ENTRY 004: A NATURAL 20

Dear Diary,

I’m an ordinary half-orc pawnbroker, which means I’ve been swindled plenty of times—bad deals, cursed junk, fake enchantments. But today, I learned there’s a difference between being outsmarted and being outright robbed.

It started innocently enough. A wiry man walked in just after lunch, carrying a small pouch. He had the look of someone used to shady deals: darting eyes, an overly casual gait, and a grin that said trust me in a way that made me immediately not.

In short, he reminded me of myself.

“I’ve got some dice,” he announced, pouring a set of worn polyhedrals onto the counter. They clattered into a pile, chipped and dull, like the kind you’d find in every corner of any lousy tavern. “Very rare.”

I stared at him. “These? Rare?” I picked up one of the D6s, examining the faded numbers and smudges of dirt. “Sure. And I’m the king of the elves.”

These were relics from ancient times, the man tried to claim. “Relics of bad dice rolling, maybe,” I said, dropping the die back into the pile. They weren't even loaded! Two copper pieces for the lot, that was my final price.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The man looked offended but didn’t argue, just nodded and swept the coins into his pocket. That should have been the end of it. But as I started clearing the dice off the counter, he stopped me and pulled another die from his pouch.

I looked up. In his hand was a D20, but this one wasn’t like the others. It was pristine, carved from what appeared to be black onyx with gold numbers that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Not for sale,” he said quickly, catching the glint of interest in my eye.

Before I could tell him that my offer wasn’t going to change, he tossed the D20 onto the counter. It clattered across the wood, spinning for a bit before settling on a perfect twenty.

I’m not sure what came over me but suddenly, the idea of paying this man more—far more—felt completely reasonable. No, it felt necessary. I reached into the register and began counting out gold coins, unable to stop myself.

“How much do I owe you again for the dice?” I asked, the words spilling out of me unbidden.

“A hundred gold should do,” he said, his grin widening as he scooped up the coins.

I handed over the pouch of gold without hesitation, the entire time screaming internally. By the time he left, pocketing his thrice-damned D20 with a jaunty wave, I was in tears. I stared at the counter, at the wooden dice that I just bought for A HUNDRED GOLD, and then at the open register, which was now depressingly empty.

A hundred gold. For a pile of worn-out dice.

I’ve learned two things today: never trust a man who sells dice, and never underestimate the power of a well-timed twenty.

Yours in profit,

Garren