We crossed an invisible line. The forest thinned, giving way to well-groomed fields. The mud underfoot turned into cobblestones. We had entered the domain of House Berengar — the Merchant Barons who believed gold could buy everything, even safety.

  "Stop," Gunther commanded, spotting a peasant digging in a vegetable garden by the road. "Time to close an old operational loop."

  The Accountant jumped off the cart, holding the same wooden mallet that Baldur had disgraced himself with earlier.

  "Hey, tiller of the soil!" Gunther shouted. "Do you require a tool for non-lethal livestock conflict resolution?"

  "Huh?" The peasant leaned on his hoe.

  "A Training Mallet," Gunther explained. "Eco-friendly material. Ideal for stunning pigs before slaughter or for educating lazy farmhands. Leaves no bruises on the hide, preserving product presentation. Exclusive offer. Ten crowns."

  "I’ll give five," the peasant grunted.

  "Sold."

  Gunther returned to the squad, pocketing the coins.

  "Plus five crowns. Minus two kilograms of dead weight. Logistics efficiency increased. Move out."

  An hour later, we met Them.

  A patrol of House Berengar.

  It wasn't a gang. It was a Wall. Ten footmen in shining mail with heraldic shields. Three Arbalesters with heavy weapons. And a Knight on a horse.

  The Knight sat in the saddle as if he had been born there. His armor cost more than our entire village, inhabitants included. Scales and a Sword were embroidered in gold on his tabard.

  "Make way!" the Knight barked without stopping.

  We obediently stepped into the ditch. We knew our place. In the food chain of this world, we were currently jackals, and these were lions.

  The Knight reined in his horse, examining us with the disgust one reserves for a crushed toad.

  "Who are you?" he asked lazily.

  "PMC 'The Bums'," the Sergeant stepped forward. "In transit. Fulfilling a contract to escort... ourselves."

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  "'The Bums'?" The Knight laughed. The sound was hollow and metallic from behind the lowered visor. "Fitting name. You look like a pile of manure someone forgot to clear from the road."

  His gaze fell on Otwin. Our standard-bearer stood in the front row, chest puffed out proudly. The green banner with crooked serpents fluttered in the wind.

  "And what is that rag?" The Knight pointed a gauntleted finger. "Who permitted the rabble to carry a standard? That is a privilege of the noble."

  "It is a Corporate Brand," Gunther voiced from behind Dieter’s back. "Registered in the Guild registry. Taxes paid."

  "Brand..." the Knight snorted. "Looks more like my grandmother's drawers. Roll up that monstrosity before I order my marksmen to use it for target practice."

  At that moment, Baldur took a step forward.

  He wasn't looking at the Knight's face. He was looking at the Armor.

  His eyes slid over the joints of the plate, over the Great Helm, over the breastplate. Baldur gripped the handle of his new Skull Hammer tighter.

  It was not the look of a warrior. It was the look of a safecracker facing a vault. The look of a starving man facing a sealed tin can.

  "One hundred and eighty percent armor damage," his eyes read. "One hit. Overhead. Crumple that helmet into a pancake. Hear the crunch. Crack the can open..."

  The Knight noticed the look. His hand in the steel gauntlet rested on the hilt of his sword.

  "Your dog wants to play, mercenary?" he asked the Sergeant quietly. "Keep him on a leash. Or I will skin him. Along with that tattered wolf hide your friend is wearing."

  The air grew dense.

  Jem stopped playing the lute. He looked from the Knight to Baldur.

  "Win probability: two percent," the Jester whispered under his breath. "Enemy Gear: Elite. Our Gear: Trash. Verdict: Total Wipe. Recommended Action: Smile and wave."

  The Captain laid a heavy hand on Baldur’s shoulder. Warningly.

  "Forgive my fighter, Your Grace," the Captain said, looking at the ground. "He is shell-shocked. He has a reflex for shiny things. Like a magpie. We are leaving."

  Baldur slowly, very slowly lowered the hammer. The muscles on his neck bulged like cables. He saw the target, he knew he could destroy it, but he also knew he would die a second after the strike.

  "Out of the way, filth," the Knight threw out, spurring his horse.

  The patrol passed us, dusting us with the smell of gun oil, expensive leather, and arrogance. House Berengar's arbalesters smirked, looking at the humiliated Otwin and his banner.

  When the dust settled, we crawled out of the ditch.

  "He called us manure," Knut growled.

  "He called us 'filth'," Jem corrected. "Those are different soil fractions."

  "He was wearing twenty thousand crowns," Baldur said dreamily. "I could have cracked him open. I know I could. One hit. Right on the dome."

  Gunther brushed the road dust off his robe.

  "Not today, Baldur. Today you would have broken your hammer on his retinue. And we would have lost the entire roster. This is called 'Risk Assessment'."

  The Accountant looked after the receding patrol and took out his black notebook.

  "But I recorded his coat of arms. In the 'Accounts Receivable' column. Someday we will send them the bill. With interest for moral damages."

  We walked further along the King's Road. The cobblestones were hard. Hatred burned in our chests. And the wooden mallet had been sold for five crowns.

  Life continued.

  (End of Chapter 12)