The hero flew through the air like an arrow that had set it's hopes and dreams on one day becoming a cannonball. Chased by half-dressed women and, more disturbingly, half dressed men. The narrator first finished his drink when he felt stared at. He looked down and saw another bottle of the good stuff. It was nearly empty. Not drinking it would be a crime punishable by death. The narrator examined his choices briefly but chose to gulp down the brown nectar of the gods in the end. Death would have to wait. Mostly because death was too uncertain. If hell did exist then the narrator would have to pick up his old job once more. But this time without his annual day off and his mother in law behind his back. Talking about how her daughter could do so much better instead of gasping for air and asking “Why are there so many knives in my chest?”. The narrator wiped away a tear and opened a second bottle. This one was for all the knives and dead mother in laws out there.

A little while later, probably half an hour... or maybe twelve, nobody was keeping track, the narrator put his focus back on the thieving hero.

“Don't you have a family to harass? Maybe a few kiddies that need a father figure and aren't actually getting one? A wife that hasn't known intimacy since the great inquisition? Maybe a family dog that hasn't had a walk in months and is about to rupture from the inhuman amount of piss inside it's bladder?”

He asked in a whiny voice.

“No whining, just spitting the truth. I'm fairly certain they think you're dead if you don't return home at least once in a while. Besides, what do you expect from me, you left me behind with all those angry people chasing me.”

He spitted in a whiny voice.

“Oh fuck off.”

Who is off?

“Little brother of on, as in: on my fucking last nerve. You know the one you're working on?”

That makes more sense. The narrator gives his regards to On and Off.

“Very funny. Now tell me how the hell I'm supposed to find this great evil. I doubt he's got a bit billboard in the middle of the city.”

No, of course not.

“That's what I figured.”

There's only the guided tour around the castle that starts every two hours except during weekends. The hero can still make the five-fifteen showing if he hurries up. This narrator has never been, but he's been told that they make a wonderful evil pie with fresh evil apples. There's also a photo opportunity where you let the children sit on the evil throne of evilness with make up on their face. It's rather wholesome and quite affordable. This kingdom provides vouchers for the poorer families.

…

Does the hero perhaps want a voucher?

…

The narrator ignores the infantile attempt at pantomime and pours himself another drink. Tapping his packet of cigarettes to see if any remain. But sadly no. The narrator throws it against the wall and opens his desk. Inside are dozens of cartons of cigarettes. Say one thing for a fantasy setting, they at least know how to provide for their staff and...

“I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CIGARETTES! Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?”

The narrator is conflicted. Do you or don't you want to know more about the cigarettes?

“ABOUT THE FUCKING EVIL LAIR TOUR YOU NUMPTY!”

Ow. Well... didn't seem important to the narrator. Most heroes just go straight into a hardcore experience grind and find the castle by accident. It all works out in the end.

“That's such an insane system. What if the hero is thousands of miles away from the castle?”

This world uses a version of the room of acquirement from Hogwarts. When the hero is ready, they enter a room that lands them back at the entrance of the castle. Until then it quietly follows the hero around.

“Wait, what? What do you mean follow me around?”

The narrator points behind the hero. He turns and sees a fully decked out room try and hide behind a lamp post.

“Ok, now that's just silly. Much too silly. What the hell else is following me like this?”

Usually there's a few fan favourites waiting inside the room for when it's their turn. First is the damsel in distress with an adjustable bosom and torn wardrobe. Then there's the old mentor who teaches you about the ways of the sword or whatever else you need to learn. A childhood friend who always dies to give you encouragement and...

“You've got to be kidding me.”

The hero advances on the frightened room of acquirement and slams open the door. Out wafts a foul smell that forces the hero to cover his nose.

“Well, either I got a lot of childhood friends or some idiot made this room airtight.”

What is the hero implying with... ow.

“Yup, by my count there's about ten corpses in here. One of them barely wearing more than a piece of string and another who looks like he's seen and fought in too many wars who I'm going to call master Roshi. Because I like the name Roshi and he looks like someone who would have a name like that. And also because it sounds like a type of pastry. I'll have two Roshi's with cream please. But getting back on topic, how could you let this crap happen in the first place?”

The contract for constructing supplementary rooms was acquired this year by the guild of wizards. Perhaps a bit over-eager at times, but definitely a good deal to be had if you bought in bulk and didn't mind the occasional house or room going on a nationwide rampage. Killing the smaller, weaker buildings as a show of dominance. You see, the hierarchy of architecture is a vast and interesting topic on which this narrator could expand on for days if the hero so desires. In fact, let's do that now. You see in sixteen eighty-nine you had the...”