The ink on the debt notice was still wet.
I stared at it, my third cup of coffee going cold in my hand, and tried to remember if Dietrich von Klause had been good at math. The original Dietrich, I mean. The one who'd actually grown up in this body, in this world, with this catastrophic mess of an inheritance.
Probably not. If he had been, he might have noticed the estate was bleeding silver like a stuck pig years before I woke up in his skin.
"My lord?"
I didn't look up. The voice belonged to Hans, the estate steward—sixty years old, balding, and possessed of that unique ability of career bureaucrats to deliver catastrophic news with the emotional inflection of a grocery list.
"How much?" I asked.
"The Crown's tax assessor will arrive in eleven weeks. The total owed, including penalties for last year's delay..." He paused, and I heard paper rustling. "Four thousand, two hundred silver marks."
I did look up then. "And our current liquid assets?"
"Approximately six hundred marks, my lord. If we sell the remaining grain stores and three of the plow horses."
"So we'd starve, and have nothing to plant next season with."
"Yes, my lord."
I set down the coffee cup before I could throw it. Three months ago, I'd been a thirty-two-year-old financial analyst in Seoul, working eighteen-hour days and living on convenience store kimbap. I'd fallen asleep at my desk reviewing a client's bankruptcy filing.
I'd woken up here. In the body of Dietrich von Klause, a minor antagonist from Reclaiming Glory—a game I'd played exactly once because a junior colleague wouldn't shut up about it.
Dietrich's role in the story was simple: be an obstacle. The protagonist, Wilhelm of House Ashencroft, would rally the commoners against corrupt nobility. Dietrich would make a desperate play to maintain his family's status by betraying his liege to a rival faction. It would fail. He'd be executed for treason in the game's mid-point, roughly two years from now.
A forgettable villain. A cautionary tale about the old order's death throes.
And I was him.
"Hans," I said slowly, "walk me through how we got here."
The steward's expression didn't change. "Your late father, Lord Gregor, invested heavily in the Northern Trade Consortium seven years ago—"
"Which collapsed when the Silver Road got blockaded by the Thornwood clans. Yes, I remember." I didn't, actually. Dietrich's memories were there, sort of, like a movie I'd seen while drunk. Fragments. Impressions. Useless.
What I did remember was the game's lore. The Northern Trade Consortium's collapse was a scripted event. Background flavor to explain why several noble houses were desperate enough to make stupid political choices later.
Choices like Dietrich's treason.
"The loan from Merchant Voss to cover that loss..." Hans continued.
"Compounding interest at twelve percent annually. Also remember." That part was in Dietrich's memories, unfortunately. Particularly the meeting with Aldric Voss, a man whose smile was warm and whose contracts were iron.
"The subsequent poor harvests, the conscription costs for the Borderland Levy, the dowry for your sister's proposed match—"
"Which fell through when word got out we were broke." I rubbed my temples. Elena hadn't spoken to me in two weeks. Not that I blamed her.
"Yes, my lord."
I looked down at the ledger spread across the desk. Hans's handwriting was immaculate. Every debit, every credit, every hope of salvation neatly categorized and ultimately, obviously, hopelessly insufficient.
Four thousand, two hundred marks.
We had six hundred.
"Options?" I asked.
"A profitable marriage would—"
"I'm already engaged." To Clarissa vol Rothswald, a count's daughter, in an arrangement made when both families thought the von Klause name meant something. She'd sent exactly one letter since I'd inherited: a polite inquiry about whether I'd prefer she wear blue or gray at our wedding.
The subtext was clear. She'd go through with it because her family honored contracts. But she wasn't happy about tying herself to a sinking ship.
"Perhaps Merchant Voss could be persuaded to extend—"
"He owns sixty percent of our debt, Hans. He's not going to extend anything without collateral we don't have." I'd already run those numbers. Voss was a businessman. He'd squeeze every copper from the von Klause estate, either through interest or eventual foreclosure.
The steward said nothing.
I closed the ledger. "What would the original offer?"
Hans blinked. "My lord?"
"When my father faced a crisis, what did he do?"
"Lord Gregor would..." The old man's lips pressed thin. "He would seek favor from Duke Ravenshold. Offer military support, political backing in the Council, perhaps a...strategic betrothal."
Right. Feudal solutions. Bind yourself to a stronger patron, become their creature, hope they protected you because you were useful.
In the game, that strategy had led to Dietrich's doom. He'd offered himself to Ravenshold's faction against the rising Reformist movement. When Ravenshold fell, Dietrich fell with him.
"No," I said.
Hans looked genuinely surprised. "My lord?"
"Ravenshold's position is weaker than it looks. The Reformists—" I caught myself. Too much game knowledge, not enough Dietrich knowledge. "I have concerns about his long-term stability."
"Then...what does my lord propose?"
Good question.
In my previous life, when a client was this deep in debt with no clear assets, you did one of three things: declared bankruptcy, found hidden value to exploit, or bought time to restructure.
Bankruptcy wasn't an option here. The Crown didn't discharge noble debts—they just seized your lands and stripped your title.
Hidden value? I mentally inventoried the estate. One hundred sixty-three peasant families. Seven hundred acres of mediocre farmland. A manor house in need of repairs. Three villages, two of which barely produced enough to feed themselves. Thirteen trained soldiers. Twenty-six horses of varying quality.
And one completely useless magical skill that nobody in their right mind would invest in.
Tame.
I'd discovered it the first week after waking up here. It had appeared in my mind like a muscle I'd always had but never flexed—an instinctive knowledge that I could, theoretically, bond with magical beasts.
I'd tried it once. There was a stable cat, a mouser that had been hanging around the grain stores. I'd reached out with that strange mental sense and pushed.
The cat had yowled, clawed my hand open, and pissed on my boots.
Hans had explained, very carefully, that Tame was what the aristocracy called a "peasant skill"—the kind of thing that showed up in farmer's sons and hedge witches. Useful for training better sheep dogs or keeping rats away from crops. Completely useless for warfare, politics, or any endeavor that actually mattered.
Knights had Skills that let them cut through armor like paper. Mages could call lightning. The merchant-princes had abilities that could appraise value or detect lies in negotiations.
I could make animals like me slightly more than they otherwise would.
Fantastic.
"My lord?" Hans prompted.
I realized I'd been silent for too long. The steward was watching me with that carefully neutral expression that probably meant he was wondering if the stress had finally broken me.
Maybe it had.
Because I was thinking about something my old boss had said, back in Seoul. We'd been consulting for a manufacturing company that was being strangled by a supplier monopoly. Everyone said they needed to find a cheaper supplier or negotiate better terms.
My boss had looked at the production line and said: "Stop thinking about the problem they have. Think about the problem they are."
The company didn't need cheaper parts. They needed to become irreplaceable to their clients so they could raise prices enough to eat the supplier costs.
Change the equation.
I looked at Hans. "The Thornwood clans. They still have the Silver Road blockaded?"
The steward nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. The Ranger Corps has tried to clear them four times. Thornwood is too dense, and the clans use trained beasts—wolves, boars, a few wyverns—to harass any convoy that tries to pass."
"So trade from the North is still bottlenecked through the Royal Highway, which adds two weeks and significant cost to any cargo."
"...Yes, my lord."
"And if someone could guarantee safe passage through Thornwood? That would be worth something to the merchant guilds."
Hans's expression didn't change. "I imagine so, my lord. But the Duke's soldiers have failed repeatedly. We have thirteen men-at-arms."
"Who said anything about soldiers?"
The steward was quiet for a long moment. Then: "My lord. The Tame skill is not...that is, magical beasts are not soldiers. They're unpredictable. Expensive to feed. Difficult to control in combat situations. That's why the military doesn't—"
"The military doesn't use them because knights and mages are more reliable. I know." I leaned back in my chair. "But the Thornwood clans use them, and they've held off the Ranger Corps for three years."
"The clans are barbarians, my lord. They live in the forest, they've been working with those beasts since childhood, they accept casualties that a proper noble—"
"Would never accept. Correct." I smiled, and it felt wrong on Dietrich's face. Too sharp. Too calculating. "Good thing I'm an improper noble, then."
Hans said nothing, but I could see the concern in his eyes.
I didn't blame him. What I was suggesting was insane.
Tame was a garbage skill. It would take months, maybe years to build up a force of controlled beasts. I'd need to learn how to actually use the ability properly, which meant swallowing my pride and finding someone to teach me—probably some village wise-woman who'd expect payment I couldn't afford.
Even if I managed all that, there was no guarantee it would work. The Thornwood clans had generational knowledge and home terrain advantage.
And I had eleven weeks until the tax assessor arrived.
But.
But.
If I went crawling to Ravenshold, I'd be locked into the same path that killed Dietrich in the game. If I tried to squeeze more tax revenue from my already-struggling peasants, I'd end up with a revolt on my hands when Wilhelm started his Reformist campaign.
Every conventional option led to the same place: failure.
So: unconventional option.
"Hans," I said, "I need you to compile a list of every monster sighting, beast attack, or unusual animal behavior reported in the past year within fifty miles of the estate."
The steward's mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then: "My lord, I feel I should strongly advise—"
"Noted. I need that list by tomorrow morning."
"My lord—"
"Tomorrow morning, Hans."
He stood there for another moment, clearly torn between duty and the urge to physically restrain me for my own good. Finally, he bowed stiffly.
"As you command, my lord."
After he left, I sat alone in the study, looking at the ledger.
Four thousand, two hundred marks.
Eleven weeks.
And one completely useless skill that nobody in their right mind would invest in.
I picked up my coffee. It had gone completely cold, but I drank it anyway.
The thing about my old job—analyzing bankruptcies and turnarounds—was that you learned to spot the exact moment when people gave up. It was in the numbers, usually. When someone stopped making the hard choices and just started praying for a miracle.
I'd seen it a hundred times.
I wasn't going to let it happen here.
If Tame was useless, I'd make it useful. If conventional wisdom said beasts couldn't match soldiers, I'd prove conventional wisdom wrong. If this world's aristocracy thought the skill beneath them, that just meant I'd have no competition.
The ledger didn't lie.
But maybe I could change what it said.
I opened the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a different book—Dietrich's personal journal, barely touched. Most of the pages were empty. The original Dietrich apparently hadn't been much for introspection.
I flipped to a blank page and started writing.
Day One of Project Taming Ruin:
Current assets: 600 marks, 13 soldiers, 1 useless skill
Current liabilities: 4,200 marks, 11 weeks, 1 destiny of execution
Objective: Don't die. Everything else is negotiable.
First step: Learn how to use Tame without getting pissed on by cats.
I paused, pen hovering over paper.
Then I added:
Note: If this works, I'm getting a better title than "Baron." Maybe "The Man Who Made Monsters Profitable." Has a ring to it.
Somewhere in the manor, a wolf howled.
We didn't have wolves on the estate.
I set down the pen and went to the window.
The moon was rising over the Thornwood, silvering the trees. And in the distance, yellow eyes reflected the light.
Watching.
I smiled.
"Alright," I said to the empty room. "Let's negotiate."