Modern sheets treat treasure like a bank transfer. The dragon dies. Someone writes a number. The number appears in town. Nobody asks who dragged a century of coin through a mile of hostile dark.
ACKS still believes in weight.
Encumbrance is not a tax on fun. It is the last honest rule about gold. A fortune that slows you down is a fortune the wandering table can still take back. The party starts making adult decisions: what is worth the slots, who carries the lantern, whether the statue comes now or after you own the hallway. Henchmen stop being optional color. Mules stop being a joke. A cache in the dungeon becomes a plot.
This is the part I skipped in easier games because it felt fussy. Then the treasure stopped meaning anything. Of course it did. There was no trip. Only a deposit.
The crate’s economy begins on the way out, not at the market. Prices and domains come later. First the bag breaks, the movement drops, and you learn whether you are adventurers or a committee that voted itself rich.
Leave the copper. Take the gem. Pay the man who can hold the other end of the chest.
If it weighs nothing, it was never loot. It was a point total with extra handwriting.
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