The first market entry took place at dawn. The competitors — a startup of seven local “Highway Entrepreneurs” — had occupied the high ground on a hill.

  In standard tactical classification, this was a “Brigand Ambush.” In Gunther’s ledger, it was filed under: Aggressive takeover of external assets for the purpose of recapitalization.

  “Counterparty analysis,” Gunther pronounced, scanning the enemy line. “Equipment: Tier Trash. Weaponry: clubs, rusty cleavers. Forecasted ROI: positive, provided we minimize damage to our own uniforms. Engage.”

  The formation of the Bums looked like a mockery of the art of war. In front, trembling under the Fear debuff, stood our assets: Torsten, Knut, and Herman.

  “Attention, employees!” the Sergeant barked. “Living?shield formation. You soak the damage — we do the cleanup. Anyone who runs gets fired with a spear to the spine. Clear?”

  “Y?yes…” Torsten whimpered, clutching his company?issued knife.

  The fight began not with a war cry but with the dull, final sound of stone on bone.

  A projectile from an enemy slinger found the single weak point in our defense — Torsten’s temple. The junior assistant didn’t even scream. His HP dropped to zero instantly. He folded like an empty sack.

  “Timing: 00:30,” Gunther noted in his ledger. “Full asset amortization. Write?off under ‘Workplace Injury.’”

  The Sergeant stepped forward and covered the fallen body with his shield.

  “The knife!” Gunther shouted from the backline. “Sergeant, control the inventory! The knife is on the balance sheet!”

  “I hear you!” the Sergeant snapped, stepping on Torsten’s wrist to pry the fingers open and keep the weapon from sinking into the mud.

  Torsten’s death emboldened the competitors. A massive bandit with a wooden flail charged Herman the Cripple.

  This was the moment of truth for the mathematical model. Gunther had already mentally written off ten crowns and prepared to deduct funeral costs from future profits. Herman couldn’t dodge. The hit chance against him was ninety?five percent. It should have been certain death.

  But the Random Number Generator — the chief auditor of this world — decided to run an unscheduled inspection.

  The bandit slipped on the morning dew. The flail’s ball hit the mud; the rusty chain lashed Herman’s face, tore out an eye, and the handle smashed his shoulder. A critical hit — brutal, but not fatal.

  Herman shrieked: a high, pitiful, disgusting sound. He didn’t fall. He had one HP left.

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  “Calculation error?” Gunther muttered, staring at the living cripple. “Statistical anomaly. He’s consuming oxygen above plan.”

  The bandit, having put everything into the blow, was left open. He had spent all his Action Points. The Sergeant didn’t wait. His spear entered the enemy’s throat with dry, businesslike precision.

  “Thanks for creating space, intern!” the Sergeant grunted, yanking the spear free.

  Five minutes later, the market closed. Seven corpses lay in the mud. Knut the Farmhand — whole, but gray?faced — sat on the ground, wiping his pitchfork with a tuft of grass. The Captain moved busily among the bodies, cutting purses. For him, looting was habitual.

  For Gunther, it was the start of the most important operation: Liquid Asset Collection.

  The Sergeant deftly stripped the leather jacket off the bandit leader. “Careful,” Gunther warned. “Don’t tear the lining. Repair is an overhead cost. Remove the helmet gently; the strap is worth more than the head inside.”

  A wet crunch echoed as the Sergeant pulled the helmet off along with a piece of the former owner’s ear.

  “We’ll wash it,” the Captain waved. “It’s just textures.”

  Gunther approached Herman. The man sat clutching his empty eye socket with a dirty rag. Blood ran down his chin. He was alive, but from an aesthetic standpoint he represented a manufacturing defect. Status: Permanent — missing eye.

  “Report,” Gunther demanded.

  “Torsten — written off, inventory salvaged,” the Sergeant reported. “Knut — morale stable. Herman…” He kicked the cripple with the toe of his boot. “Optics damaged. Minus one eye. Structural integrity compromised. I suggest disposal. Treatment and food will cost more than hiring a new one.”

  Herman stopped moaning. He raised his single remaining eye to Gunther. In that look there was so much animal will to live and so much hatred for corporate policy that the accountant froze for a second.

  “No,” Gunther said slowly.

  “Why? He’s an invalid!”

  “He survived a hit that should have zeroed his HP. Survival probability was five percent. He fell into that five percent. This is called antifragility.”

  Gunther crouched, studying the wounded man as if he were an interesting bug in the code. “You violated my forecast, Herman. You remained on the balance sheet despite the math. That means RNG favors you. We need a lucky asset.”

  The Sergeant spat. “And what do we do with him? He walks crooked.”

  “We will conduct a rebranding,” Gunther decided. “The name ‘Herman’ is associated with a victim. It’s written off along with the eye. From this day forth, you are Adler — Eagle.”

  “Why Eagle?” the Captain asked, weighing a trophy axe in his hand. “He’s one?eyed and lame.”

  “Because it sounds better in the quarterly report for investors,” Gunther cut him off. “‘Lost Herman the Cripple’ is a planning error. ‘Wounded Veteran Adler’ is heroic defense and experience accumulation. It’s an intangible asset. A brand.”

  Gunther amended the ledger, crossing out the old name.

  “Issue bandages. Company expense. Deduct the cost from his future share of the loot. We must protect our investments, not pamper them.”

  The Captain summarized: “Expense: one beggar (30 crowns). Pitchfork amortization (10 crowns). Bandages (20 crowns). Total loss: 60 crowns.”

  “Income:” Gunther quickly counted the pile of bloody junk. “Three cleavers, leather armor, a helmet, forty crowns in cash. Total assets: 350 crowns. Valued at market replacement cost. Real liquidation value is lower, but for the investor report the numbers look beautiful.”

  “Net profit: 290 crowns.”

  Gunther closed the book with a clap that sounded like a gunshot. “Profitability: 483 percent. Operation successful. Load the meat, gentlemen. We’re going to the city.”

  Adler — formerly Herman — struggled to his feet, leaning on Knut. He had survived. He had become a veteran. And he was now in debt to the company for another twenty crowns for bandages.