After renovating his home, Dick did the only sensible thing—immediately leave and set out on a journey across the desert.

“Oh, how the turns have tabled,” Dick muttered as he crossed the endless desert. He looked like a dead man—lips parched, skin weathered and cracked from the relentless rays of the sun. He leaned on his walking stick for support as his muscles gave out from the exertion.

His valiant Dicksciples had followed, but even the greatest among them was merely a Little Dick Formation cultivator; there was no way they would’ve survived.

Some spontaneously combusted from the intense heat. Others died of starvation. Once again, Dick found himself alone.

“You’ve been walking for all of two minutes. You can’t possibly be that tired.”

“Huh. You’re right,” Dick replied, righting himself and walking along as if nothing had happened. “How’d those guys die so fast, anyway?”

“Maybe because your cultivation technique’s a total sham?”

“Nah, couldn’t be that. Guessing they didn’t have burgers this morning. Trying to walk on an empty stomach’s a good way to get you killed.”

The reason they braved the heat of the aptly named Chill Pill Desert? Dick’s quest for ever-increasing wealth. Nevermind the fact that he could’ve simply sat on his throne of coin, living out his days in luxury as his Dicksciples accumulated wealth on his behalf without him lifting a finger. Nevermind that said Dicksciples were now dead… again.

Dick forged boldly ahead. Because it was the American way. To overcome all obstacles by brute force. Victory Through Superior Firepower, clawing up the wealth ladder, one bloody rung at a time.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Or at least, that’s what the infomercial he’d once watched had said.

Their destination? The ravaged city of gold, aptly named The City of Gold.

“Tell me more about this City of Gold,” Dick said, wiping sweat off his brow. His Bignosity stat might’ve given him great strength, but with his abysmal Physicality, even small exertion like braving the searing heat of an endless desert gave him trouble.

“Well, the first thing to know about the City of Gold is that they’ve been at war with the City of Silver for as long as anyone can remember. It’s run by an evil monarch by the name of Mr. Least. He’s infamous.”

“Why, what’d he do?”

“He burned down twenty million trees and took sight away from a thousand poor children.”

“Damn, son!”

“It gets even better. It’s called the City of Gold, but that’s because his castle’s made up entirely of Buttcoin.”

“Like a Gingerbread house. But a castle.”

“Uh, yeah. And made of Buttcoin, not gingerbread.”

“Same thing.”

“So anyway, his city’s crazy poor.”

“What about the City of Silver?”

“That’s run by Johnny Silvertung. He’s basically a punk rocker with a cybernetic tongue, but does terrorism as a side hustle.”

“Like, he has the same name as my ability? Was that intentional?”

“... Y-Yes?”

“Huh.”

“SOOOO, if you can get to Mr. Least’s castle, you’ll be rich. Maybe even rich enough to afford that droF 051-F you’ve always wanted.

Dick’s eyes lit up. Nothing. Nothing would separate him from his truck.

----------------------------------------

Meanwhile, God just lost again to the Elden Beast, throwing his controller against the TV. “THIS IS WAY TOO GODDAMN HARD!” Then, in a sudden epiphany, he comprehended his mistake. I shoulda made the quest reward a truck.

With an evil glint in his eyes, god laughed. “MUHAHAHAHAHA”