The great and wise king surveyed his realm, troubled by the mysterious plague of poverty that had descended upon the land. His counsellors, gathered from the four corners of the kingdom, stood before him, each eager to offer solutions. Yet, as arguments filled the night, the king realized the futility of their debate. "Here is only confusion of tongues," he declared, weary of their endless discourse.

"One month hence, gather all economists with a simple text on economics," the king commanded, his voice firm. He hoped that through the wisdom of economics, the plight of his people could be alleviated. As the courtiers dispersed, a sense of urgency filled the palace.

The king entered, his presence commanding immediate silence. "Where is my short text on economics?" he inquired. The chief economist, gray-bearded and earnest, stepped forward. "O, sire, we have it not. A year is required," he admitted. The king, understanding the gravity of time, urged them to labor without delay.

The chief economist presented their work—87 volumes, each teeming with charts and graphs. In a fury, the king's scepter crashed onto the table, a sapphire embedding itself deeply. "Get you gone, and return not until you bring a truly brief text," he thundered. The guards, arrows poised, executed half the economists, leaving survivors to flee.

Each year, the ranks of economists dwindled, their texts failing to meet the king's demands. The once-bustling hall echoed with the echoes of past debates, its grandeur overshadowed by the king's mounting despair.

With a voice that belied his age, he addressed the king directly. "Your majesty, I have distilled economics into a single sentence," he proclaimed, his eyes meeting the king's. The king, intrigued, urged him to speak. "There ain't no such thing as free lunch," the economist declared, his simplicity cutting through years of complexity. The king, recognizing his wisdom, nodded, understanding at last the profound truth within those eight words.