Chapter 4: The Spreadsheet Sees All

The morning after Miles Finch saved the royal kitchens from drowning in their own soup budget, the castle woke with a new religion.

It was not an official religion. There were already too many of those in Aurelia, each with its own incense schedule, collection plate, and passive-aggressive holy day. This one formed naturally in the servant corridors, between flour sacks and copper kettles, whispered over mops and crusty bread ends.

It had one article of faith:

The Hero can see where the money is going.

By dawn, Miles had acquired three offerings.

The first was a mug of tea so black it looked like it had learned forbidden magic. The second was a plate of buttered rolls arranged with the reverence of a minor shrine. The third was a folded napkin upon which someone had written, in trembling script, please tell us why laundry room keeps losing socks. suspect goblins. suspect Gerald.

Miles sat at the little writing desk in the guest chamber the palace had given him and stared at the offerings with the exhausted caution of a man who had once found a client’s missing eighty thousand dollars in a mislabeled “miscellaneous morale” account.

The guest chamber was larger than his entire apartment back on Earth. Tall windows spilled honey-colored morning light across a floor of polished white stone. Velvet curtains hung like royal blood. The bed had four posts, carved angels, and enough pillows to bankrupt a poultry farm. Someone had put fresh flowers on every available surface. Their scent was sweet and aggressive.

Miles, wearing yesterday’s rumpled dress shirt, the same slacks he had died in, and the leather slippers a maid had pressed upon him with visible pity, pinched the bridge of his nose.

He had not slept well.

It was difficult to sleep after discovering that death was not an end but a poorly documented onboarding process, that goddesses existed and were bad at job placement, and that he had been summoned to another world as a hero despite possessing the upper-body strength of damp stationery.

Also, every object in the room kept trying to become a report.

When his eyes rested too long on the bed, faint translucent figures bloomed above it.

ROYAL GUEST BED
Comfort Rating: 91/100
Structural Integrity: 74/100
Feather Distribution Efficiency: 42%
Hidden Asset: 3 silver coins, 1 hairpin, 1 note from “L.” to “Captain Roderic” containing actionable blackmail

When he looked at the flowers:

VASE ARRANGEMENT
Aesthetic Impact: +6 mood
Pollen Irritation Risk: 18%
Optimal Rotation: 17 degrees clockwise
Budget Overrun: 312%

When he glanced at his own reflection in the gilt mirror:

MILES FINCH
Class: Otherworld Hero (?)
Level: 1
Strength: 3
Dexterity: 5
Endurance: 4
Intelligence: 18
Wisdom: 11
Charisma: Situation Dependent
Primary Skill: Absolute Optimization
Current Status: Caffeinated deficit; existential dread; mild neck stiffness
Recommended Action: Stretch hamstrings. Stop catastrophizing for 11 minutes.

“I will catastrophize on my own schedule,” Miles muttered.

Someone knocked.

Not servant-soft. Not noble-impatient. This was three crisp taps that landed like punctuation.

“Hero Finch?” called a woman’s voice through the door. “Are you decent?”

Miles looked down at his wrinkled shirt, which had a faint smear of gravy near the cuff from last night’s kitchen incident.

“Legally?” he said.

The door opened.

Lady Calindra Voss swept in with the same smooth competence she had used the previous evening to rescue him from the banquet hall’s orbiting nobles. She was the royal comptroller, though in practice that seemed to mean she controlled everything the king didn’t understand and half the things he did. She wore a narrow dark-green gown, a silver chain of office, and the expression of someone who could balance a budget with one hand while strangling a duke with the other.

Behind her shuffled a boy carrying a stack of ledgers taller than his torso. His knees shook with every step.

“Good,” Calindra said, examining Miles. “You are awake.”

“That remains under review.”

“His Majesty requests your presence in the west training yard after breakfast. The Royal Knights wish to evaluate your martial capability.”

Miles slowly lifted the black tea and drank. It tasted like boiled regret and lightning.

“My martial capability is mostly apologizing while backing away.”

“So I assumed.” Calindra’s eyes flicked to the plate of rolls, then to the napkin note. One eyebrow rose. “You have already started receiving petitions.”

“I didn’t ask for petition socks.”

“No one asks for petition socks. They find you anyway.” She gestured to the trembling boy, who dropped the ledgers onto the desk with a sound like a small building collapsing. “Before the knights carve you into a cautionary tale, I hoped to clarify the boundaries of your gift.”

Miles stared at the ledgers. His ability stirred like a shark smelling blood.

ROYAL HOUSEHOLD ACCOUNTS, YEARS 612–615
Completeness: 68%
Fraud Indicators: 31 active
Clerical Errors: 4,912
Largest Inefficiency: Candle procurement cartel
Embezzlement Node: Underbutler Harven; Wine Steward Pell; Unknown noble patron
Estimated Recoverable Funds: 18,400 gold crowns

Miles choked on tea.

Calindra’s expression sharpened. “You saw something.”

“No.”

“Hero Finch.”

“I saw many somethings.”

“Specify.”

Miles wiped his mouth with a napkin that was probably worth more than his old laptop. “On a scale from ‘rounding error’ to ‘someone’s getting hanged,’ how attached is the palace to its current candle suppliers?”

The boy made a tiny dying sound.

Calindra smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was the kind of smile auditors wore in dreams when they finally found the missing invoice.

“Continue.”

Miles pushed his chair back. “No. Absolutely not. I haven’t had breakfast. I refuse to become emotionally involved with wax fraud before bread.”

“Reasonable.” Calindra plucked a roll from the plate, set it in front of him, and pointed at the ledgers. “Eat and ruin someone.”

“You people are alarmingly direct.”

“Aurelia has survived three demon wars, five succession crises, and a plague of singing frogs. We value efficiency.”

“Your kitchen was throwing away enough turnips to destabilize a village.”

“We value efficiency once informed of its absence.”

Despite himself, Miles reached for the top ledger.

The moment his fingers touched cracked leather, the room changed.

Not physically. The flowers still smelled too sweet, the curtains still glowed red in the sun, and the boy still looked ready to perish from proximity to responsibility. But over the ledger, lines of light unfolded in the air—columns, linkages, percentages, branching webs connecting names to numbers to outcomes. His vision did not blur. It clarified too much.

Every purchase order became a vein. Every repeated supplier a heartbeat. Every strange overpayment a bruise.

He saw candle wax move from northern apiaries to merchant houses, then to palace stores, doubling in price at a warehouse that did not exist except on paper. He saw signatures repeated with tiny variations. He saw “breakage loss” rise every time Duke Welmont hosted a private revel. He saw servants blamed for thefts that had never happened.

Miles’ stomach tightened.

Numbers were never just numbers. He had learned that in windowless offices under fluorescent lights while managers called payroll “labor burden” and elderly clients apologized for shoeboxes full of receipts. Numbers were hunger, comfort, lies, fear. In this world, they glowed.

“Underbutler Harven is skimming,” Miles said, voice losing its sarcasm without permission. “Wine Steward Pell is either involved or an idiot. Probably involved. There’s a shell vendor—Saint Orvo’s Tapers—that doesn’t produce anything. It’s being used to inflate candle costs and launder entertainment expenses for a noble patron. Unknown, but likely someone with access to royal event scheduling.”

Calindra went very still.

The boy whispered, “Saint Orvo is the patron of lost goats.”

“Then he has a fascinating side business in wax,” Miles said.

Calindra leaned over the desk. “How long would it take you to identify the patron?”

The light-web pulsed. A path opened. Miles saw three possible document requests, two interviews, one trap involving artificially restricted taper allotments, and a 76% chance someone named Pell would confess if denied dessert wine.

“Forty minutes,” he said. “Twenty-five if I’m allowed to be rude.”

“Be rude.”

A knock hammered the door hard enough to rattle the flowers.

“By order of the Knight-Captain!” boomed a voice. “The Hero is summoned for martial assessment!”

Miles closed the ledger with the reflexive guilt of an employee caught browsing job listings.

Calindra’s eyes narrowed at the door. “Captain Roderic is early.”

From the bed, the hidden note’s existence suddenly felt louder.

Miles glanced at the mattress.

UNREAD NOTE
Blackmail Value: Moderate
Romantic Fallout Potential: Severe
Relevant Parties: Lady Liora; Captain Roderic
Recommended Action: Do not mention unless seeking chaos

Miles looked back at Calindra. “Is Captain Roderic romantically entangled with someone whose name starts with L?”

The trembling boy dropped his inkpot.

Calindra’s face became blank in the way only dangerous people’s faces became blank.

“Why?”

“No reason,” Miles said quickly. “Purely unrelated mattress-based intelligence.”

“Hero Finch.”

“I think your guest bed is a gossip archive.”

The door opened before Calindra could answer, and Captain Roderic filled the frame like a statue that had learned to disapprove.

He was everything Miles had expected a fantasy knight to be and therefore hated him on principle. Tall. Broad. Sun-gold hair tied at the nape. Jawline sharp enough to cut municipal bonds. His armor was polished silver, chased with blue enamel, and he carried his helmet beneath one arm like he was posing for a commemorative plate. A blue cloak spilled from his shoulders.

Behind him stood two younger knights, both trying to look stern and both clearly peeking at Miles as if hoping the Otherworld Hero would sprout wings.

Roderic bowed just shallow enough to be polite and just stiff enough to communicate skepticism.

“Hero Finch. His Majesty awaits demonstration of your prowess.”

“Does he accept spreadsheets?”

One young knight coughed.

Roderic’s mouth tightened. “The enemies of Aurelia will not be defeated by ledgers.”

“You’d be surprised how many enemies are defeated by ledgers. It just takes longer and involves more crying.”

Calindra placed two fingers at her temple. “Captain, the Hero has already identified a significant fraud pattern in royal procurement.”

“Then we are grateful.” Roderic’s eyes stayed on Miles. “But the goddess summoned a champion, not a clerk.”

Miles felt the words land in a familiar old bruise. Not from knights and goddesses, but from partners in corner offices who called him “back office” until something caught fire, clients who wanted miracles but not advice, supervisors who praised warriors and forgot the people patching holes under the floor.

He smiled politely, which on him had always resembled a warning label.

“Lead the way, Captain.”

The castle corridors had transformed since the night before. Yesterday, Miles had passed through as a bewildered accident in borrowed slippers. This morning, servants paused mid-step to stare. Kitchen maids whispered behind trays. A footman clutched a broom like a spear. Somewhere, someone said, “That’s him. The turnip prophet.”

“I am not the turnip prophet,” Miles muttered.

“You did prophesy the turnip surplus,” Calindra said, walking beside him.

“That was inventory analysis.”

“Prophecy with arithmetic.”

Roderic strode ahead, cloak snapping. The two younger knights trailed behind. One, a freckled red-haired man barely past boyhood, kept glancing back at Miles.

“Is it true,” the young knight blurted, “that in your world, carriages move without horses?”

“Yes.”

“Are they pulled by bound spirits?”

“Debt, mostly.”

The young knight nodded solemnly, as if this explained everything.

They emerged into the west training yard beneath a sky so bright it looked freshly painted. The yard stretched wide between crenellated walls, its packed sand churned by countless boots. Weapon racks lined one side: swords, spears, axes, maces, bows, and several objects Miles hoped were farming tools. Banners snapped in the wind. The air smelled of leather, sweat, steel, and the faint mineral tang of magic.

Dozens of knights had gathered.

So had courtiers.

So had servants.

So, inexplicably, had three kitchen boys carrying a chalkboard that read:

HERO DEMONSTRATION
Odds currently: Hero survives first bout 3:2
Hero cries 5:1
Captain Roderic humbled 18:1
Soup waste remains reduced 1:1

Miles stopped walking.

“Is that a betting pool?”

Calindra did not look surprised. “Naturally.”

“On whether I cry?”

“You have an expressive face.”

“I want royalties.”

A ripple moved through the crowd as King Alaric appeared on a viewing balcony above the yard. He was broad-shouldered, bearded, and draped in white and gold, every inch the storybook monarch. Beside him stood Princess Elowen, silver-blonde and composed, with a circlet like frost. Several priests clustered nearby in sunburst robes, their expressions hovering between devotion and concern.

At the balcony’s center, in a shaft of convenient sunlight, floated the translucent image of the goddess Luminara.

Miles’ day worsened.

The goddess had the kind of beauty artists used when they wanted viewers to feel bad about having pores. Her hair flowed like liquid dawn; her eyes shone with celestial expectation. She looked down at Miles and gave him a radiant smile that said she had absolutely not read the fine print before summoning him.

“Chosen Hero!” her voice rang across the yard, bell-clear and impossible to ignore. “Today, Aurelia beholds the power granted to you by divine grace.”

Miles cupped a hand around his mouth. “Do I get a user manual?”

Several courtiers gasped.

Luminara’s smile twitched.

King Alaric laughed like thunder. “Spirited! Excellent. Captain Roderic, begin.”

Roderic turned, drawing his sword in one clean motion. Sunlight ran along the blade. The crowd sighed approvingly.

Miles looked at the weapon rack. “Am I meant to pick something?”

“Choose freely,” Roderic said.

Miles approached the rack and studied the options. The swords glowed with floating stats as his gaze crossed them.

TRAINING SWORD
Damage: Low
Balance: Good
Required Strength: 7
User Compatibility: 22%

PRACTICE SPEAR
Reach: High
Trip Hazard: Significant
Required Coordination: 8
User Compatibility: 18%

WOODEN BUCKLER
Defensive Value: Moderate
Cowardice Perception Modifier: +12% among knights, -0% among sane people
User Compatibility: 61%

CLIPBOARD
Improvised Weapon
Psychological Damage vs Bureaucrats: Extreme
User Compatibility: 96%

Miles blinked. There was, in fact, a clipboard sitting at the edge of the rack, holding attendance sheets.

He took the buckler.

Then he took the clipboard.

A hush fell.

Roderic stared. “You choose a shield and… board?”

“This is a tactical document platform.”

Calindra’s lips pressed together in what might have been suppressed laughter.

The red-haired young knight whispered to his companion, “He’s going to write the Captain to death.”

Miles stepped into the ring drawn in the sand. His heart banged against his ribs with irritating enthusiasm. Sweat prickled beneath his collar. The sword in Roderic’s hand looked less decorative from this distance and more like an argument he was about to lose.

Roderic raised his blade in salute. “Do you yield in advance?”

“Is that an option with benefits?”

“No.”

“Then continue.”

The captain moved.

To ordinary eyes, it must have been beautiful—a flash of steel and muscle, boots whispering over sand, cloak sweeping like a banner. To Miles, who had never successfully caught keys thrown from across a room, it should have been incomprehensible.

Instead, numbers exploded around Roderic.

CAPTAIN RODERIC VALE
Level: 34
Strength: 28
Dexterity: 24
Endurance: 31
Technique: Royal Lionblade Style, Advanced
Current Intent: Humble without injuring
Opening Strike: Diagonal feint into wrist tap
Weakness: Overcommits right shoulder after feint; left knee stability compromised
Root Cause: Neglected posterior chain training; vanity emphasis on upper-body drills
Recommended Counter: Step 0.7 meters left; raise buckler 32 degrees; say something distracting

Miles’ body did not become heroic. No divine lightning filled his limbs. He did not suddenly understand swordplay in his bones.

But he could see the answer like a highlighted cell.

He lurched left.

Roderic’s blade struck the buckler with a crack that numbed Miles’ arm from wrist to elbow, but it slid off instead of smashing his knuckles. The captain’s shoulder rolled too far. His left knee dipped.

Miles, acting on panic and the floating recommendation, said the most distracting thing available.

“Do you skip leg day?”

Roderic froze for half a heartbeat.

It was enough.

Miles’ clipboard tapped the captain’s exposed wrist.

The yard went silent.

Somewhere, a kitchen boy dropped chalk.

Roderic looked at his wrist. Then at the clipboard. Then at Miles.

“What,” he said, very softly, “did you say?”

Miles’ survival instinct produced a laugh that sounded like a dying goose. “I said, purely from a performance optimization standpoint, your posterior chain is underdeveloped relative to your shoulders.”

The silence deepened.

“My what,” Roderic said.