The section of the archive now grudgingly designated as the domain of the Chief Overseer of the Infernal Treasury had taken on an air of besieged order. Imp Squad 7, under Lyra’s crisp direction and Kenji’s increasingly desperate attempts at organizational diagrams drawn on shale, had managed to corral the initial deluge of military records provided by General Gorgath. Calling it ‘sorted’ would have been generous. It was more like ‘contained chaos.’ Scrolls were stacked roughly by originating legion or campaign year (as deciphered by Lyra), bone tallies were piled in designated corners (cross-referenced against nothing yet), and blood-pact contracts pertaining to mercenary units were chained, quite literally, to a specific pillar.

Kenji Tanaka sat hunched over his work slab, the sickly green light from the ambient crystals casting his face in pale, stressed relief. The heavy medallion rested against his chest, a constant reminder of the authority he barely felt equipped to wield. Before him lay a truly horrifying scroll, nearly ten feet long when unrolled, detailing the supposed roster and supply allocation for the 'Gorefang' Legion – one of Gorgath’s primary assault forces – for the previous cycle. The script was cramped, blotchy, and interspersed with what looked suspiciously like weapon-testing marks.

"Lyra," Kenji called out, rubbing his temples where a familiar ache was beginning to bloom. "Can you make sense of this entry? 'Unit Gamma-Seven, Sustenance Allocation: Triple Ration, Justification: Exceptional Ferocity/Excessive Molting'?"

Lyra glided over, peering at the demonic script. "Ah, yes. That would likely refer to Captain Vorlag’s Hounds."

"Hounds?" Kenji frowned. "Hell Hounds? Are they listed as standard infantry?"

"Captain Vorlag is technically categorized as Heavy Infantry Command," Lyra explained patiently. "His 'Hounds' are a specialized unit of… particularly large, ill-tempered, multi-headed demonic canids he personally bred. They require significantly more sustenance than standard Orcish or Hobgoblin troopers, especially during shedding seasons."

"So, specialized assets," Kenji muttered, making a note. "Are their operational costs tracked separately? Is there a cost-benefit analysis comparing their effectiveness to standard heavy infantry units consuming equivalent resources?"

Lyra blinked slowly. "Overseer, such analysis is… not standard practice. Captain Vorlag’s Hounds are effective shock troops. Their 'cost' is generally considered justified by the terror they inspire and the enemies they dismember."

"Terror is difficult to quantify on a balance sheet, Lyra," Kenji sighed. "Dismemberment effectiveness might be trackable, but I doubt anyone's counting. Okay, flag Vorlag’s Hounds for further review under 'Specialized Unit Cost Efficiency'." He continued scanning the roster, his finger tracing lines of demonic script. "Numbers seem… high. Does the Gorefang Legion truly field twelve thousand active combatants?"

"That is the number consistently reported by General Gorgath for resource allocation purposes," Lyra confirmed.

"But are they real?" Kenji pressed. He tapped a section listing several centuries – units typically comprising around 100 soldiers – under a Commander listed only as 'Grak, Presumed Lost (Fen Campaign, Cycle -3)'. "These units are still drawing full rations and standard equipment replacement allocations. If the commander was lost three cycles ago, what's the status of his troops?"

Lyra leaned closer, examining the supporting annotations – barely legible marks on the scroll's edge. "Hmm. Subsequent entries indicate… 'Unit Dispersed, Reassignment Pending'. Yet, the allocation draw continues." She frowned. "That is… irregular."

"Irregular?" Kenji felt a cold spark of suspicion, instantly familiar from his days auditing Nakatomi Corp expense reports. "Lyra, this looks like a classic ghost employee scheme, demonic edition. Units that don't exist, drawing resources that vanish."

They spent the next several hours cross-referencing the Gorefang roster against other fragmented records – battle reports (if available and legible), quartermaster disbursement logs (mostly tally marks on cured hides), healer casualty lists (disturbingly vague). A pattern began to emerge. Units reported as decimated in failed campaigns continued to draw full supply allocations for cycles afterward. Commanders listed as 'transferred' or 'on extended patrol' had units receiving triple rations for 'hazardous duty' in sectors that hadn't seen conflict in years. The discrepancies were widespread, blatant.

"By my estimate," Kenji calculated, his charcoal scratching furiously on a fresh piece of shale, "based just on this one Legion's roster, upwards of fifteen percent of the allocated resources are going to units that likely don't exist or are severely understrength. That's… thousands of Kilo-Souls per cycle, just vanishing."

"Where would the resources go?" Lyra wondered aloud, though her expression suggested she had suspicions.

"Skimmed off the top," Kenji stated grimly. "Diverted by corrupt quartermasters, commanders padding their numbers to increase their own prestige or resource pool, maybe filtering all the way up to…" He trailed off, not wanting to voice the accusation against Gorgath himself, not yet. "This requires verification. Ground truth. We need actual headcounts."

Lyra looked skeptical. "Requesting a full Legion census would be seen as a direct challenge to the General's reporting integrity. He would obstruct it vehemently."

"Then we do it indirectly," Kenji countered. "We audit the disbursements. We track specific resource shipments – that 'cursed ammunition' Gorgath was so concerned about, for example. Where does it actually go? Which units sign for it? We compare signed receipts against reported unit strengths."

It was painstaking work. Gorgath’s ‘cooperation’ amounted to vast, disorganized dumps of new records – delivery manifests written on bat wings, requisitions scratched onto shards of obsidian, inventory lists that contradicted each other wildly. Imp Squad 7 scurried back and forth, overwhelmed but obedient, their small, clawed hands surprisingly adept at handling the fragile or dangerous materials under Lyra's supervision.

As Kenji waded through the morass of military logistics, another area of blatant waste became horrifyingly apparent: equipment. He found requisitions for ridiculously impractical, overly enchanted weapons – axes that screamed (requiring constant 'vocal cord' maintenance spells), shields that wept corrosive tears (high rate of friendly fire incidents noted in margins), helmets designed more for terrifying aesthetics than actual protection.

"Look at this," Kenji exclaimed, holding up a translated requisition scroll. "Order for five hundred 'Viscera Vipers' – specialized chain weapons enchanted to actively seek enemy entrails. Cost: twelve K-S each. Justification: 'Enhanced battlefield intimidation'."

"Ah, the Vipers," Lyra commented. "A pet project of Commander Malakor the Flayer. They are indeed intimidating. Also notoriously difficult to control and prone to tangling."

"Difficult to control? Lyra, this annotation mentions three separate incidents where wielders accidentally disemboweled themselves during training drills! And they still ordered five hundred?" Kenji was aghast. "What's the actual combat effectiveness? Is there any data showing these things are better than a standard, reliable, much cheaper Cursed Blade?"

"Commander Malakor is influential," Lyra stated simply. "And he favors dramatic weaponry. Cost-effectiveness analysis is not typically applied to items enhancing 'battlefield presence'."

"We're funding lethal vanity projects while the kingdom goes bankrupt!" Kenji slammed the scroll down onto the slab. "This entire procurement system is driven by commander whims and kickbacks, not strategic need!"

He saw it clearly now: ghost soldiers drawing phantom rations, exorbitant sums wasted on impractical death-toys, supply chains leaking resources at every node. Gorgath’s war machine wasn't just inefficient; it was rotten with corruption and mismanagement from top to bottom. No wonder the Dominion was broke.

(Perspective Shift: Pip)

Pip the Goblin huddled in the muddy trench outside Barracks Block Gamma-9, trying to make himself small. Rain, thick and greasy like diluted ichor, dripped steadily from the brim of his ill-fitting, dented helmet. His stomach growled, a hollow ache that had become near-constant. The last 'Sustenance Disbursement' had been… weird. Less of the buzzing energy-paste, more confusing flat things called 'vouchers'. Rumor was, you could trade them for better gear later. Pip wasn't sure. 'Later' was a long way away when you were cold, wet, and hungry now.

He clutched his spear – a sharpened polearm likely older than his grandfather, its tip chipped, its shaft splintery. A 'voucher' supposedly promised an 'upgrade'. Pip dreamed of a spear that didn't wobble, maybe even one with a bit of sharp metal actually attached properly. But dreams didn't fill bellies.

Life as a rank-and-file minion in Gorgath’s legions was nasty, brutish, and often short. You marched until your feet bled, dug trenches until your claws were raw, and charged screaming at terrifying enemies under the bellows of Orcish sergeants who’d sooner kick you into the spear points than offer encouragement. Food was scarce, equipment was shoddy, and pay – when it came – was barely enough to trade for a slightly less-rancid fungal brew at the squalid camp market.

Today was worse than usual. Sergeant Grok, a particularly unpleasant Orc with a festering temper, had discovered a discrepancy during morning kit inspection. Three goblins from Pip's squad were missing their 'standard issue' shin guards – flimsy pieces of boiled leather that offered minimal protection but were still, technically, required.

"Lost? Or sold?" Grok had roared, his spittle flying. He knew, everyone knew, that minions sometimes sold non-essential gear for extra food or gambling tokens. It was technically forbidden, punishable by beatings or worse, but desperation made you take risks.

The three unfortunate goblins stammered denials, but Grok wasn't listening. The punishment was swift and brutal – savage kicks, followed by assignment to the 'latrine detail' for the next cycle, a fate involving substances Pip didn't even want to think about.

Pip shivered, pulling his ragged cloak tighter. He hadn't sold his shin guards – they were too useful for warding off boot kicks – but he knew the feeling. The constant hunger, the gnawing unfairness. Why did Commander Malakor get those fancy, self-gutting whip things while Pip’s spear was falling apart? Why did Captain Vorlag’s giant, slobbering dogs get triple rations while Pip chewed on moldy hardtack?

Something felt different lately, though. Whispers went around the barracks. Talk of a new 'Overseer' in the Citadel, one who wasn't a hulking brute or a terrifying sorcerer, but a… counter. A number-cruncher. Some said he was a weird, pale human Valthor had summoned by accident. Others said he was a strange type of efficiency demon.

Pip didn't know what to believe. But things had changed, slightly. The vouchers were weird, yes, but the idea of better gear was… nice. And remember Imp Squad 7? They used to be the Citadel's biggest joke, polishing bones all day. Now? Pip had heard from his cousin, Splik, who worked in the lower Citadel kitchens, that Squad 7 had been reassigned. They were organizing things for the new Overseer. They got slightly better rations, Splik claimed. They weren't getting kicked as much.

Organizing? Better rations? For Imps? It sounded like crazy talk. But maybe… maybe this new Overseer was different. Maybe he actually saw the waste, the unfairness. Maybe things wouldn't always be this miserable.

A sharp whistle cut through the rain. Sergeant Grok was bellowing for evening drill. Pip sighed, pushing himself up from the mud. His stomach growled again. He hefted his splintery spear. 'Later' still felt a long way off. But for the first time in a long time, Pip felt a tiny, fragile flicker of something that might, possibly, be hope. Or maybe it was just indigestion. Hard to tell.

(Perspective Shift: Kenji)

Kenji stared at the figures, a headache pounding behind his eyes. Ghost soldiers, ludicrously expensive weapons, broken supply chains… the scale of the waste was staggering. He felt a grim sense of validation mixed with despair. He knew it was bad, but this was worse than he could have imagined.

"We have proof, Lyra," he said, his voice hoarse. "Clear evidence of systemic fraud and inefficiency. Ghost units drawing resources. Procurement prioritizing vanity over effectiveness. Logistics failing at multiple points."

"Indeed, Overseer," Lyra agreed. "The data, fragmented as it is, supports your conclusions."

"Now what?" Kenji muttered. "Marching into Valthor's throne room and accusing his top general of massive fraud seems… ill-advised. Gorgath would deny everything, destroy records, silence witnesses."

"Direct confrontation remains high-risk," Lyra concurred. "Perhaps a more… subtle approach is needed initially. Focus on one specific, demonstrable area of waste. Present irrefutable proof not just of the cost, but of the negative impact on military effectiveness."

Kenji considered this. The ghost soldiers were hard to prove without a census. The supply chain leakage required more investigation. But the equipment… those ridiculous 'Viscera Vipers'…

"The impractical weaponry," Kenji decided. "Like Commander Malakor's chain-whips. We have records of their exorbitant cost. We have annotations – however crude – of their poor performance and safety record. We can compare their cost and actual (lack of) effectiveness against standard equipment."

He started outlining a new report, this one laser-focused. Not a sweeping indictment, but a case study. The Viscera Vipers: A Cost-Benefit Analysis of Ineffective Ordnance. He'd use Gorgath’s own records – the requisitions, the after-action notes, the training incident reports. He'd frame it not as an attack on Malakor (too dangerous), but as an example of how poor procurement practices weaken the legions.

"Lyra," he instructed, "Find me every available record pertaining to the Viscera Vipers and comparable standard-issue chain weapons. Costs, training manuals, field reports, casualty lists where weapon type is noted…"

As Lyra moved to comply, Kenji felt a grim determination settle over him again. He couldn't fix everything at once. He couldn't expose all the ghosts in the garrison in one fell swoop. But he could start chipping away at the rot, one absurdly expensive, self-disemboweling weapon at a time. He would use Gorgath’s own messy data against him, turning the General’s disregard for proper record-keeping into a weapon for fiscal responsibility.

The audit was becoming less about balancing books and more about navigating a minefield, using logic and data as his only detectors. And the first mine he intended to defuse was shaped like a very silly, very expensive whip.