Most people panic when they realize they’re dead. I didn't have time for that. I was too busy analyzing the user interface.
First, let’s establish the baseline. I couldn't feel my legs. That’s because I didn't have legs. I didn't have hands, a mouth, or that lower-back pain I’d been nursing since my mid-thirties. I was a rock. Specifically, a pulsating, black geometric crystal about the size of a mini-fridge, floating in the center of a damp, mildew-scented cave.
If my old therapist could see me now, she’d have a field day. "Max," she’d say, "you’ve finally become what you always were on the inside: hard, cold, and completely hollow."
Whatever. Feelings don't pay the bills. And right now, I had a bill that would make the IRS weep.
I focused my "sight"—which was really just a 360-degree omnidirectional sensor array—on the blue box hovering in the air. This wasn't a game. I know games. My nephew plays them. In games, you start at level one and kill rats until you’re a god.
This was different. This was debt slavery with a fantasy skin.
"System," I projected. I didn't speak the word; I just sort of thought it loudly. "Pull up the P&L statement."
A new window popped up.
Mana Reserves: 50 / 1,000,000.
Burn Rate: 0.5 Mana/Minute (Existential Upkeep).
Revenue: 0.
I did the mental math instantly. At this burn rate, even without the interest kicking in, I’d be dead—again—in less than two hours. My "Existential Upkeep" was basically rent for the privilege of existing in this reality.
"Okay," I thought, the old adrenaline from a hostile boardroom takeover flooding my non-existent veins. "I need liquid assets. Now."
I scanned my surroundings. My "office" was a joke. It was a single room, maybe thirty feet wide, with jagged stone walls and a floor covered in suspicious slime. No furniture, no ergonomic chairs, and definitely no espresso machine. This was a startup in a garage, except the garage was a hole in the ground and the venture capital was my soul.
But I wasn't alone.
Huddled in the corner, shivering near a pathetic little fire made of dried moss, were three creatures. They were green, scrawny, and looked like they had been hit by a truck and then backed over.
Goblins.
I pulled up their stats. My vision overlaid text boxes above their bald, warty heads.
Name: Unnamed Goblin A
Level: 1
Role: Fodder
Net Worth: 0 Mana.
"Useless," I grumbled internally. "Absolute liabilities."
In a standard RPG, I’m supposed to summon monsters to defend me, right? But summoning costs Mana. I checked the prices. A basic slime cost 100 Mana. A skeleton warrior was 500. I had 50. I couldn't even afford a magical janitor.
I looked at the goblins again. They were arguing over a dead rat.
"Hey!" I shouted.
The sound didn't come from a mouth. It boomed from the walls, a bass-heavy vibration that shook dust from the ceiling. The three goblins froze, dropping the rat. They looked around in terror, their oversized ears twitching.
"The rock spoke!" the middle one squeaked. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender.
"I am not a rock," I boomed, dialing back the volume so I didn't cause a cave-in. "I am Management. And we are having a performance review."
The goblins fell to their knees. This was good. Fear is a motivator, but it’s not sustainable. I needed loyalty. I needed a workforce.
"You," I focused on the one who seemed slightly less stupid than the others. "What is your name?"
"G-G-Gub?" he stuttered.
"Gub. Terrible name. Sounds like a fungal infection. From now on, you’re Middle Management. Tell me, Gub, why are you three squatting in my corporate headquarters?"
Gub trembled, pressing his forehead into the dirt. "Hiding, Great Stone! Hiding from the Long-Legs! They come with sharp sticks! They kill us for... for the ding-sound!"
The ding-sound? XP. Of course. Adventurers were killing these guys for experience points. It was a farming loop. These goblins were just free resources for "heroes" to harvest.
I felt a twinge of disgust. Not because it was cruel—cruelty is just part of the market—but because it was inefficient.
"Listen to me closely," I said, my voice smooth now, channeled like a soothing podcast host. "I have a proposition. You are currently operating as gig-economy prey animals. High risk, zero reward. You die, you respawn, you get killed again. It’s a dead-end job."
Gub looked up, confusion warring with terror in his yellow eyes. "Job?"
"Yes. I am offering you a contract. You work for me. You protect me. In exchange, I offer you... benefits."
I checked my System Admin privileges. I couldn't create Mana, but I could manipulate the environment within my domain. I focused on the damp patch of moss near the fire. With a tiny expenditure of energy—1 Mana—I accelerated its growth. It bloomed instantly into a lush, soft patch of bedding.
The goblins gasped.
"Healthcare," I lied. "And shelter. And eventually, if we hit our quarterly targets, dental."
"Dental?" asked the smallest goblin, revealing a mouth full of rotting shards.
"Don't worry about the details. Here is the pivot strategy. When the 'Long-Legs' come, you do not fight them. You are level one. You have the combat efficacy of a wet napkin. If you fight, you die, and then I have to recruit new interns. That hurts productivity."
"No fight?" Gub asked, tilting his head. "But... they stab."
"Let them stab the air," I said. "I scanned the entrance tunnel. It’s narrow. Dark. Uneven footing. We aren't going to beat them with force. We’re going to beat them with litigation. Or the physical equivalent thereof."
I looked at my Mana counter. 42 / 1,000,000. The clock was ticking. I needed a win.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.