Hoiwai greeted us like a disturbed beehive. We entered the gates dirty, draped in cobwebs, but with a cart full of "Northern Gold" — timber.
Gunther jumped off the cart before it even came to a full stop, elbowing guards out of the way.
"Current exchange rate!" he croaked, grabbing the first merchant he saw. "How much is pine today?"
Jem returned five minutes later, eyes filled with a greedy shine.
"310 crowns per stack. The war in the South has spiked the prices of construction materials. They are building siege towers. They need our firewood!"
We sold the lumber.
Our balance soared to 4,500 crowns.
We were rich. We were kings of life.
For exactly five minutes.
Until Gunther decided to conduct an inspection of Personnel and Warehouse.
"Report!" the Accountant demanded, beaming from profit and rubbing his hands.
Vain stepped out of the line. Our Anatomist looked perplexed. He was twirling an empty vial in his hands.
"Reporting, Herr CFO. The situation is... rotten."
"Explain."
"Dieter. The spider toxin isn't clearing. Liver capacity is insufficient. I suggest amputation of affected areas or bloodletting. Recovery forecast without intervention — 3 weeks. Tank efficiency reduced by 40%."
"Cancel amputation!" the Sergeant barked. "We need the Tank whole!"
"Nasser," Vain continued. "Joint inflammation. Cannot hold a knife."
"Tobias," the Anatomist nodded at the hunched crossbowman. "Psychosomatic. Depression. Says he hears spider voices."
"But we are in a city!" Gunther was outraged. "We are in a Temple! It should pass on its own!"
"It doesn't," Vain spread his hands. "Regimen required. And diet. Speaking of diet... Jem?"
Jem untied a grain sack.
A stench of mustiness so strong hit us that Knut gagged. Fat white maggots and black beetles were cheerfully crawling over the flour.
"Biological contamination," Jem stated. "Protein included, boss. But if we eat this, we’ll be fighting for a spot in the latrine. The bread is moldy. The meat... well, it’s trying to crawl away."
Gunther sat down on a sack of gold. His face turned gray, like the Dunkel sky.
"We have 4,500 crowns. But we have no army. We have a lazaretto. And we have no food. We are rich corpses."
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
And then he saw Her.
A woman stood by a grocer's stall, scolding the seller so hard he was pressed against the wall.
"You call this a ham?" she thundered in a voice capable of stopping a cavalry charge. "This sole is only good for hammering nails! Salt not rubbed in! Fat rancid! You are not storing products, you are killing them a second time!"
"Who is that?" Gunther asked, mesmerized by her fury.
"Greta," Jem said with respect. "The Cook. A Legendary NPC. Rumor has it she can cure gangrene with chicken broth and make rusks last forever."
Gunther approached her. Like a man condemned to the executioner.
"Madam... I need help. My people are rotting alive. My supplies are eaten by worms. I am losing money on downtime and spoilage."
Greta turned. She swept Gunther with a gaze that read a verdict on his entire lineage down to the seventh generation. Then she looked at the green faces of Dieter and Nasser.
"I see," she said. "You look like a pack of sick rats fed on sawdust. You don't need help. You need a Food Block Reform."
"I am ready to hire you," Gunther said quickly. "Standard day laborer rate..."
"Two thousand," she interrupted.
Gunther choked.
"How much?! That is robbery! That is almost half our capital! For what?!"
"That is the price of your runts' lives," Greta answered calmly, wiping her hands on her apron. "My cooking accelerates Hitpoint regeneration and keeps food storage safe. Either pay up or bury them tomorrow."
Gunther looked at Vain, who was already sharpening a saw while looking at Dieter's leg. He looked at the sack of wormy flour.
"Fine..." he whispered, feeling a piece of his heart tear away. "Two thousand. This is an Infrastructure Investment. But you cook with what we have!"
"No," Greta put her hands on her hips. "I do not cook swill. You will go to the market and buy products. Eight types."
"Eight?!" the Accountant squealed. "Why?! Bread is enough! We ate Ghouls and no one died!"
"Bread, meat, cheese, berries, mushrooms, roots, dried fish, and beer," she listed in a tone that brooked no argument. "Food Variety gives a buff to Morale. And your boys need to want to live very badly."
Gunther paid.
He counted out 2,000 crowns, his fingers trembling as they let go of each coin.
Then he walked through the rows, buying expensive products, and every spent copper echoed with physical pain in his temples. Cheese? Luxury! Smoked ham? Extravagance!
By evening, the camp was transformed.
In a new cauldron (bought for another 100 crowns, damn it!), something divine was bubbling. The aroma of herbs and meat overpowered the smell of sickness and unwashed bodies.
Dieter, still green from poison, ate the first spoon, then another and another, and suddenly stopped shivering.
"It works..." Gunther whispered, looking at the squad interface. "Hitpoints are regenerating faster. The 'Sick' status is clearing. This is magic."
And in the morning, the bell tolled.
In the square, a herald read a decree.
"HOUSE GRAUWALD DECLARES WAR ON HOUSE BERENGAR! KING'S ROAD CLOSED! ALL MERCENARY COMPANIES REPORT FOR CONTRACTS!"
Gunther looked at his emaciated purse.
Yesterday he had 4,500.
Today, after hiring Greta (2,000), buying provisions by the list (500), and restocking arrows and tools, he had barely 1,500 left.
"We invested everything in stomachs and treatment," he said quietly. "And now the war has started. Food prices will skyrocket even higher."
"But we are full," said the Sergeant, tightening the belt on his gambeson. "And we are ready to kill."
"I hope so," muttered Jem. "Because Greta just said she needs an assistant. And she’s looking at me."
We stood in the center of Hoiwai.
Full. Poor. And ready for the War of Houses.
