Skeleton construction workers trotting around in the daylight would sure stir up some unnecessary ruckus, so the renovations at the general store held off till nightfall.

Today's revamp required a heap of lumber and tools, and Murphy quickly oversaw the procurement before he reached for his exclusive speaking tube.

Sam was living large after Murphy started funding his lifestyle. The guy had packed on pounds and wore a rosy glow that replaced his once gaunt look.

"Didn’t you mention you ran three districts in Commoners' Quarters? Know the other criers by any chance?"

"Sure do. If it wasn't for them edging me out, I'd be covering more ground."

"Get them over here then. Tell 'em there's a juicy deal waiting. Oh, and congrats – you've just been promoted."

The Commoners' Quarters criers typically ran their mouths off at night, which meant their days were free for gambling, freeloading at diners, Some people look for prostitutes to have sex with in dirty hotels.

Come high noon, Sam and a less-than-lively bunch arrived at 2 Clyster Street, clearly out of their element in such posh digs.

Under Sam’s lead, they trooped into the parlor where Murphy had been waiting.

With everyone assembled, Murphy cut to the chase: "The reason I called you here is for a sweet gig. Relay my message to every Tom, Dick, and Harry in your blocks, and coins come your way, capisce?"

The criers nodded in agreement.

Murphy once toyed with the idea of paper flyers like those back-earth supermarket blitzes. But in this world, with parchment pricier than a good wine and literacy rates lower than a rat's basement, he opted for these organic amplifiers.

"Here's the spiel: The merchants in cahoots with the ex-Guild Leader Joel are shaking in their boots about royal retribution. They're plotting a strike from tomorrow – no grub for the common folk, no goods for sale, all to force the honorable Mr. Alaric to step down and plant their crony in his stead."

"But no worries, folks. Alaric has secured a loan big enough to build this mammoth storehouse, ready to open in two days flat. And the kicker is, he's sticking it to those vultures by barely marking up the prices, fulfilling his inaugural promise. So soon, you'll see how much you've been fleeced for years."

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"No one's saying you gotta shop till you drop at Alaric's emporium, but I reckon you'll see clear as day the dirty laundry of those conniving merchants."

"Spread this far and wide, fast, and in terms the average Joe can grasp."

"As for your cut – two shiny coins per district. But mind you, I'll have eyes and ears in those quarters. If my folks don't catch wind of this news from the street, then we might need to have a rethink about your end. Get it?"

Their eyes practically turned into coins at the rate of two per district. The temperature in the room spiked with ambition.

"Got it. Can we hit the road now?" piped up one crier.

"Just one more thing. Any issues, run 'em by Sam. He's your go-between with me. If that's peachy, off you go."

The seasoned criers, green with envy over Sam's rapid rise, shot him begrudging gazes and then dispersed from Clyster Street.

With his PR machine churning, Murphy, donning his culture consultant disguise, got ready for some serious interdimensional porting.

He eyed the parchment and quill in front of him and mused, 'Man, the writer’s life is tough.'

Seth had informed Murphy that "The Knight's Return" was to be published under the Count's name. But Murphy could hardly care less, as Harry Reed's fall from grace was imminent.

What really rubbed Murphy the wrong way was a stickier affair: plagiarism.

Murphy had hoped to ride on the coattails of his 'War God Returns' type narrative, churning out reskins without taxing his creative juices, and making a killing in the process. However, turns out some folks beat him to the punch.

These scoundrels weren't your average Joe but low-brow scribes tasked with copying. Although their so-called original work never turned the count's head, they were no strangers to pilferage, having copied the book several times over. Soon enough, every two-bit writer knew the 'War God Returns' recipe.

Thanks to a not-so-gentle leg-breaking courtesy of the Earl's guards, these authors, swift to reskin their stories, kept a low profile, sharing their tales only in the dive bars of downtown.

Sam's sleuthing uncovered that these 'War God Returns' knock-offs were now the talk of the town in City of Gath’s Commoners' Quarters, bearing significant fruit.

First up, the 'Righteous Warrior Returns' sagas – these were the bread and butter for your typical brawny protagonist types. Tavern folk ate it up, every last delicious cliché – the loyal spouse, the pauper's kids, and villains weaker-kneed than a chicken spotting the butcher's knife.

Then there's the avant-garde 'Mighty Mage Returns' series. Magic's a rare gem among commoners, so these tales stoked both awe and imagination in folks without the talent to whip up a spell themselves.

Worthy of note was the offbeat faction's leader, a low-level mage with writing so detailed, it was worth a gander for academic merit.

But the true head-turner was the third genre, beyond Murphy's wildest dreams, where it didn't matter whether the lead swung a sword or a staff. Key plot points were chopped, shifting the spotlight to ... well, let's call it 'liaisons' with the opposite sex. If we're getting down to brass tacks, these bawdy writers specialized in 'War God Returns' not-so-kid-friendly fanfiction.

These three varieties were starting to corner the Commoners' Quarter market, and if the writers tasted success, they'd be right at the count's doorstep, looking for a slice of the pie. But Murphy wasn't one for jostling in a crowded field. After putting on his thinking cap, he decided – it was time to write a whole new playbook from his homeland, a crowd-pleaser genre – the 'Urban Medical God'.