His eyes snapped open.

Cold stone pressed against his back, and the damp air reeked of mildew and old wood. The scent of sawdust and varnish lingered over him, thick and filled with traces of unfamiliar wood. He wasn’t sure if his breath grew ragged from the smell or from the inexplicable lack of energy inside him. He tried to move—lift an arm, flex a finger—but nothing responded.

He was this close to panicking when a thought echoed in his mind.

System initializing…

It felt distant yet absolute. Like the murmurs of an intrusive god that couldn’t be blocked.

Analyzing…

He wanted to scream. He wanted to ask where he was and why he couldn’t move. But his mouth wouldn’t open. He had no mouth.

Configuration complete. Welcome to The Uninspiringly Named Medieval Realm.

The weight in his chest grew unbearable. It felt as though a hippo had sat on him, and when he tried to break free, an elephant jumped in and sat on top of said hippo. He strained, desperate to see something, feel something. Anything. A second later, his vision cleared.

The room was dark—wooden walls, rough-hewn and worn with age. Dust floated in the air, catching the faint light from a single flaming lantern. Workbenches lined the walls, cluttered with chisels, planes, half-carved chair legs, and a doll for some reason.

He tried again to move, but still—nothing.

A shadow passed over him. It took another moment for him to make out the silhouette—a burly man in a stained apron. A carpenter? No, a craftsman. The man grunted, slapping a palm against him.

"Sturdy enough," the man muttered. "That'll make a fine centerpiece."

He was now a table.

***

The world rumbled beneath him.

A rhythmic creaking filled his ears, accompanied by the distant clatter of hooves against cobblestone.

He was on a horse-drawn cart. Its wooden frame groaned under the weight of cargo. Around him, sacks of grain, wooden crates, and stacks of lumber jostled with each bump in the road. He was among them. He was cargo.

His vision was limited—locked into place, unable to turn his head—but he could make out the town unfolding before him. The town was typical of towns he had seen before in the few storybooks he somehow remembered from a time long past. How long? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember which period was famous for stone buildings with thatched roofs lining the streets.

Merchants called out their wares, their voices overlapping into an endless shouting contest.

“Bread! Fresh bread! So cheap! Only five shillings!”

“Bread! Fresh bread! So cheap! Only four shillings!”

“Piss off, you harlot-buttock undercutter!”

Then, something caught his attention. A wooden signpost swung gently in the wind, its words etched in bold, black ink:

The Township of Iakesi.

Iakesi? The name meant nothing to him. But then again, what did?

He searched his mind for answers. Who was he? Where had he come from? The memories should have been there—must have been there—but all he found was an empty void, a yawning abyss where his past should have been. He remembered the feeling of having a life, but not the details. Like a book missing all its pages. Like an isekai novel where the protagonist was transported to another realm and conveniently lost all his memories so the reader could easily insert themselves into the story.

A sharp ding rang in his head.

Status Window Initialized.

A translucent screen materialized before his vision, glowing faintly. Words formed, crisp and simple, but the font was hideous. Somehow, the name of the font was the only thing his memory retained: Comic Sans. Also, conveniently, knowledge about game systems still remained 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 bellowed internally. Is this supposed to be my stats? Why? Why the hell does a table have 14 Agility?

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

What was he supposed to do with such an abysmal stat distribution? What was he supposed to do at all, as a table? Luckily for him, with his superior starting Agility stat, he could stay unanimated at neck-breaking speed.

The cart hit a pothole. The impact sent some cargo flying, and with his absurd AGI: 14, he masterfully flipped off the cart at high speed, landed on all four legs, and skidded gracefully into an alleyway.

The townspeople barely noticed, except for one boy who stared in awe. “Mom, the table just moved!” He shouted.

“Tables don’t move, dear,” a woman’s voice rang out.

The merchant swore as he pulled the reins, bringing the cart to a sharp halt. “Damn roads, they never fix the bumps,” he muttered, hopping down with the ease of someone who had spent years chasing after runaway goods.

Table internally panicked. No, no, no, no—run! Move! Do something! But, of course, he couldn't. He was a table.

The merchant stomped over, dusting off his trousers as he surveyed the alleyway. His gaze landed on Table, standing there perfectly still, like any normal inanimate object would.

“Well, would you look at that?” the merchant grumbled. “How the hell did you get all the way over here?”

Table considered his options. Maybe—just maybe—if he focused hard enough, he could move. He willed his legs to dash, to spring away with his absurd AGI: 14, to flee like the wind itself.

Nothing happened.

The merchant grabbed him by the edge and effortlessly hoisted him up. “Damn thing’s lighter than it looks,” he noted, hauling Table back toward the cart. “Must’ve been made with Featherwood.”

Table mentally screamed. He had 14 Agility! Fourteen! That was more than some adventurers started with! What was the point if he couldn’t even dodge a slow-moving merchant with bad knees?

As he was tossed back onto the cart, jumbled between crates and sacks of grain, he despaired.

So this is my life now.

Then the merchant slammed a pint of lager onto his surface.

***

The cart rattled along the cobblestone road leading to the bazaar as the sun rose from the horizon. Iakesi's bazaar only opened bi-weekly, and its existence signaled the fact that one was in the wealthier part of the town, as vendors only sold goods inaccessible to commoners, like purple silk. Table, still recovering from his utterly humiliating failure to escape, sulked in forced silence. But as the scenery shifted, his mood lifted.

The first house they passed was massive—a sprawling estate with gleaming marble columns and a wrought-iron gate. A neatly trimmed hedge surrounded the property, with an elaborate stone fountain at its center. Water cascaded 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 kept moving.

The next home was even grander—a three-story manor with intricate stained-glass windows, each etched with scenes of chivalry and heroic battle. Ornate lanterns hung from polished oak doors, their golden handles reflecting the light. The walls were made of smooth, imported stone, fitted so precisely that not a single crack was visible.

His metaphorical eyes shimmered. Surely, no other residence could be more fitting for a distinguished piece of furniture such as myself.

Instead, the cart rolled 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 was grander than the last. Each one a perfect setting for a piece of fine, exquisite furniture. Table could hardly contain his excitement.

Then the cart took a turn.

The cobblestone gave way to packed dirt. The bustling market sounds faded. The air grew still.

The horse leisurely strode down a narrow, unpaved path, passing modest cottages with crooked fences. Chickens pecked at the ground, and laundry fluttered from sagging lines. At the very end of the road, sitting alone like a forgotten afterthought, was his destination.

A tiny, lopsided house, barely held together by its own will to exist. The thatch roof was missing a few patches, revealing glimpses of the wooden beams underneath. The front door tilted ever so slightly, as if it might fall off its hinges at any moment. A single window—cracked—let in the faintest bit of light. A goat was tied to a post outside, chewing on a rope that seemed dangerously close to snapping. It bahhhhhh'd at Table as it saw him.

No. No, no, no. There must be some mistake. Goats don’t bah. Sheep bah!

The merchant hopped off the cart, stretching his back. “Whew. Finally here.”

Finally WHERE?

The door creaked open. Out stepped a raggedy old man with a wiry beard and buckram clothes that looked like they had been patched and repatched dozens of times over. This man looked like the type of person who never wiped his table after dinner.

He squinted at the merchant, then at the cart.

“Is this it?” the old man asked, rubbing his chin.

“Yup,” the merchant said. “Sturdy thing. Should last you years.”

The old man waddled over, placed his rough hands on Table, and gave him a firm shake. “Hmm. Not bad.”

NOT BAD? I AM EXCELLENT! I WAS MEANT FOR A MANSION! NOT THIS... THIS HOVEL!

“Alright,” the old man said. “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 was lifted off the cart and carried into his new home.