"Regional Manager!" the town's crier shouted. "A localized apocalypse is scheduled for 3:00 PM!"
Arthur sighed, marking a checkbox for Guild Conflict . This was the twenty-eighth iteration of this town since November. Every time they built a bustling hub, something went wrong. If it wasn't a dragon, it was a "threat spike" caused by a princess who decided to raise an army of vengeful squirrels because her favorite bakery ran out of scones. He pulled a card from his spectral deck:
Arthur checked his watch. It was 2:58 PM. He looked at the town—the beautiful inns, the strategically placed watchtowers, and the adventurers currently looting each other’s pockets. It was a masterpiece of corporate fantasy planning.
"Everyone, prepare for the inevitable demise!" Arthur shouted into a megaphone.
Suddenly, the sky turned a deep, bruised purple. The "Threat Meter" at the edge of his vision began to pulse rhythmically.
"Sir," a sweaty laborer panted, "the brawlers are complaining that the new library is too quiet. They’ve started a bonfire with the spellbooks."
"Place it next to the Fighting Pit," Arthur ordered, waving his hand as the building materialized out of thin air. "The brawlers need shiny things to hit or they’ll start eyeing the town hall again."