The memorial was quiet this time of day.

  Jack stood at the edge of the town square, looking down at the massive stone ptform set into the ground. It was twenty feet across, perfectly square, carved from a single piece of granite that must have cost the town a fortune to quarry and pce. The surface was polished smooth, engraved with ornate lettering that caught the afternoon light:

  **HERE LIES THE GIANT****WHO MADE OUR CITY WHAT IT IS****LONG LIVE JACK OF THE BEANSTALK**

  It looked like a door. That's what most people thought when they first saw it: some kind of eborate celr entrance or decorative pza feature. But Jack knew what it really was.

  A tombstone.

  Covering a body.

  He tilted his head, studying the inscription. They'd gotten it backwards, really. The giant hadn't made the city anything. *Jack* had made the city. The giant had just been the means.

  *Amazing what that scared little boy accomplished.*

  That's what he'd been back then. Twelve years old, hungry, desperate. He had traded their only cow for magic beans, and when they'd grown into that impossible beanstalk reaching up into the clouds, Jack had climbed it because what else was he going to do? Starve? At least that was the official story that he told.

  He'd found a castle. A giant. Treasure beyond imagination.

  And he'd taken it.

  The first trip had been terrifying: sneaking in, grabbing a bag of gold, running for his life. The second trip he'd been bolder, stealing the goose that id golden eggs. The third time he'd gone for the harp.

  That's when things had gotten complicated.

  The giant had woken up. Chased him. Jack had barely made it down the beanstalk ahead of him, and when the giant started climbing down after him (massive hands gripping the stalk, his weight making the whole thing sway), Jack had grabbed an axe and started chopping.

  The beanstalk had fallen. The giant had fallen with it.

  Right here. Right where Jack was standing now.

  The impact had shaken the ground for miles. People had come running from all over, expecting an earthquake or an attack. Instead they'd found a dead giant, a boy with stolen treasure, and a story that would make Jack a legend.

  *Hero Jack. Giant-Syer Jack. Jack who saved the town from a monster.*

  Except the giant hadn't been a monster. He'd just been protecting his home from a thief.

  Jack smiled slightly. Not that anyone wanted to hear that version.

  The town had buried the giant where he fell: too big to move, too heavy to transport. They'd dug down around him, id him in the earth, and covered him with this memorial stone. Made it part of the town square. A monument to Jack's bravery.

  *If they only knew.*

  The gold had helped, certainly. Jack had been generous with it, funding repairs to the town's infrastructure, helping families in need. The goose had provided steady income for years until it died. And the harp? Well, the harp had given him something more valuable than gold.

  Information.

  Control.

  Power.

  But the real treasure, the one nobody knew about, was the beanstalk itself.

  After it fell, after the initial chaos died down, Jack had gone back to study it. The thing was enormous, its stalk as thick as a house at the base, stretching across farmnd for half a mile. And when it started to decompose, when it dried out and broke apart, he'd found something interesting.

  The flowers.

  Pale blue blooms that grew along the length of the stalk, even in death. They had properties: magical properties. When dried and processed correctly, they produced a powder that made people feel euphoric. Rexed. Happy. And very, very addicted.

  Jack had been fourteen when he started experimenting with it. Fifteen when he made his first sale. Sixteen when he realized he could build an empire.

  Now, at twenty-eight, he ran the most profitable drug operation in three kingdoms. The town thought their prosperity came from his wise leadership and the remnants of giant's gold he'd carefully invested. They had no idea that half the income flowing through Millbrook came from the powder his network distributed across the realm.

  *Amazing what people don't see when they're too busy worshipping you.*

  Jack gnced around the square. A few people were going about their business: merchants setting up stalls, children pying near the fountain. None of them looked at the memorial anymore. It was just part of the ndscape now. Background scenery in their daily lives.

  None of them wondered what it would be like to stand on top of a grave and feel nothing.

  Jack wondered briefly what Gretel was doing. She'd left yesterday for the eastern territories, setting up the new distribution network they'd discussed. She was good at it. Better than good. Smart, ruthless, completely unbothered by the moral implications of what they did.

  *She gets it. Understands that sentiment is a luxury for people who can afford it.*

  He should check in with her soon. Make sure the expansion was going smoothly. Make sure she wasn't having any trouble with the local operators who might be resistant to new competition.

  But for now, he just stood here, looking at the memorial, thinking about how far he'd come.

  *Amazing what happens when you put sleeping powder in a giant's water supply.*

  That was the real secret. The one nobody knew. Not the town, not the legends, not even Gretel.

  Jack hadn't killed the giant in combat. Hadn't bravely faced him down in some heroic confrontation.

  He'd drugged him.

  That third trip, when he'd gone back for the harp, he'd learned the giant's routine. Watched him drink from the same massive cup every morning. And Jack had waited until the giant was out in his garden, had snuck into the castle kitchen, and dumped an entire pouch of ground sleeping herbs (stolen from the pnt dy Mistress Gothel) into that cup.

  The giant had drunk it an hour ter. Had made it halfway through his morning walk before he started stumbling. Had climbed down the beanstalk in a drowsy haze, not even fully understanding what he was doing or why he was following the little thief.

  By the time he reached the ground, he was barely conscious.

  And when the beanstalk fell and he fell with it (already drugged, already disoriented), he'd hit the ground and never woken up.

  Jack had made sure of that. Had checked the body while everyone else was celebrating. Had seen the giant's chest still rising and falling weakly.

  And he'd done nothing.

  Just waited. Watched. Until the breathing stopped.

  Then he'd pyed the terrified hero, letting people comfort him and praise him and build him into a legend.

  *You do what you have to do to survive. And then you do what you have to do to thrive.*

  Jack turned away from the memorial, heading back toward his cottage. He had work to do. Mayor's business to attend to. The harp would need checking: it always had information, always had something to report.

  But as he walked, he felt a familiar satisfaction settle in his chest.

  He'd climbed a beanstalk as a scared boy and come down as a legend.

  He'd killed a giant and called it heroism.

  He'd built a drug empire and called it prosperity.

  And he'd buried his victim under a memorial that praised his name.

  *Not bad for a poor kid who started with nothing but magic beans and a mother who was the vilge whore.*