I Die to Rise: Resurrection System-Chapter 73: Numbers and Names! [Bonus]

Kurt sat on an overturned crate in Zaza’s warehouse as he stared at the numbers scrawled across his datapad.

One hundred and twenty million credits. That was the haul from Braun’s loot houses. That was more money than he’d seen in his entire amnesiac life, probably more than he’d seen before it too.

The problem was, it looked like a lot until you started spending it.

He dragged on his lit cigarette and pulled up the guild registration requirements he’d been studying for the past three hours.

The Dungeon Authority didn’t make climbing the ranks easy, and every box that needed checking came with a price tag that made his head hurt.

Take C-rank certification as a baseline. Simple enough on paper.

The registration fee alone was five million credits just to get the bloody certificate. That was before you got to the fun part: the annual maintenance fee of one million credits per year, which was basically the D.A.’s way of taxing guilds to keep their bureaucratic machine running.

Then there was the insurance bond of five million credits held in escrow, only returned if your guild dissolved in good standing. Which meant if you pissed off the wrong people or went under in a blaze of glory, that money vanished into the D.A.’s coffers.

And that was before you even thought about where you’d operate from.

Facility standards required maintaining a headquarters in the C-rank district or higher, which meant you couldn’t just squat in some D-rank warehouse and call it a day.

You had to build or buy property in a territory where everything cost three times as much and the neighbours were the kind of people who could level city blocks when they got annoyed.

Personnel requirements were slightly less painful. Minimum of fifteen active members, and Raven’s Crow had that covered, even with their recent losses.

There was also a requirement for at least three C-rank certified hunters and one B-rank guild leader or officer. Between Rook, Emma, Cassandra, and Lizzie, they had that sorted as well.

So C-rank was doable. Expensive, but doable.

Rook wasn’t thinking C-rank though. He was thinking bigger, which meant the hurdles got a hell of a lot higher.

Kurt scrolled to the B-rank requirements next and resisted the urge to laugh.

Registration certificate: ten million credits. Double the C-rank fee. Annual maintenance jumped to three million per year, and Kurt was starting to think the Dungeon Authority were just well-dressed criminals with legal authority.

Though access to B-rank dungeons meant exponentially more money, so maybe it balanced out if you didn’t die raiding in the process.

Insurance bond: ten million credits.

Kurt did the maths in his head. Twenty million just to register and insure. Another three million every year to keep the lights on.

Then there was the headquarters itself. If they were building in the B-rank district, and they were, because Rook didn’t do anything by halves, they needed to go all out.

Land acquisition, architectural design, planning permits, construction, interior finishing, landscaping, exterior works. Kurt had run the numbers three times and kept arriving at the same figure: thirty million credits, give or take.

And if they were going to do this properly, they should probably throw another thirty million at fixing the damage to Cape City in the D-rank district.

Rebuilding the infrastructure they’d inadvertently helped destroy when Silver Tail came knocking. It was good optics, and more importantly, it was the right thing to do.

That put them at ninety-three million spent before they’d even opened their doors. Twenty-seven million left for operations, equipment, and the inevitable emergencies.

Personnel requirements for becoming a B-rank guild were steeper too. The guild had to have at least three B-rank certified hunters and one A-rank.

After everything they’d been through—the Crimson Hollows, the convoy raids, the fight with Braun, trapping a bloody Reaper—Kurt knew their bodies were resilient enough to absorb the cores they’d stockpiled and cultivate their essence without risk of catastrophic failure.

Rook was already B-rank. Emma and Cassandra could make the jump with the right resources. And if Zaza officially joined them, that was one less B-ranker to worry about.

Kurt took a drag, thinking of how ambitious and insane this all was.

***

He was still running calculations when a voice cut through his concentration.

"You’ve been awfully quiet."

He looked up to find the Reaper watching him from inside her cage. She sat cross-legged in the center like she was meditating rather than imprisoned.

Kurt sighed and set the datapad aside. "Yeah. Lot to think about."

He stood, pacing in front of the cage, then stopped. "By the way, what should we even call you? ’The Reaper’ feels a bit too..." He gestured vaguely with his cigarette. "I don’t know, Deathy?"

She tilted her head, considering. "Names." She leaned back, both hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling of her cage.

"I guess I would need some form of identification now that doesn’t scream ’Deathy.’" She said with a teasing smile and gestured gracefully when she spoke. "How about Desmia? You know, from the Greek word for prisoner?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Seems a bit on the nose, don’t you think?"

"Can you do better, Kurt?"

Kurt took a drag, exhaling smoke. "You know, you kind of look like a Morra."

Her dark eyes gleamed with interest. "Derived from Morrigan? Celtic death goddess?" She smiled, and it was almost genuine. "You know your mythology, Kurt."

Kurt scratched his temple awkwardly. He had no idea what she was talking about. He just pulled out a random name that sounded right in his head. "Right... exactly what I was going for."

"Morra it is then." She stared at him, and the atmosphere shifted. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees, and her smile turned cold. "You know this isn’t going to end well for you, Kurt."

"And here I thought we were finally getting on," Kurt said, deliberately keeping his tone light. "I thought we were making progress, building rapport, all that therapeutic bollocks."

Before Morra could respond, the warehouse door creaked open and Paul stepped inside. He looked nervous, which was his default state these days, clutching a thermos of coffee like it was a lifeline.

"My turn to watch the prisoner," Paul said.

Kurt stood, tilting his neck in a satisfying crack. "Careful, mate. Don’t call her that. She’s our guest, just inconveniently caged up is all."

Paul blinked. "Um... okay?"

Morra’s lips curved into an unsettling smile that made Paul take an involuntary step backward.

Kurt clapped him on the shoulder. "You’ll be fine. Just don’t stick your hand through the bars, and definitely don’t ask her opinion on your life choices. Beyond that, you’re golden."

"That’s... very specific advice," Paul said weakly.

"Yeah, and you’re gonna take it," Kurt said, then turned his attention back to business. "Catch me up. What’s going on with the rest of the guild?"

Paul set his thermos down carefully, keeping one eye on Morra. "Well, Rook’s in Proxima City, the main hub of the B-rank district. He’s working with architects on the new guild building. Emma and Cassandra are handling the logistics—permits, contractors, all the bureaucratic stuff. Lizzie’s been... well I don’t know what Lizzie’s been doing."

Kurt nodded, processing. Proxima City. The beating heart of the B-rank district, where the real money and power flowed. If Rook was already setting up shop there, he was serious about this jump. No half-measures.

"What about Zaza?" Kurt asked.

"I knew I was right to vote for her, no matter how Emma promises me pain." He swallowed and wiped away beads of sweat already forming on his forehead from just thinking about her threats.

"Anyways, Zaza’s been coordinating with the D-rank district council," Paul continued. "Working out reparations, repair schedules, making sure we don’t get sued into oblivion for the collateral damage. Turns out she’s surprisingly good at bureaucracy when she’s not being, you know, terrifying."

"And Sam?"

Paul’s expression softened slightly. "She’s helping with the injured. A lot of civilians got caught in the crossfire when Silver Tail attacked.

She’s been visiting hospitals, distributing some of the credits from the loot houses to families who lost homes or businesses."

Kurt felt something tighten in his chest. Sam, the con artist who’d tried to rob him in an alley, was out there doing genuine good. People changed. Sometimes for the better.

"Right," Kurt said and ran his hand through his hair. "Sounds like everyone’s busy then."

"What about you?" Paul asked. "What have you been doing?"

Kurt gestured at the datapad he’d abandoned. "Maths. Lots of depressing maths. Turns out climbing the guild ranks is expensive as hell, and someone needs to make sure we’re not bankrupt before we even start."

Paul nodded, then glanced nervously at Morra, who was watching their conversation with amused interest.

"I should probably..." Paul gestured vaguely at the cage.

"Yeah," Kurt said. "Good luck, mate. Try not to piss yourself."

"I think it may be too late for that," Paul muttered.

Kurt left the warehouse, stepping out into the late afternoon sun. The industrial zone of Rust City was quiet, just the distant sounds of machinery and the occasional transport vehicle rumbling past.

He pulled out his datapad and sent a message to Rook: Numbers work. Tight, but workable. Don’t buy anything gold-plated.

The response came back almost immediately: No promises.

Kurt grinned and started walking. They had a Reaper in a cage, a small fortune in loot, and a plan so ambitious it bordered on suicidal.

Just another day in Raven’s Crow.