The fifty silver crowns were a foreign weight in Kaelen's belt. In his old life, it would have been a month's rent, a fleeting respite. Here, it was a noble's pocket change, or a peasant's fortune. It was capital.
He stood in the bustling, grimy market that had sprouted like fungus outside Schwarzwald Keep's walls—the "Camp Followers' Bazaar." It smelled of cheap ale, frying onions, unwashed bodies, and desperation. Here, soldiers blew their pay on dice and watered wine. Here, a different kind of war was waged.
His Psychological Fog of War skill hummed in his mind, not for battle, but for reading the crowd. He saw the systems at play: the inflated prices near the officers' tents, the pickpocket networks flowing through dense crowds, the quiet trade of stolen military gear behind the tanner's stall.
He wasn't here to spend. He was here to invest.
His target was a stall run by a one-eyed former soldier named Griswold, who dealt in "recovered battlefield assets"—a fancy term for looted weapons, slightly damaged armor, and other military scrap. Griswold's prices were low, his clientele was desperate, and his eyes held the sharp glint of a man who understood margins.
Kaelen approached, his noble's clothing (still shabby by noble standards) marking him as either a mark or a problem. Griswold eyed him, then the purse at his belt. "Milord. Looking to buy a proper sword? Got a nice longsword here, only a bit of rust. Belonged to a brave knight, he won't be needing it."
Kaelen picked up the sword. The system tagged it.
[ ITEM: NOTCHED LONGSWORD ]
Quality: Poor
Damage Modifier: -10%
Durability: 32/100
Estimated Value: 8 Silver Crowns
Griswold's Asking Price: 15 Silver Crowns.
He put it down. "I'm not here to buy your worst stock. I'm here to make you an offer."
Griswold's eye narrowed. "Oh?"
"You move volume. Low-quality volume. Your customers are levies who'll break this gear in a week, then come back because they have no other choice." Kaelen's voice was flat, analytical. "You operate on high turnover, low trust. It's inefficient."
"It's business," Griswold grunted, defensive.
"I can make it better business." Kaelen leaned in. "I have fifty silver. I'm not buying your goods. I'm buying a partnership. You provide the stall, the supply lines, the face. I provide capital, quality control, and… a new customer base."
Griswold laughed, a short, barking sound. "And what new customers would those be?"
"The ones who currently avoid you because your goods are garbage." Kaelen gestured to the sorry collection. "We use my capital to buy better quality salvage. Not from battlefields, but from quartermaster rejects, from blacksmiths' overstock. We clean it, repair it minimally, and sell it as 'Standard-Issue Reliable.' We sell it at a fair price. Not a low one. A fair one."
"Fair doesn't turn a profit in this hellhole."
"It does when you sell three times as much because people trust they won't be cheated." Kaelen's IQ 15 spun the numbers. "Your current model: sell a broken sword for 15 silver to one desperate man. He dies or it breaks. End of transaction. My model: sell a decent sword for 20 silver. That soldier lives longer, tells his friends. They come. They buy. They come back. We build reputation. Reputation is a force multiplier."
Griswold stared, his merchant's mind wrestling with the paradigm shift. "And what's your split?"
"Sixty-forty. My favor. I'm the capital and the brains. You're the labor and the face."
"Seventy-thirty."
"Fifty-five, forty-five," Kaelen countered instantly. "And I get final say on inventory. We're not just selling swords. We sell kit. A pot to cook in. A roll of decent bandage. A whetstone. We become the one-stop shop for the soldier who wants to survive, not just the one who wants a weapon."
The word survive hung in the air. In this place, it was the most potent marketing term imaginable.
[ INFLUENCE CHECK: MASTER ]
[ MODIFIERS: IQ 15 (+8), Skill: Logistics II (+7), Understanding of Core Desire (Survival) (+10) vs. Griswold's Skepticism (-15) ]
[ CRITICAL SUCCESS ]
Griswold spat on the ground, a sign of respect. "You fight dirty, milord. With numbers. Alright. Fifty-five, forty-five. But your capital buys the first lot. And if this flops, you eat the loss."
"Deal."
[ NEW ENDEAVOR UNLOCKED: THE SURVIVALIST'S MERCANTILE ]
Partners: Kaelen Falken (Silent Partner), Griswold (Front Man).
Capital Invested: 50 Silver Crowns.
Current Value: 0.
Projected Weekly Return (Conservative): 15% ROI.
Secondary Effect: Building an information network among the rank-and-file soldiers.
As Kaelen turned to leave, a system screen, urgent and red-tinged, overlaid the market chaos.
[ SYSTEM-WIDE ALERT ]
[ ANOMALY DETECTED ]
Location: Upper Bailey, Barracks 4.
Nature: Narrative Inconsistency. Statistical Improbability in progress.
[ GLITCH PROTOCOL SUGGESTS: INVESTIGATION.]
A glitch? Not his own making. A real one.
He made his way to the upper bailey, where the professional men-at-arms and minor knights were quartered. Outside Barracks 4, a crowd had gathered. At its center was a massive, bear-like man-at-arms, easily STR 16, facing off against a younger, slender soldier who looked like a strong wind would break him. The big man, Gunther, was roaring about a stolen pay purse.
"I saw you skulking, rat! Empty your pockets!"
The slender soldier, Leo, was pale, shaking his head. "I didn't take anything! I swear!"
But Kaelen's system saw what others didn't.
[ OBSERVATION: LEO ]
STR: 5 | AGI: 14 | SKL: 8 | IQ: 11 | SOC: 4
[ AURA ANALYSIS: Anomaly Detected. Passive Skill Suspected: Misfortune Magnet (Involuntarily attracts blame, accidents, and false accusations). ]
[ OBSERVATION: GUNTHER ]
STR: 16 | AGI: 6 | IQ: 5
[ AURA ANALYSIS: Probable True Thief. Using Leo's anomalous aura as cover. Confidence: 87%. ]
This wasn't just a fight. It was a systemic error. A bug in human interaction being exploited.
Jannik was there, drawn by the commotion, looking annoyed. "Enough! Gunther, if you have proof, take it to the sergeant. If not, stand down."
"I have the proof of my eyes, Ser Falken!" Gunther thundered, appealing to the crowd. "Who else could it be? The weasel is always in the wrong place!"
The narrative was crystallizing: the big, honest warrior versus the shifty, weak thief. It was a trope. And the system was glitching because the trope was wrong.
Kaelen felt Valerius's attention focus on him like a sunbeam through a magnifying glass.
"A BROKEN STORY," the god's voice murmured in his mind. "IT OFFENDS THE LEDGER. FIX IT."
Kaelen stepped forward. All eyes turned to him—the younger Falken, the weird one.
"Gunther," Kaelen said, his voice not loud, but cutting through the noise. "You say your purse was stolen after the evening muster. From your bunk roll."
"Aye!"
"And you immediately saw Leo near the barracks door."
"Saw him slinking out!"
Kaelen turned to Leo. "Where were you going?"
Leo stammered. "T-to the latrines, milord! I have the runs! The camp food…"
A few soldiers snorted. It was a pathetic, believable excuse.
Kaelen's IQ 15 cross-referenced the data. Muster ended at sunset. The barracks had a single door. The latrine trench was thirty yards east.
"Gunther," Kaelen said. "Show me your bunk."
Puzzled but confident, Gunther led him into the dim barracks. His bunk was near the door. Kaelen looked at the floor. Hard-packed dirt. Then he looked at Leo's bunk, three down. Next to it, a small, personal chest.
"Open it," Kaelen said to Leo.
Trembling, Leo did. Inside were meager possessions: a spare tunic, a wooden carving of a duck, a letters from home. No purse.
Gunther sneered. "He hid it elsewhere!"
"Maybe," Kaelen said. He walked back to Gunther's bunk and looked at the floor again, then at the bottom of Gunther's own boots. Mud. Fresh. The night had been dry.
"You checked your purse after muster, found it gone, and immediately ran outside to look for Leo?" Kaelen asked.
"Aye!"
"So you ran from your bunk, to the door, into the yard." Kaelen pointed. "The yard is dust. Your bunk is dirt. But there's fresh mud on your boots, Gunther. Not dust. Mud. From where?"
A flicker of panic in Gunther's eyes. "I… I stepped in a puddle earlier."
"The only puddle near the latrine trench," Kaelen said, his voice like falling ice. "Which is east. But if you saw Leo 'slinking' out the door and gave chase, you'd have gone west, into the main yard. You'd have dust on your boots. Not mud." He paused, letting the contradiction hang. "Unless you weren't chasing Leo. Unless you were coming back from the latrine trench after hiding the purse somewhere, and needed a scapegoat you saw heading that way."
The crowd's murmur shifted. The narrative was cracking.
Gunther's face purpled. "You calling me a liar, you little—"
"I'm calling you statistically improbable," Kaelen said. He turned to Jannik. "Brother. If I were to suggest a search of the latrine trench's perimeter, near the far end, what do you think we'd find?"
It wasn't proof. It was a hypothesis. But it was a specific, testable hypothesis, delivered with absolute certainty.
Jannik, sensing the shift, nodded to two guards. "Search the trench perimeter. Far end."
Five minutes later, they returned. One held up a small leather purse. Gunther's face collapsed.
The glitch resolved. The false narrative shattered.
[ SYSTEM ALERT CLEARED ]
[ ANOMALY RESOLVED: FALSE TROPE NEGATED ]
[ REWARD: +150 XP, +1 Attribute Point, Title Earned: [ Logic's Scalpel ] Effect: +10% to success when deconstructing false narratives or lies. ]
[ THE LEDGER OF GLORY ]
ACTION: Used deductive reasoning and environmental analysis to correct a systemic injustice.
VALERIUS'S VERDICT: "YOU DID NOT DRAW A SWORD. YOU DREW A CONCLUSION. AND IT CUT DEEPER. THE LEDGER VALUES TRUTH AS WELL AS VICTORY. +75 GLORY."
[ VALERIUS'S INTEREST: 90/100 ]
As Gunther was dragged away and Leo stammered tearful thanks, Jannik pulled Kaelen aside. His expression was unreadable. "How did you know?"
"The mud didn't fit the story," Kaelen said simply.
Jannik studied him for a long moment. "You see things no one else does. You fight battles no one else fights. What are you aiming for, brother? Really?"
Kaelen met his gaze. "Efficiency."
He walked away, leaving Jannik amidst the dispersing crowd. He had a business partnership, a new title, a pile of XP, and another attribute point to spend.
He was no longer just playing the game of war. He was starting to edit its rules, fix its bugs, and quietly buy up its infrastructure.
The greatest general, he was beginning to understand, might be the one who owned the supply lines, understood the system's code, and controlled the stories people told themselves. Not from a throne, but from the shadows of the marketplace and the logic of cold, hard data.