The Concept of Friction

The moment Kael pushed through the heavy oak doors of the Gilded Gryphon, a wall of sound and smell hit him. The place reeked of stale ale, old sweat, roasting meat, and the sharp tang of sawdust thrown on the floor to soak up spills. It was a cavernous main hall, lit by smoky torches and cheap mana-globes that cast a flickering, yellow light. The air was thick with the clatter of wooden tankards, the scrape of chairs, and the loud, boisterous laughter of men and women trying to one-up each other's stories of glory and gore.

Kael's eyes swept the room, his survival instincts kicking into overdrive. He wasn't just seeing a bar; he was seeing an ecosystem. There were grizzled veterans with scarred faces and thousand-yard stares, quietly nursing their drinks. There were fresh-faced youths, barely old enough to grow beards, excitedly showing off new gear. And there were countless others in between. His gaze fell on a massive wooden board that dominated one wall. It was plastered with dozens of pieces of parchment, a chaotic mosaic of opportunity and death. He scanned a few of the requests.

Rat Extermination in Miller Bess’s Cellar. Reward: 30 Bronze.

Escort Merchant Caravan to Stonebridge. Dangers: Goblins, Bandits. Reward: 2 Silver per head.

Wyvern Sighting in the Northern Pass. Proof of Kill Required. Reward: Negotiable.

So, it ranges from pest control to suicide, Kael thought wryly. Sounds about right.

Behind a wide, scarred wooden counter at the far end of the hall sat a woman who looked as sturdy and unyielding as the oak it was made from. A small, crudely carved plaque on the counter identified her as Greta. She had a weathered face that looked like it had personally refereed a thousand bar fights, and a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes that could probably curdle milk with a single glare.

Kael navigated the crowded room, feeling uncomfortably thin and breakable compared to the armed and armored patrons, and stopped before the counter.

“Name?” she grunted; her eyes fixed on the heavy ledger she was writing in.

“Kael.”

“Family name?”

He hesitated for a half-second. Ardyn. The name belonged to a ghost, to a man who had stepped off a building in another universe. It felt wrong in his mouth now. “Just Kael.”

That finally made her look up. Her gaze traveled from his worn-out shoes up to his thin frame, lingered on his simple, threadbare clothes, and noted his complete and utter lack of any weapon or gear. She snorted, a short, sharp sound of pure, undisguised derision.

“No skills, no weapons, no armor. Just yourself,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn. “What do you plan on fighting with? Unpleasant feelings?”

The insult was so blunt it almost caught him off guard. But years of dealing with condescending bosses had honed a sharp tongue he’d long since suppressed. It surfaced now, fueled by exhaustion and a complete lack of anything left to lose.

“I was hoping to start with rats,” Kael retorted smoothly, meeting her gaze. “And eventually work my way up to witty insults.”

A flicker of something—not quite respect, but a grudging surprise—crossed Greta’s stoic face. A corner of her mouth twitched. She slammed a small, circular copper plate onto the counter with a loud thwack.

“Copper-rank. Lowest of the low,” she declared, her tone all business. “You take D-class quests only. That means no monster subjugation above giant rats or oversized insects. Ten percent guild fee on all earnings, non-negotiable. Lose your plate, you buy a new one for a silver. Die, and we use your accumulated fee to pay someone to clean up the mess. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Kael said, picking up the cool metal disc. It felt ridiculously flimsy, a pathetic symbol of his new station at the bottom of the food chain.

He was turning to inspect the quest board more closely when a heavy hand clamped down hard on his shoulder. The grip was like an iron vice.

“Well, well. Look what the gutter coughed up and dragged inside.”

Kael turned, shrugging the hand off. He found himself facing a mountain of a man, flanked by two slightly smaller cronies who wore identical, moronic sneers. The leader’s armor was flashy but dented, his face flushed with ale. He held a silver adventurer plate in his other hand, dangling it condescendingly.

“Fresh meat,” the man rumbled, his breath a foul wave of alcohol and onions. “Think you can just waltz in here and take jobs from real adventurers, do you?”

Kael’s instincts screamed at him. In his old world, a sharp mind and a placating, non-threatening tone could de-escalate most conflicts. “I’m just looking for work,” he said, keeping his hands visible. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Not good enough,” the man sneered. Kael recognized him then—Brolin. The brute gave him a hard shove that sent him stumbling backward. “Copper-trash like you lowers the tone of the whole establishment. Why don’t you crawl back to whatever rat-hole you came from?”

Kael caught his balance, his jaw tight. He could feel the eyes of the entire hall on them now. The loud conversations had quieted. This was a show. A dominance ritual. And he was the unwilling star.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” he said again, his voice dangerously flat.

“Too bad,” Brolin grinned maliciously. “Because you just found it.”

The first punch was a blur of motion. The man’s fist, encased in a steel gauntlet, slammed into Kael’s gut with sickening force. The air exploded from his lungs in a pained gasp. White-hot agony lanced through him, and his vision swam with black spots. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, unable to breathe. Laughter, loud and cruel, echoed around the hall.

This is it, a familiar wave of despair washed over him. This is how I die. Not from a ten-story fall, but from a random beating in a fantasy bar in a world I don't even belong in. The irony is just staggering.

Brolin loomed over him, a cruel silhouette against the tavern lights. He raised his gauntleted fist for another, likely more decisive, blow. Kael’s mind, oddly detached from the pain, began racing with a desperate, frantic logic. Fist is a weapon. Steel is hard. The floor is solid wood. Everything follows rules. Physical laws. Cause and effect…

But this world has dragons. This world has mana. What if the rules here are… negotiable?

In that split second of utter desperation, as the fist began to descend, a thought, clear as a crystal bell, cut through the pain and the noise. He didn't think of a spell, or an incantation, or some mystical energy. He looked at the floorboard where Brolin was planting his foot to deliver the blow.

The floor isn’t solid, the thought screamed in his mind. It’s slick. The concept of 'friction' on that one spot is… gone.

He didn't cast anything. He didn't gesture or chant. He just… imagined it. He focused on the very idea of that patch of wood and imposed a new property on it with the sheer force of his will.

As Brolin lunged forward, his heavy steel-toed boot came down on the floorboards right in front of Kael. But instead of finding the sturdy purchase he expected, he slipped. Wildly. Utterly. His arms pinwheeled through the air as he let out a surprised grunt, his eyes wide with shock as if the very laws of physics had personally betrayed him. He crashed to the floor with a deafening, undignified CLANG of armor, his helmeted head bouncing hard off the wood.

Absolute silence fell over the Gilded Gryphon.

Brolin’s two cronies stared, their mouths hanging open in dumbfounded shock. The adventurer himself lay groaning on the floor, more confused and humiliated than seriously hurt. Everyone had seen it. He hadn't tripped over a stray chair or a crack in the floor. The wood beneath his foot had simply, for the barest instant, lost all its friction. There was no frost, no grease, no water, no shimmer of elemental magic. It was just… wrong.

Kael stared at his own empty hands, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. What… what was that? He hadn't summoned ice. He hadn’t created oil. He had changed a fundamental property of the world with a single, desperate thought.

The downed adventurer, Brolin, scrambled back to his feet, his face turning a shade of purple that was a mixture of raw fury and deep humiliation. “What did you do, you little freak?” he roared, drawing a short, ugly-looking sword from his belt. “Some kind of damn illusion trick?”

Greta’s voice cut through the tension like a razor whip. “That’s enough, Brolin.”

All eyes snapped to the guild master, who was now standing, her arms crossed. Her expression was lethal.

“You started it. You lost it,” she stated, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Now sit your ass down before I bar you for a month. Again.”

Brolin hesitated, his enraged eyes flicking from the point of his sword to Kael and then to the terrifying guild master. With a final, venomous glare that promised future retribution, he spat on the floor, sheathed his sword, and stomped back to his table. His cronies scurried after him like scolded dogs.

The buzz of conversation slowly, hesitantly returned, but it was different now. People were whispering, casting furtive, curious glances at Kael. He was no longer just a piece of fresh meat to be bullied. He was an unknown quantity. A freak. And in a world of swords and sorcery, the unknown could be dangerous.

Kael forced his trembling legs to push him upright, his stomach still a knot of searing pain. He met Greta’s gaze across the room. Her expression was no longer dismissive or scornful. It was sharp, calculating, and intensely curious.

Ignoring the stares and the whispers, Kael turned and walked toward the quest board. His hands were shaking, a mixture of adrenaline and shock. He had no idea what he had just done, or how he had done it. But for the first time since waking up in this impossible world, he wasn’t just a victim of its circumstances. He had a weapon.

A strange, incomprehensible weapon born from his own mind. And he had absolutely no idea how to use it.