The King's Road in the lands of Grauwald resembled a graveyard of other people's ambitions.

  We were stopped at a ruined bridge. Six deserters in dirty heraldic tabards. Faces worn to stone by war.

  "Toll fee," their leader said hoarsely. "All money. Weapons. And the woman."

  Greta, sitting on the driver's seat, calmly shifted a heavy ladle to her right hand.

  "I have broth boiling in the pot, sonny. Come closer — I'll cook you in your uniform."

  Gunther narrowed his eyes. He wasn't looking at faces. He was looking at equipment.

  "Mail Hauberks," the Accountant whispered, his voice hungry. "Market value of a new one — 1000 crowns. These have 50% wear, but they are Serviceable. Repairability is high."

  He stepped forward.

  "Gentlemen! I offer a deal: you leave, and I won't record your armor as Incoming Inventory."

  The deserters laughed.

  "Kill them!" the leader roared, raising his shield.

  "Daggers!" Gunther shrieked. "No body shots! Puncture! I need that armor intact!"

  The fight began.

  The leader of the deserters, a hulk with a Flail, moved toward Talah.

  "Golden tin can!" he yelled, spinning the ball on the chain. "I'm gonna crack your skull like an egg!"

  Gunther turned pale. A critical hit to Talah's head — and 9,500 crowns would be written off as scrap.

  "Intercept!!!" the Accountant screamed. "Alf! NET!"

  Alf "The Hoarder" stood in the second row. In his hands, he clutched a heavy net woven by himself.

  He saw the enemy. But even more, he saw the Thing he was about to have to throw away.

  "No..." Alf whined, clutching the net to his belly. "It's mine... I wove it... It's new..."

  "THROW IT, MISER!" the Sergeant barked. "Or I'll feed you to the dogs!"

  Fear of the Sergeant overpowered greed. Sobbing, Alf threw his treasure.

  Hands trembled due to the Clumsy trait, but the net covered the deserter leader head-to-toe. Hooks dug into the chainmail. The deserter tangled, stumbled, and fell.

  "My net!!!" Alf howled, watching the threads stretch on the enemy's armor. "Don't tear it, you heathen!!!"

  An immobilized enemy is a dead enemy. Talah stepped forward. A strike of the scimitar — and the leader's head flew off his shoulders. Along with pieces of the torn net.

  Alf fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands. For him, this was a personal tragedy.

  But the other deserters were hardened veterans. They didn't run.

  One of them, with a two-handed axe, charged the flank. There stood our new recruit.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER: LUDGER]

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  Background: Miner.

  Characteristics: Used to working in dark and quiet. Hates fuss. High Health, Initiative — zero.

  "I'll chop you up, mole!" the deserter yelled, raising the blade.

  Ludger "The Granite" didn't even blink. He looked at the axe with disgust, as if at a poor tool. Then he slowly, with the grace of a stone block, raised his Heavy Crossbow.

  It was a terrifying weapon. The stock blackened with age, steel limbs pitted with rust, but the mechanism was greased with lard (thanks to Greta).

  We found this "machine" only yesterday.

  On the roadside, we scared off a pair of young wolves who had managed to maul a lone deserter. The wretch lay in a pool of blood, wheezing, but convulsively clutching the crossbow to his chest.

  Gunther wanted to finish him off to end his misery, but Ludger raised a hand.

  "Don't waste energy," the miner rumbled calmly. "Not much blood left. Fifteen minutes. Let's wait."

  And he waited. He just stood nearby, leaning on his stupid spear, watching the sun until the wheezing stopped. And then pried the cooling fingers of the dead man open, threw away his spear, and took the crossbow.

  "Why do you need that mechanism?" Jem asked then. "A spear is safer."

  "Spear work is fussy," Ludger answered, checking the tight string. "You jab, you dance. But here — click and done. Like hammering a stake. Reliable."

  And now Ludger pulled the trigger.

  THWACK.

  The sound was dry and harsh, like a ship's chain snapping.

  The heavy bolt hit the attacker in the chest from a distance of two meters. The impact hurled him backward. He knocked down his comrade and collapsed into the mud, wheezing through crushed lungs.

  "Don't ruin the armor!" Gunther screamed in the background. "Daggers!"

  The Sergeant, Bodo, and even the limping Dieter swarmed the stunned enemies. Knives went into action. "Puncture" — a sneaky strike into armor joints.

  Men bled. Armor didn't.

  Loot Division

  Gunther walked among the bodies, grimacing at the smell of the dead men's bowel contents.

  "What junk..." he muttered, inspecting the trophy. "Two Hauberks. Wear 60%. Rings rusty, padding rotten. Dent from a pick here, hole from a stiletto there. This isn't armor, it's scrap metal."

  "These are heavy mail shirts," the Sergeant noted. "Even in this state, they're better than nothing."

  "Fine," the Accountant sighed. "Book it as Tier-3 armor. Dieter!"

  "Mine," the Tank boomed and, without waiting for permission, pulled the most intact mail shirt onto himself.

  No one argued. Dieter earned the right to live with his broken leg and a hundred taken hits. He was the foundation of this shaky structure.

  The second mail shirt remained.

  Two hands reached for it simultaneously.

  Huber's hand (former farmhand Knut) and mercenary Bodo's.

  "I've been with you from day one," Huber said dully. "I walked with a pitchfork. I died in the Arena. I was stitched without anesthesia. I need protection."

  "You are a slave," Bodo "The Butcher" answered coldly. "You are meat. And I am a Professional. My Combat Rating is 65. If I get killed, the squad loses DPS. If you get killed... we can find another farmhand for 30 crowns."

  Huber looked at Gunther. In his eyes was a silent plea for justice.

  Gunther adjusted his glasses... that is, rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked into his ledger.

  "The math favors Bodo," the Accountant said dryly, not looking up. "His wage is higher, his skills more valuable. An Asset with high cost requires priority protection. It's purely mathematical, Huber."

  Gunther nodded to the mercenary.

  "Take it, mercenary Bodo. And you, Huber, take the mail from the guy Ludger shot. Sure, there's a huge hole in the chest, but the back seems intact."

  Huber said nothing. He only gripped the shaft of his spear tighter, and something cold flickered in his eyes. He learned a lesson: in this world, justice is distributed according to the price list.

  We changed.

  Now two heavy infantrymen stood in rusty but reliable steel.

  Ludger lovingly stroked his deadly crossbow, wiping blood off it.

  Alf in the corner tried to tie the torn threads of his net, sobbing over every knot.

  We marched further South. Behind us lay the stripped dead. Ahead awaited the War of Houses, where steel outvalued blood, and conscience had no price.

  (End of Chapter 22)