Three days of marching through the endless grey rain. Three days of eating "Depression-Bonds" (the black sludge sausages).

  I sat on Coin-Biter, checking the only thing that brought me joy in this miserable landscape: My bank account.

  "I am rich enough to buy happiness," I muttered, closing the interface. "But apparently, not rich enough to buy a smile for Melina."

  We had set up camp in a grove of petrified mushrooms. The soldiers were digging their "Grave-Beds."

  But near the command fire, the mood was dire.

  Melina Milkwright sat on a log. She wasn't glowing. Her hazmat dress was muddy. She was holding Mr. Bitey (the radioactive skeleton puppy), dragging a stick through the dirt.

  The cut on her cheek from Volpert’s whip had healed, but the emotional scar was festering.

  "I'm a monster, Mr. Bitey," Melina whispered to the dog. "Volpert is right. I'm just a green freak."

  Behind a large rock, the "Family" was holding an emergency war council.

  King Brandan, Duke Gutrum, Gerald, Mary, Astrid, Lady Olenka, Malachia, and Moro Milkwright.

  "Target is depressed," Brandan announced, treating this like a siege. "Morale is at 0%. We need a tactical insertion of joy. Immediately."

  "I tried juggling!" Moro Milkwright wailed, pulling at his yellow hair. "I juggled three wheels of cheese! She didn't even giggle! My little radioactive Nugget is broken!"

  "She thinks she is disgusting," Lady Olenka sighed, shaking her head. "Because that inbred little lizard Volpert insulted her. Men are such pests."

  "We must fix this," Gutrum rumbled seriously. "A sad soldier is a weak soldier. We will... cheer her up."

  He looked terrified.

  "How do we do that? I have not cheered anyone up since... well, ever. Usually, I just tell people to endure winter."

  "Leave it to the professionals," Malachia cracked her knuckles (which made a glitch sound). "Operation: Dopamine Rush is a go!"

  We marched out from behind the rock.

  Brandan took point. He was holding a massive, roasted boar leg that was dripping with grease. He held it like a bouquet of flowers.

  "Melina!" Brandan bellowed, trying to sound gentle but sounding like a foghorn. "LOOK! MEAT!"

  Melina looked up, startled. "Oh... hi, King Brandan."

  "Do not be sad!" Brandan roared, shoving the boar leg into her face. "Sadness is just an empty stomach! I have brought you the finest ham! It is... uh... delicate! Like you!"

  Melina looked at the grease dripping onto her dress.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "But... I'm not hungry. Monsters don't eat ham."

  Brandan panicked. He looked at us for help.

  "She rejected the ham! The mission is failing! Abort!"

  Gutrum Falken stepped forward. The Wolf Lord. The man who took daily whippings without blinking.

  He sat down next to Melina on the log. The log groaned under his weight.

  He stared into the fire for a long, uncomfortable minute.

  "Melina," Gutrum said gravely.

  "Yes, Duke Falken?"

  Gutrum reached into his pocket. He pulled out two rocks. He had drawn smiley faces on them with charcoal. Crude, angry smiley faces.

  "This is Stone," Gutrum said, holding up the left rock. "And this is Pebble."

  Melina blinked. Gerald buried his face in his hands.

  "Stone is sad," Gutrum continued in his deep, gravelly voice. "Because it is raining. But Pebble says: 'Do not worry, Stone. The rain washes the blood away.'"

  Gutrum smashed the two rocks together. Click.

  "See?" Gutrum looked at her, dead serious. "Now they are friends. Humor."

  The silence was deafening.

  Even the Moonclaw Soldiers nearby stopped digging their graves to stare.

  "Did... did the rocks just have a conversation about blood?" Melina asked, confused.

  "It is Northern comedy," Gutrum explained stiffly. "It is very popular at funerals."

  "Oh, move over, you depressed old men!" Malachia glitched forward.

  She floated in front of Melina. Astrid and Mary flanked her.

  "Volpert said you were Disgusting," Malachia said bluntly. "Volpert looks like a ferret that got drowned in mayonnaise. His opinion is invalid."

  "But I glow," Melina sniffed. "It scares people."

  "It's practical," Mary Berg said awkwardly. She was trying so hard to be supportive. "In the North... having a glowing wife is... tactical. You save money on torches. And you stay warm. It is... high value."

  "Mary is right," Gerald added, stepping in. "I am a Ranger. Do you know how hard it is to track in the dark? You are literally a walking lighthouse. You are the ultimate party member."

  "But my hair..." Melina touched her messy, radioactive ponytail. "It's a mess."

  "I can fix it!" Gerald offered.

  He sat behind her. With his rough, scarred hands hands that had strangled orcs he began to braid her hair.

  But he only knew how to tie knots.

  "Gerald," I whispered. "You are tying a slipknot."

  "It holds the hair securely!" Gerald defended, sweating. "It's a survival braid!"

  Astrid walked up. She put her human hand on Melina’s knee.

  "If Volpert talks to you again," Astrid whispered, her eyes burning with murder-love, "I will cut off his toes. One by one. And feed them to Mr. Bitey."

  Mr. Bitey barked in agreement. Woof.

  Melina looked at them. The King holding a ham. The Duke playing with rocks. The Ranger tying knots in her hair. The Assassin threatening amputation.

  A small, genuine giggle escaped her lips.

  I stepped forward. The Closer.

  "Melina," I said, tipping my hat. "Stand up."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  She stood up, looking wobbly with Gerald’s survival-braid pulling her scalp tight.

  I activated my [MERCHANT] skill.

  "SYSTEM! APPRAISE!"

  A massive gold holographic window appeared over Melina’s head.

  "Do you see that?" I pointed at the numbers.

  "The System says I'm... priceless?" Melina whispered.

  "The System is never wrong about money, love," I grinned. "Volpert is a depreciating asset. He is inflation. He makes everything worth less just by being near it."

  I reached into my inventory.

  I pulled out a Bag of Prism-Dust (Value: 500 Gold).

  "And just to prove it..."

  I threw the dust into the campfire.

  WOOSH.

  The fire didn't just burn. It reacted with Melina’s radiation.

  It exploded into a fountain of Neon-Pink and Lime-Green Fireworks. They swirled into the air, forming shapes of dancing cows and smiling skulls.

  "Oooooh!" Melina gasped, her eyes reflecting the light.

  The Moonclaw Soldiers hissed at the colors. "My eyes! The joy! It burns!"

  Moro Milkwright started dancing a jig. "It's beautiful! Like a radioactive rainbow!"

  Melina looked at the lights. She looked at us her dysfunctional, violent, weird family.

  She touched her survival-braid. She looked at the rock-puppets Gutrum was still holding.

  She smiled. A real, 500-rad smile that lit up the entire forest.

  "You guys are weird," Melina giggled, hugging Mr. Bitey. "But... you're my weirdos."

  "Success!" Brandan cheered, taking a bite of the ham he was still holding. "The Sadness has been besieged and conquered!"

  "I think I tied her hair to the log," Gerald whispered to me in panic. "Wilhelm, help. I used a fisherman's knot."

  As we sat there, laughing under the neon fire, with 336,000 Gold in the bank and a happy Radioactive Princess, I realized something.

  We might be marching toward death. We might be eating depression-sausages.

  But by the Gods... we were going to have a good time getting there.

  The endless rain of the Moonclaw lands finally ceased, but what replaced it was arguably worse.

  The air grew warm. Humid. It smelled of copper and musk. We had reached the border of the Duchy of Woolhaven.

  I sat atop Coin-Biter, my golden armor gleaming under a sky the color of a fresh bruise. Beside me rode King Brandan, Duke Gutrum, and the glowing Melina.

  Ahead of us stood the obstacle. It wasn't a gate of wood or iron. It was the Gate of the Flayed Ram.

  It was three hundred feet high, constructed entirely of fused, calcified bone giant femurs and ribs woven together like a wicker basket. The "fabric" stretched between the bones wasn't canvas. It was cured, stitched skin. Thousands of acres of it, trembling in the wind like a drum.

  "By the System," Gerald Falken whispered, covering his mouth. "That isn't wool."

  "No," Ser Erebus Crux sighed admiringly. "It is the harvest."

  Standing in front of the gate was an army that looked like an anatomy textbook gone wrong.

  They were grotesque. Flesh-Hulks from the Pit of Raw Nerves, muscle fibers exposed and twitching. Bio-Knights from House Viscera, their armor fused to their bodies, tubes of green fluid pumping adrenaline directly into their hearts. The Abominations, multi-limbed horrors that scuttled on hands instead of feet.

  And leading them, sitting on a throne carried by six skinless giants, was Duchess Morwena Skullwarden. She was terrifyingly beautiful, wrapped in a dress made of red silk that looked suspiciously like muscle tissue. She held a riding crop made of a human spine.

  But I didn't look at her. My eyes locked onto the tall, imposing figure standing at the Duchess's right hand.

  Freyda Skullwarden.

  She was seven feet of pure, armored perfection. She wore plate armor made of white bone, polished to a shine. She didn't have the mutations of her kin. She was simply... statuesque. Strong. Immovable.

  "Oh no," I whispered, my heart doing a traitorous flip in my chest. "She looks amazing."

  "Wilhelm," Astrid poked my leg. "Why are you drooling? She is a Skullwarden. They turn people into furniture."

  "She has... excellent posture," I stammered, adjusting my goggles. "Strategically speaking."

  Duchess Morwena raised a hand. Her army 31 Million SP of horror stamped their feet. The ground shook. She looked at our massive column. She saw the grey banners. She saw the depression.

  "Travelers!" Morwena’s voice was sultry and wet, amplified by magic. "You stand before the Army of Flesh Pits. The entry fee is standard."

  She pointed her spine-whip at Melina.

  "One pound of skin per soldier. And the glowing girl. I want to see what her organs look like on a table."

  Volpert,from the safety of his carriage, rolled down the window. "Take her! She is yours! Just let me pass!"

  Lydia Ironvine slapped the back of his head and closed the window.

  King Brandan rode forward. Thunder-Fall rested on his shoulder. "We pay no toll, Witch. We are the King’s Army"

  "King?" Morwena laughed. "I see no King. I see a Bear who forgot how to hunt. And I see..."

  She looked at me. "...a Merchant dipped in gold."

  She licked her lips. "You look expensive, little man. I bet your skin would make a lovely pair of gloves."

  Freyda Skullwarden shifted. She looked at me. Her expression was unreadable stone-faced duty. But she didn't join in her sister's mockery. She just gripped the hilt of her massive greatsword.

  I rode Coin-Biter to the front line. I activated my [Merchant] projection voice.

  "Duchess Morwena," I announced, my voice echoing across the valley. "You have made a calculation error."

  I gestured behind me.

  "You see a caravan. You see a meal."

  I snapped my fingers.

  From the fog, the full weight of our force emerged. It didn't stop. The Barony of Lament marched forward, their tear-duct armor weeping. The County of Perdition took the flanks, dragging their heavy stones. The Knightly Orders House Grimstone, House Frostvein, House Sepulchre lined up in perfect, grim silence. And behind them... the Royal Vassals. Ser Erebus Crux and his joy-eaters.

  The sheer number was suffocating. We outnumbered them 4 to 1. We out-valued them by 90 Million SP.

  The "Humming Choir" began. HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM... Two thousand soldiers groaned in unison. The sound hit the Flesh Pits like a physical wave of depression. The Bio-Knights flinched. Even the Flesh-Hulks stepped back, unsettled by the sheer aura of misery radiating from us.

  "We do not pay in skin, Duchess," I said cold, my HUD flashing with the overwhelming odds. "We pay in Depression."

  I looked directly at Freyda. I tried to look cool. I probably looked like a terrified accountant on a golden horse.

  "Stand aside," I commanded. "??Or we will bury you under so much terror that your abominations will start writing poetry before they die"

  Morwena’s smile vanished. She looked at the scanner. She saw the numbers. 122 Million vs 31 Million.

  "You brought a sledgehammer to a duel," Morwena hissed.

  "I brought a bank vault," I corrected.

  Freyda stepped forward. She whispered something to Morwena. Morwena snarled and slapped Freyda across the face. Freyda didn't flinch. She just turned back to me, her eyes locking onto mine. It wasn't hatred. It was a challenge.

  The air crackled. On one side, the Flesh Pits: A pulsating, red wall of biological horror and sadism. On the other, the Moonclaw Coalition: A grey, immovable wall of weaponized sorrow and heavy gold.

  I drew Cinderbrand. The black flames roared to life.

  "Wilhelm," Gutrum growled beside me. "Orders?"

  I looked at the gate of bones. I looked at the woman I had a crush on standing on the enemy line.

  "No mercy for the Duchess," I whispered. "But the Tall Knight... Freyda..."

  I swallowed.

  "...try not to damage the merchandise. She's... valuable."

  Brandan laughed, a deep, booming sound. "The Merchant is in love! Hah! Let's get him a date!"

  "Forward!" I screamed, hiding my blush behind my goggles. "For the King! And for the Toll Exemption!"

  The Grand Army began to march. The ground shook. The clash of Steel Depression versus Living Flesh was about to begin.