Math is for Weaklings

The scene inside the Adventurers Guild was like stepping into the world's most chaotic financial consulting nightmare. What I'd initially mistaken for the charming ambient noise of a medieval tavern was actually the sound of dozens of simultaneous economic disasters playing out in real time.

To our left, a [Human Paladin, Level 19] was arguing with his party about how to split the proceeds from what appeared to be a very successful dragon hunt. The discussion had devolved into a shouting match about whether healing potions counted as a business expense or personal equipment.

"I used seven greater healing potions keeping you idiots alive!" the paladin was declaring. "That's seven hundred coins I should be reimbursed for before we calculate profit sharing!"

"But you volunteered to be the tank!" protested a [Elf Archer, Level 17]. "Healing costs are part of your role specialization! That's like me charging you for arrows!"

"Arrows are consumables! Healing potions are emergency medical expenses!"

I watched this argument with growing fascination. These were clearly experienced, high-level adventurers who had successfully completed what was probably an incredibly dangerous quest. They'd defeated a dragon—one of the most fearsome creatures in any fantasy setting—and now they were stuck because they couldn't figure out basic expense allocation.

"This is educational," I murmured to Mr. Tanaka, who was scribbling notes in his little notebook with the intensity of a war correspondent.

"Educational?" He looked up, his eyes gleaming with professional excitement. "Yamamoto, this is revolutionary. They're operating a complex risk-sharing venture with multiple stakeholders and zero financial framework. Do you see the implications?"

"I see a group of very dangerous people getting increasingly angry about money."

"Exactly! And look over there!”

He pointed toward another table where a [Human Crusader, Level 21] was engaged in what could only be described as a financial meltdown. The man was massive, easily six and a half feet tall, covered in scars that spoke of countless battles, and wearing armor that looked like it had been personally blessed by whatever deity was responsible for making things incredibly expensive.

The crusader was staring at a pile of what appeared to be loot from a recent dungeon crawl: gemstones, precious metals, magical artifacts, and several pouches of coins. Spread around him were crumpled pieces of parchment covered in failed mathematical calculations.

"I don't understand!" he was saying to anyone who would listen. "The quest reward was three thousand coins. The dungeon loot appraises at roughly two thousand. Party expenses were... were..." He stared at his notes helplessly. "Numbers! Why are there so many numbers?!"

A [Human Warrior, Level 18] at a nearby table called out helpfully, "Just split everything evenly! That's what we always do!"

"But we have different contribution levels!" the crusader replied, his voice taking on a note of desperation. "I tanked the boss fight! Our mage used expensive spell components! Our rogue provided specialized lockpicking services! Equal distribution doesn't account for variable cost inputs!"

I blinked. "Did he just say 'variable cost inputs'?"

"He did," Mr. Tanaka confirmed, looking like he'd just watched someone discover fire. "They intuitively understand complex accounting concepts but lack the framework to apply them systematically."

The crusader's frustration was mounting visibly. He picked up one of the pouches of coins and stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

"You know what?" he announced loudly enough for the entire guild to hear. "Math is for weaklings! Real warriors solve problems with strength and honor, not... not... arithmetic!"

And then, in a display that made both Mr. Tanaka and me gasp in horror, he threw the pouch of coins onto the floor.

Actual money. Real, valuable coins. Just scattered across the guild floor like confetti.

"I don't need complicated calculations!" the crusader continued, warming to his theme. "I've slain demons! I've battled undead hordes! I've stood face-to-face with a lich and emerged victorious! I refuse to be defeated by basic mathematics!"

He threw another pouch down. Then another.

The sound of coins hitting the wooden floor was like nails on a chalkboard to my accountant-trained ears, but Mr. Tanaka's reaction was far more dramatic. He made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, clutching his briefcase to his chest like he was shielding himself from physical violence.

"He's... he's just throwing money away," Mr. Tanaka whispered in a voice full of pain. "Actual currency. Legal tender. Just... discarded."

Other adventurers in the guild were reacting to this display with what appeared to be casual acceptance. A few people glanced over, but most just continued their own conversations as if watching someone have a public breakdown over basic arithmetic was perfectly normal.

"Does this happen often?" I asked a [Dwarf Cleric, Level 14] who was sitting at the table next to us.

"Oh, aye," he said with the weary tone of someone who'd seen this exact scenario play out dozens of times. "Happens every few days. Adventurers complete successful quests, make good money, then completely fall apart trying to manage the financial side. Most of 'em just give up and split everything equally, regardless of contribution or expenses."

"But that's..." Mr. Tanaka started.

"Completely inefficient and economically irrational?" the dwarf finished. "Course it is. But what's the alternative? Most adventurers would rather fight another dragon than sit down with a ledger book."

The crusader was still in the middle of his anti-mathematics rant, and had now moved on to expressing his philosophical opposition to the very concept of numerical analysis.

"Courage can't be quantified!" he declared. "Honor has no exchange rate! The value of a warrior's heart cannot be calculated using... using... percentages!"

More coins hit the floor. By my rough estimate, he'd just thrown away what was probably equivalent to several months' salary for most people in this world.

"This is it," Mr. Tanaka said suddenly, his voice tight with determination. "This is exactly what we needed to see."

"What, a man having a public breakdown over math?"

"No." He stood up, straightening his tie and gripping his briefcase handle with white knuckles. "A perfect demonstration of the fundamental problem plaguing this entire economic ecosystem."

He started walking toward the distraught crusader with the purposeful stride of someone who'd just found his calling. I hurried to follow, partly out of curiosity and partly because I was genuinely concerned about what might happen if we approached a heavily armed, mathematically frustrated warrior without backup.

"Excuse me," Mr. Tanaka called out in his most professional voice as we reached the crusader's table. "I couldn't help but notice you're experiencing some difficulty with financial analysis."

The crusader looked up, his eyes wild with the particular kind of desperation that comes from being defeated by an enemy you can't stab. "Who... who are you?"

"My name is Kenji Tanaka, and this is my associate Hiroshi Yamamoto. We're professional financial consultants."

"Consultants?" The crusader blinked, clearly unfamiliar with the concept.

"Think of us as..." I searched for a term that would make sense in this context, "...specialists who help people solve problems with numbers."

"You mean you fight mathematics?"

Mr. Tanaka's expression became intensely serious. "Sir, we don't fight mathematics. We dominate it. We make it our servant. We force it to give us the answers we need, when we need them, in the format that's most useful for strategic decision-making."

The crusader stared at him with something approaching awe. "That... that sounds incredibly powerful."

"It is," Mr. Tanaka confirmed. "And what I'm seeing here suggests that you've successfully completed a high-value quest but are unable to access the full benefit of your earnings due to analytical barriers."

"I... yes! That's exactly right!" The crusader gestured helplessly at his scattered coins and crumpled calculations. "I know we made money. I know we completed the objectives. But every time I try to figure out fair distribution, the numbers just... attack me."

I had to suppress a smile at his description of being "attacked" by arithmetic, but Mr. Tanaka was nodding with complete professional sympathy.

"This is a common problem," he said. "Complex ventures with multiple stakeholders and variable cost structures require sophisticated analytical frameworks. Without proper financial management systems, even the most successful operations can become economically inefficient."

The crusader was hanging on every word. "You... you really understand this problem?"

"Sir," Mr. Tanaka said, setting his briefcase down on the table with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics, "understanding this problem is what we live for."

He opened the briefcase and pulled out a small calculator, a ledger book, and several sheets of what appeared to be custom forms he'd designed for tracking various types of expenses. The crusader watched this display of organizational tools with the fascination of someone seeing magic for the first time.

"If you're willing to trust us with your financial data," Mr. Tanaka continued, "we can have your quest earnings properly analyzed, allocated, and distributed within thirty minutes. You'll understand exactly how much profit each party member should receive, what your operational costs were, and how to optimize future expeditions for maximum efficiency."

"Thirty minutes?" The crusader's voice was barely above a whisper. "You can solve this in thirty minutes?"

"Sir," Mr. Tanaka said with a confident smile that I'd never seen before, "thirty minutes is probably more time than we need. But we believe in thorough documentation."

The transformation in the crusader's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. His shoulders straightened, his breathing steadied, and for the first time since we'd been watching him, he looked like the confident, high-level adventurer his status suggested he was.

"Please," he said, gathering up his scattered coins with newfound purpose. "Help me understand how to make the numbers... cooperative."

As Mr. Tanaka began organizing the crusader's financial chaos with the systematic precision of a master craftsman, I noticed that other conversations in the guild had begun to quiet down. People were starting to pay attention to what was happening at our table.

This wasn't just our first potential client consultation. This was our public debut as financial consultants in a world that desperately needed exactly what we had to offer.

"Yamamoto," Mr. Tanaka said quietly as he started entering numbers into his calculator, "I want you to document everything. Every procedure, every calculation, every result. This isn't just a consultation—this is our proof of concept."

"You think word will spread?"

He gestured around the guild, where nearly every table was dealing with some variation of the same financial management problems we were solving for the crusader.

"Yamamoto," he said with a grin that was equal parts professional satisfaction and predatory business instinct, "by tomorrow morning, we're going to have more clients than we can handle."

The crusader watched Mr. Tanaka work with the expression of someone witnessing a miracle, and I realized that we weren't just starting a consulting business.

We were about to revolutionize the entire adventuring economy.

One spreadsheet at a time.