A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 206: Chapter 206 — Guild Zero I

Who owns Team Zero.

The question sat over the strategy table, and for a while nobody volunteered to be first.

They had faced down Brides and bosses together. This was worse, in its own way, because the answer would be written in percentages, and percentages had never once been in the room when the five of them nearly died for each other.

Kavanagh let the silence do its work, then broke it.

”Let me make it easier by making it two questions,” she said. ”You’re creating two things tonight, and they are not the same thing.”

She drew two boxes on the screen.

”Guild Zero. The legal organization. It owns property, hires staff, signs contracts, manages collective income, and recruits new Challengers.” She tapped the second box. ”Team Zero. The original five-person raid team, operating inside it. Joining the guild will never automatically put a recruit on the team. And no matter how big the guild gets, the team’s name, roster, and identity can’t be touched by growth. That gets written in stone on day one.”

”So a hundred people could wear Guild Zero colors,” Ronan said, ”and Team Zero is still just us.”

”Always just you. That’s the point of the two boxes.” Kavanagh pulled up a list. ”Now the hard part. Before I can register anything, you settle five things. What each founder puts in. What each founder owns. Voting rights and founder protections. Who leads what. And who owns the names.”

James went first, because someone had to.

”Money can’t be the only measure,” he said. ”Whatever we’re worth started on Floor 1 with five people and no money at all. I’m not buying the biggest slice of something we all built.”

”Agreed on the first half,” Finn said. ”The name belongs to all of us. Full stop.” He leaned forward. ”But don’t confuse the team with the company. Equal friends doesn’t mean equal cheques, equal risk, or equal ownership. Pretending it does is how friendships end up in court.”

”Both things are true,” Maeve said. ”We’re equals on a floor. We are not making equal business contributions, and the paperwork should tell the truth.”

Ronan and Cillian exchanged a look — the look of the two men at the table without famous names or sponsor folders.

”I’ll say our bit,” Ronan said. ”Neither of us can match your three’s money, and neither of us is going to pretend otherwise. That’s fine. What I want in writing is that smaller shares don’t make us disposable. I’m not signing anything where seven percent means seven percent of a person.”

”Then let’s find out what the real numbers are,” Kavanagh said. ”Each of you — what can you actually contribute, without touching money controlled by another guild, another family, or a sponsor?”

James committed the largest amount, and named a ceiling with it.

”That’s my number. Not a euro past it.” He looked around the table. ”I could fund the whole thing. I’m not going to. If I write the only cheque, this becomes James Ganner Limited with four employees, and I’d rather not have a guild at all.”

Finn committed the second-largest amount, and then pushed a folder of his own paperwork across the table before anyone asked for it. Bank statements. Clearance records. His investment accounts.

”Challenger earnings, personal accounts, my own investments,” he said. ”Trace all of it. Every cent has to come back to me. No Emerald Spire money, no loan my father can call in, no Hale family trust with strings running back to that house. If there’s one indirect claim anywhere in my contribution, I want it found before we register anything.”

”I met the five of you this month. I’m not certifying anyone’s money from across a table.” Kavanagh gathered the folder. ”I’ll run a full source-of-funds check on these — that takes days, not minutes. Until it comes back, your contribution sits marked provisional.”

”Good,” Finn said. ”That’s exactly the answer I wanted.”

Maeve committed the third-largest amount — Tower income, acting earnings, sponsorship money.

”And the part that doesn’t fit in an account,” Kavanagh noted. ”Commercial contacts. Media access. PR experience. She’s the only founder who’s ever read one of these contracts before this month, and her professional relationships are half the reason this formation is moving at speed. That value gets recognized, even if it can’t be deposited.”

Ronan and Cillian went last.

The amounts were smaller. Neither of them dressed that up, and nobody at the table treated it as anything but two men putting real risk on a real table — savings, in both cases, that had taken nineteen floors to earn.

”You could have come in without capital,” Maeve said quietly.

”No,” Cillian said. ”We couldn’t have.”

Ronan nodded once. ”Founders risk something. Otherwise it’s a gift, and gifts get taken back.”

Kavanagh worked for a few minutes, then put the proposal on the screen — capital, history, future workload, public value, weighted together.

PROPOSED FOUNDING OWNERSHIP — GUILD ZERO

JAMES GANNER — 40%FINN HALE — 30%MAEVE CALLAHAN — 15%RONAN CLEARY — 7.5%CILLIAN WARD — 7.5%

The table read it in silence.

”Seven point five,” Cillian said at last. ”The point five is what gets me. Couldn’t round a man up to eight. Had to leave the half hanging there like a participation ribbon.”

”The half is the difference between you two splitting fifteen and one of you owing the other,” Kavanagh said.

”...Fine. The half can stay.”

Maeve studied her own line before anyone could ask her to.

”Fifteen’s right,” she said. ”Lower than Finn’s, and it should be. He and James are putting in more capital, they’re carrying the leadership weight, and they were Team Zero before the rest of us finished the roster. I’m not arguing the number.” She looked at Kavanagh. ”But fifteen percent comes with real authority over commercial matters. Formal power, in the documents. I’m not signing up to be responsible for every contract while owning a vote that can’t affect any of them.”

”Noted, and it fits where we’re going next.” Kavanagh changed the slide. ”Because Ronan is about to ask the right question.”

Ronan was already asking it.

”Forty plus thirty is seventy. What stops the two of them running the whole thing off the top and the rest of us finding out by email?”

”Structure,” Kavanagh said. ”Three levels of decision. Listen carefully, because this is the actual answer to your seven-percent worry.”

Day-to-day executive decisions belonged to the appointed leadership — no shareholder vote for every expense. Routine hiring inside an approved budget. Equipment and supplies. Training schedules, staff assignments, ordinary admin contracts, daily operations.

”That’s whoever leads, doing their job,” Kavanagh said. ”You don’t vote on printer paper.”

Major structural decisions needed eighty-five percent. Borrowing above the agreed limit. Buying major property. Issuing new shares. Long-term financial commitments, foreign branches, new permanent raid divisions, big changes to the capital plan.

Ronan did the arithmetic aloud, because he’d been doing it on paper all evening.

”Eighty-five. So seventy isn’t enough.” He looked up. ”They need Maeve. Or they need both of us.”

”Correct. James and Finn together cannot pass a single structural decision alone. Ever. And the last level is stronger again.” She brought up the final list. ”Unanimous. All five, or it doesn’t happen.”

Selling or dissolving Guild Zero. Merging with another guild. Accepting an outside shareholder. Transferring control to Emerald Spire or anyone else. Selling or permanently licensing either name. Changing the founders’ percentages. Removing one of the original five. Altering Team Zero’s founding roster. Giving any other guild authority over Team Zero’s climbing decisions.

”Standard law gives seventy-five percent for the big resolutions,” Kavanagh said. ”You’re choosing stronger protections than the law requires, so they get written deliberately — into the constitution and the founders’ agreement, where they bind everyone.” She looked at James and Finn. ”You two can lead this organization. You cannot sell anyone’s future out from under them. That’s the design.”

”Good,” James said.

”Good,” Finn said, at almost the same moment, and meant it just as much.

Cillian tapped his 7.5.

”So this number can’t shrink, I can’t be voted off the island, and nobody sells my face to a lunchbox company without my signature.”

”Correct on all three.”

”Then I withdraw my remarks about the half.”

Leadership took less time than anyone expected, and cost more than it looked.

”James for Guild Master,” Finn said, flatly, first. ”He’s the public centre whether he likes it or not. Biggest capital. And be honest — who’s been making the final calls on floors since about Floor 9?”

Heads turned to James. James turned to Finn.

”I was going to say you.” He meant it. ”You’ve got the formal training. You grew up inside the only major guild any of us has seen from the inside. You know how these machines actually run.”

”That’s exactly why it can’t be me.” Finn’s voice didn’t rise, but something under it set like concrete. ”A guild built around a Hale, doing things the Hale way, with the industry waiting to see when Marcus starts calling in. I’ve lived in that building, James. I’m not rebuilding it with better lighting.” He shook his head once. ”Give me the raids. Combat prep, formation doctrine, every decision inside the Tower — that’s mine, and I’ll be better at it than any Guild Master would be. The company is yours.”

Nobody argued, because it was the truth arranged correctly.

Kavanagh recorded it.

James Ganner — Guild Master and Managing Director. Finn Hale — Deputy Guild Master and Raid Captain. Maeve Callahan — Commercial Director, with a board seat and the formal commercial authority she’d priced into her fifteen percent.