The rain gave way to fog — a dense, whitish haze that blurred the world’s low?resolution textures.

  “Visibility down thirty percent,” the Sergeant assessed, squinting into the gray. “Ranged weapons lose effectiveness. Ideal conditions to hide the fact that our Protection stat is exactly zero.”

  The tent had been packed. The Board of Directors sat on the cart, looming over the mud of Weyermark’s market square. The Captain kept a little distance, chewing a blade of grass and watching with mild interest as his aides tried to drape corporate ethics over feudal reality and squeeze some seed capital out of it.

  “Agenda item: recapitalization of human resources,” Gunther announced, not looking at faces so much as scanning raw data. “Current headcount: three management units. Operational personnel: zero. Candidate requirements: low daily wage, suppressed survival instincts, willingness to work for food.”

  “We need meat,” the Sergeant translated, checking the spear shaft for splinters. “To plug the flanks while I deal damage from the second row.”

  A line of three applicants shuffled up to the cart — locals for whom the probability of a critical hit from a sword seemed preferable to the guaranteed status of starvation.

  “Candidate one,” Gunther snapped his fingers. “Torsten. Background: refugee.”

  Torsten trembled. Not from fear so much as from the Exhausted status. No shoes. Instead of a cloak, a sack with armholes.

  “Hiring cost: thirty crowns. Cheaper than a decent shovel.”

  The Sergeant climbed down, circled Torsten, and jabbed a finger into his ribs. Torsten doubled over.

  “Defective,” the Sergeant pronounced. “The wind will blow him away. Base fatigue is in the red. HP — enough for one sneeze. He’ll break after the first missed parry.”

  “You’re evaluating him as a combat unit,” Gunther countered. “Evaluate him as a barricade.”

  “What?”

  “He costs thirty crowns. If he catches one crossbow bolt with his body (market price: five crowns) or forces an orc to spend action points on a swing, he pays for himself. We don’t need him to win. We need him to occupy a grid tile. Hired. Position: Junior Assistant for Damage Absorption.”

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  They handed Torsten a rusty knife. He gripped it like a man who’d looted a legendary item.

  “Candidate two,” Gunther said, pointing with his quill. “Knut. Background: farmhand.”

  Knut looked sturdier. Broad shoulders, empty eyes, hands like shovels. He held a pitchfork.

  “Cost: one hundred ninety crowns. Premium segment of garbage.”

  “Pitchfork,” the Sergeant approved. “Plus ten percent to hit. Background gives bonuses to fatigue and health. This one can wear armor — if we find any.”

  “Inventory analysis,” Gunther narrowed his eyes. “A pitchfork on the market costs one hundred fifty crowns. Net price of the body: forty crowns. Acceptable. But there’s a risk.”

  “Which one?”

  “His skin looks too well fed. He’s used to daily resource consumption. He might demand a raise.”

  “That’s treatable,” the Sergeant smirked. “Protocol: Disciplinary Action. I’ll explain that food is a buff for completing objectives, not a default setting.”

  “Hired. Position: Piercing Instrument Operator.”

  “Candidate three,” Gunther sighed. “Herman. Background…” He grimaced. “Cripple.”

  One leg shorter than the other. Cross?eyed. Hands that shook.

  “Cost: ten crowns. Equivalent to a tankard in a tavern.”

  The Sergeant spat into the mud. “Gunther, this is not an asset. This is a generation glitch. We are not tech support. He will slow the squad on the global map. We’ll burn extra provisions because his walking animation is broken.”

  “He won’t survive long,” Gunther said dryly. “He’ll be written off the balance sheet in the first skirmish. Short?term asset with high volatility.”

  “And if he survives?”

  “Then we use him as bait. Enemy AI always targets the easiest kill. They’ll spend movement points to approach and finish the cripple. While the opponent invests time in liquidating Herman, we take the high ground. We’re buying initiative for ten crowns. It’s a genius deal. Hired.”

  “Herman, to me. Sign here.”

  Gunther unfolded the contract interface.

  “Can you read?”

  “N?no…”

  “Excellent. The less you know, the slower your morale drops. Press your finger here.”

  Herman pressed a dirty thumb to the parchment.

  “Congratulations. You are now a structural unit. Your death is budgeted as a planned expense.”

  That evening the Sergeant lined the new recruits by the fire.

  “Listen up, blanks. You think you’re players? No. You’re resources. Until you’ve worked off the crowns invested in you, you belong to the ledger. You have no trophies. You only have the right to loot the boots off the man you kill. Questions? No questions.”

  One recruit sobbed — Torsten, it seemed. His panic check had triggered.

  “Shut up,” the Sergeant said without malice, almost wearily. “Tears don’t raise defense stats.”

  Lights out sounded in the fog.

  Gunther closed the book. “Balance sheet: reconciled. Asset survival forecast: negative. Profit forecast: positive.”

  The startup had entered the market of violence...

  Gunther