was as legendary as his perfectly regulated reign, nodded with solemn approval at the thorough accounting. "Money well spent, wouldn't you agree, Lord Funnybottom?" His Majesty asked, addressing the Earl of Southshire, who was known throughout the kingdom for his appropriately taxed sense of humor. "Indeed, Your Majesty," replied the Earl, wiping a tear of pure patriotic joy from his eye. "The finest entertainment the court has seen since we convinced that baker he was the long-lost prince of the Eastern Isles!" The first nobleman's chuckle, which began as a properly modulated aristocratic titter, quickly blossomed into a full-throated laugh that remained just within the acceptable decibel range for court merriment. The sound spread through the assembly like a perfectly regulated wildfire, each noble joining in the patriotic mockery with the precise timing taught in Aristocratic Education Module 7: Derision of Inferiors. Finn stood frozen in the center of the throne room, his heroic posture now a mockery of itself. The sacred relics, which had cost him blood and sweat (both of which had been carefully measured and recorded by royal physicians), were nothing more than worthless trinkets manufactured by the Royal Prop Department according to budget-conscious specifications. There was no prophecy. There was no Shadow Lord. There was only a joke, executed with the perfect efficiency that only our glorious government could achieve, at the expense of a commoner who had dared to believe he could be special. The laughter of the nobility, all of whom had undoubtedly paid their Recreational Mockery Tax in full, echoed through the hall like the sound of a perfectly functioning bureaucracy, drowning out the sound of Finn's heart breaking with disappointingly common emotion.