A Dungeon Tycoon’s Guide to Undead Capitalism

Meanwhile Redcrag village had become a camp of purpose overnight. Where smoke once rose from family hearths and children chased one another between stalls, now voices barked in clipped cadence. Crates of supplies filled courtyards. Rutted lanes were lined with stacked shields and neat bundles of arrows. Nearly a thousand soldiers moved through the village in a rough, relentless tide—sharpening handaxes, re-stitching cracked leather, hammering new iron bands onto splintered shields. Women and men with callused claws worked like any wartime quartermaster, mending mail, boiling hides, braiding bowstrings. The air smelled of oil and boiled grain, of hard labor and colder things.

Orders had come from the command tents: Redcrag was to be a forward base. Every building of any consequence was claimed for barracks, armories, or field hospitals. Homes were requisitioned because they built shelter and stockade better than any hastily raised palisade. The same could be said for other villages near the western borders.

The villagers did not leave willingly.

A squad of soldiers moved door to door. They were not rougher than necessity demanded, but their hands were efficient and unyielding. A woman with five children clutched a bundle of blankets as two young soldiers shouldered her family's chest into the street. Her den—a single-room home with a hearth blackened from years of stew—was measured, catalogued, and handed over to a sergeant who barked instructions to carpenters.

"Take what you must," he told the woman. "You will be safe at the eastern camp."

She wrapped her smallest child to her breast, staring at the hearth, at the bundle of cracked bowls, at the poster of a harvest festival pinned by the door. She did not understand how a place could become both refuge and prison.

"This is for your safety. The army must hold this ground," the sergeant explained. "We'll billet here. You'll be escorted to the refugee village east of the ridge. Ten silver per family—take it and go."

"Ten silver?" the mother asked, her voice small. "For our home? For everything we built? Where will my little ones sleep? Where will we plant next season?"

The sergeant produced a small, crude wooden plaque stamped with the mark of the council and pressed it into her trembling claw along with the coins. "Show this at the next village, 3 hours walk, east from here. It's proof. The camp has space for families of the enlisted. Others may go wherever they can."

When she looked up, her son's face was pale with sudden knowledge. Her mate had enlisted two days before, saying it was the only way to keep them fed. Now she understood the cost. Her husband had sworn to protect; the village paid him with shelter for his family and the rest with the weight of service.

She drew the children close, slid the plaque into her shawl, and forced a smile that barely hid the panic beneath. "Come," she whispered, "we must go while there's space."

They joined a line that stretched down the lane—families, the elderly, the injured—each carrying what they could. Soldiers flanked them with silent faces, rifles slung, eyes on the horizon. The exodus was neat and efficient; it looked like order, but the hollowness inside the houses was a wound.

At the square's center, crates formed a platform. On its highest stack stood the morale officer: a kobold in patched leather, cloak pulled tight, a narrow scar streaking one cheek. He was small enough to be ordinary, but his voice carried like thunder.

Beside the platform, rows of newly enlisted stood in rigid formation. Beyond them, villagers-turned-recruits clustered, watching the officer as if he were a brazier around which their courage might warm. He did not speak of strategy. He spoke of value.

"Kobolds of Redcrag! Look at what they made of us!" Hammers stilled. Even footsteps paused. The torchlight honed every face. "They bought our ore for a silver, then sold it as weapons for three! They took our hides for coins and sold them as 'noble leather' to their wives! They ate from the grain we farrowed, and left us to the husks!"

The crowd's whisper rose—a wet, hungry sound.

"They called it trade. They called it market law. But whose market tolerates such theft? Whose law supports such theft? A law penned by the Ramari's ink; a market weighed on their hooves!"

"They call us less! They call us dirt-people!" a soldier shouted from the front.

"They call us less because we worked while they counted their profit!" the officer roared back. "They call us greedy for wanting fair coin—yet they hoard gold with two hands and buy our labor with one!" A ripple of bitter laughter went through the crowd.

"You saw them today. Your families handed off like cargo. Ten silver for a lifetime of roots and a season's harvest. Some of you left because your mate wore the uniform. Others were given no coin at all." Doubt flickered across a few faces.

The officer stepped closer to the edge of the crate. "They will say it is for safety. They will say we must be polite and patient. Listen—what they call safety is the price of silence. When we sell them ore for a silver and buy it back for three, it is not safety. It is theft. When they name our work 'service' and their coin 'reward,' it is not honor. It is theft."

He raised his voice until it cracked and sang. "We have been stolen from for years. The Ramari's markets are a house built on our backs. They balk at the thought of us tall and paid like others. They fear us when we learn to count our worth."

A hoarse recruit called out, "What of our families? They marched away with coins and plaques. What will we gain if we march and lose what we had?"

"They march because they must. They march because the choice was forced," the officer answered, blunt. "But your choice—standing here with me—is one that will build a future. Ten silver is a patch; victory is the only permanent mending. We reclaim our worth not by begging, but by taking the trade lanes and the forges that paid our sweat."

A murmur of hunger for a promise spread. The soldiers banged shields in tempo; the sound was a pulse.

"This is not rebellion for rebellion's sake. It is correction. The scales have been tipped for too long, and now we balance them with force." He pointed east, where the refugee line crawled past the olive fields. "Today your kin march east with a plaque and a promise. Tomorrow, we march west with banners and coin. The Ramari will learn that the hands they called 'menial' can bend the very market to our will."

The officer's voice went higher yet. "We will take back our iron, our hides, our grain. We will make their markets pay in truth. And when they ask why we took what was theirs, tell them: we always owned it. We simply forgot to collect."

A chant began, at first uncertain, then steady, the sound of many throats finding a single rhythm.

"Scales for justice! Claws for freedom!"

He let the words hang, then finished as if striking a smith's final blow. "March with me, and you march for a land where a kobold's labor is worth its weight in true coin. Refuse, and your family keeps ten silver and a plaque—but the price of silence will be a lifetime of less. Choose, now."

Some faces brightened with feverish hope. Some hardened with shame. The sergeant at the crates recorded names with the same mechanical hand that had handed out coins a half hour before.

The officer stepped down as trumpets called the companies into ranks. The recruits straightened shoulders that had bent from hunger, and the mothers on the road tightened the cloths around their children.

Redcrag's houses were left standing—shutters barred, furniture stacked for the use of bivouacked companies. The village's bones remained; its heart had been requisitioned. War was not a blight that razed the town to earth. It was a slow reclamation: the houses stayed, the hearths warmed unfamiliar bodies, and the children watched the men who had sent them away march under a banner that smelled of oil and promise. The market that had kept Redcrag poor would find itself with a new ledger to balance.

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A day had passed since the war ignited in the south west, but Schalezusk's focus was different. He drove the wagon of his Orc caravan down a cracked, forgotten dirt road, hauling twelve iron-bound barrels of oil—they called the "black liquid."

Gorok, a younger Orc riding the wagon behind, shouted over the rumble of the wheels. "This black liquid stinks, Schal! Are you sure your friend isn't planning to burn the whole forest or something"

Schalezusk, a sharp-featured Orc leader, gripped the reins tighter. "He's planning to burn something, Gorok, but it won't be the valley. This is the fuel for his factories, not firewood. Which makes our boomsticks."

Duna, a pragmatic Orc driving the last wagon, added, "The Ramari tried to find a source closer to them and failed. They're too soft to dig this deep. We risked the caves for this payment. Let's just pray we don't hit a kobold patrol before we arrive."

"No one messes with the Necro Corp in this area, my friend is quite important for the kobolds." Schalezusk stated firmly. "He pays in true gold, unlike the goatfolks. Now stay sharp. If we hit a snag, remember what these barrels become."

The heavy mineral oil was not just fuel; if struck, the volatile cargo could turn the entire wagon train into an explosive pyre.

The road finally opened onto the Necro Corp's official buffer zone. The air was sharp with ozone and cut stone, and the noise level immediately spiked. The gate entrance was congested with every type of Beastkin imaginable, drawn by the Necro-Mall's, stable prices. Dozens of Kobold carriers hauling raw materials and harvested crops formed a thick, noisy queue.

As the Orcs approached, the chaos subsided, replaced by wary silence. A cluster of Kobolds stared openly at Schalezusk's caravan.

"By the Ancestors, are those... Bloodtusks?" a nervous Kobold whispered loudly enough to be heard.

Another corrected him, pointing at Schalezusk's armor and the precise braids in their beards. "No, look closer. Those are Grayhorns. From the northeast. They're not savage like the Orcs we know."

Schalezusk gripped the reins, a rare, small smile touching his tusks. "See, boys?" he muttered quietly to his crew. "We are not Bloodtusk filth. We are Grayhorn."

The caravan finally reached the checkpoint. The guards were the Necro Corp's own military: creatures that looked remarkably human-like, with unnaturally white skin and dead, silent movements. They carried slim, wooden rifles across their chests.

Gorok stared at the guards, then their weapons. "Look at them, Schal. Their skin is as white as bone. Are they men? And those boomsticks... they're not the flintlocks you brought. Those look… different."

The guard nearest them scanned Schalezusk's cargo with an unblinking gray eyes. "Cleared. Go ahead. Please enjoy your stay."

The gate opened, and the Orcs drove through. Later on as they continued down the dirt path, Schalezusk stopped the wagon so suddenly the horses almost stumbled. His jaws nearly dropped by a sight of stunning, almost offensive beauty.

The main entrance was a massive, landscaped plaza that felt like a park. At its center, a large fountain sprayed water in geometrically perfect arcs. Carved in dark, polished basalt above the fountain were the letters: NECRO-MALL. Beastkins of every race—merchants, workers, and even families—were hanging out, eating at outdoor tables, or simply basking in the unnaturally bright sunlight filtering through the plaza's dome.

"By the Ancestors… what is this?" Schalezusk whispered, jaw dropped. "I was here two months ago. It was just a small garden. How did he build all of this—in such a short time?"

As they stared, a figure approached: a small, white-furred Kobold with pale, gray eyes. "Greetings, Mr Schalezusk," the figure said, its voice synthesized but polite. "Necro Corp welcomes you. I am Piro. May I know the purpose of visit?"

"We are here to sell the black liquid." Schalezusk stated, still trying to absorb the sheer scale of development.

Piro nodded, gesturing past the beautiful plaza. "Follow me, please. We cannot route volatile cargo through the public sphere."

Piro led the caravan to a large, different doorway at the side of the main entrance—a tunnel that sloped down like a huge garage entrance. Inside the tunnel, dozens of Kobold resource wagons were lined up, waiting to offload their shipments of ore and harvested crops. Schalezusk, respecting the queue, started to position his wagon at the very end of the line.

Piro held up a pale, gloved hand. "Mr. Schalezusk please. The boss has authorized priority status for the Grayhorn contracts. Please follow me this way."

The massive tunnel door at the end of the ramp slid open, revealing a brilliantly lit, cavernous dock. Schalezusk snapped the reins, steering his valuable, dangerous cargo past the long queue of surprised Kobolds. He drove into the dock, where Karl himself was already waiting.