The dawn over the village of Heim was gray and sticky, like yesterday’s oatmeal.

  Gunther sat on a stump, conducting the morning inventory of "Human Capital." In the light of the dying campfire, he checked his list, muttering numbers under his breath.

  "Right, asset roll-call," he mumbled, running a finger down the parchment. "Knut. Status: Alive. Pitchfork wear: 15%. Adler. Status: Alive. Functionality: Acceptable. Jem. Status: Alive. Chaos coefficient: Consistently high."

  Gunther's finger froze on a line scribbled in small handwriting at the very bottom.

  "Nasser."

  A curly head poked out from under the cart. This was Nasser — a pickpocket whom Jem had caught attempting to steal a ring from Gunther. Through blackmail and promises, the Accountant had instantly converted this incident into a low-cost hiring story.

  Class: Thief.

  Stats: High Initiative, High Defense.

  Combat Utility: Budget Dodge-Tank. Saves on medical supplies because he is hard to hit.

  "I am here, Herr Accountant," Nasser rolled deftly out from under the cart, adjusting his dagger. "And I still want to eat. I hope the menu has been updated?"

  "Resource consumption confirmed," Gunther sighed. "The menu has been optimized."

  The camp was waking up. Usually, awakening is accompanied by dreams of coffee, but today the air was filled with an aroma that could be described in one word: "Suspicious."

  Jem was bustling by the fire. He was stirring a brew in a large cauldron, humming something cheerful.

  "Breakfast is served, gentlemen Shareholders!" he proclaimed, banging a ladle. "Dish of the day: 'Stew à la Heim'. Main ingredient: local organic product."

  Something gray-green bubbled in the pot.

  Nasser approached first. As a man used to stealing food in markets, he hoped to fish out the best piece. He looked into the cauldron, sniffed the air, and his face, usually cunning and mobile, froze.

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  "That... that's those things from the cemetery?" he wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You boiled the Ghouls?"

  "We boiled an Investment," Gunther corrected, not looking up from his calculations.

  He stood up, surveying his small squad.

  "Attention, personnel. The cost of a standard ration on the market is 4 crowns. Our staff consumes resources like a herd of locusts. This is a loss. Ghoul meat is free. Consuming it as food gives us 100% savings on the nutrition budget."

  "But they are man-eaters!" Nasser recoiled, demonstrating miracles of reaction speed. "I am not eating that. I have... a specific diet. My organism requires normal food to maintain reaction speed!"

  "Calories have no moral compass, Nasser," the Sergeant cut him off, emerging from the tent. "Eat. That is an order. Anyone who doesn't eat gets a penalty to Fatigue and a kick from me personally."

  The meal began.

  Nasser, cursing everything in the world, scooped up a spoonful. He was a dodger, he could evade an arrow, but evading the Sergeant's order was impossible.

  He swallowed. Froze. His eyes went round.

  A second later, Nasser was in the bushes. The sounds coming from there suggested his stomach was less flexible than his body.

  "Weak stomach," Gunther noted in his ledger. "Trait: 'Dainty'. Does not eat 'Strange Meat'. Problem. Will have to feed him separately or wait until hunger defeats aesthetics."

  Jem chewed thoughtfully, evaluating the taste like a restaurant critic:

  "Texture of rubber, aftertaste of raw earth. +10 to Satiety, -10 to Mood. But you know... with this hunger, it goes down like a Michelin-star dish."

  The Captain sat aside, observing the core of his company forming. Knut choked but ate, glancing fearfully at the Sergeant. Adler chewed mechanically. Nasser, returning from the bushes pale and angry, drank water, demonstratively refusing seconds.

  They ate (those who could). They saved money.

  By noon, we packed up camp and went to the Undertaker for the settlement.

  250 crowns.

  Two hundred and fifty coins for a night in the mud and a breakfast of carrion.

  The Undertaker counted out the coins and slammed the door shut.

  "Where to now?" asked the Sergeant when the money was tucked into the purse.

  Gunther looked at the road.

  "Forward. We have fangs and hides. We will find someone to sell them to. We are monetizing these beasts twice: first internally as food, then externally as goods."

  "Zero-waste production," Jem summarized.

  The mercenary squad "The Bums" marched down the road. The fighters' breath smelled of death, but the copper weighed pleasantly in their pockets. We survived.