1.40
- Kill
- 4
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 113
- +2 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 1%
- ISK distrutti
- 350.4M
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Attività
- Inattivo
- 0 kill/giorno · ultimi 90 giorni
Scheda di combattimento
Numeri da eve-kill, di tutta la carriera
Combattimento
- Kill
- 4
- Perdite
- 113
- Indice di pericolo
- 88%
- Colpi finali
- 2
- Punti
- 4
ISK
- Distrutti
- 350.4M
- Persi
- 24.58B
- Bilancio
- -24.22B
- Efficienza ISK
- 1%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 2
- Percentuale solo
- 50%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 14
- Quota perdite NPC
- 12%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti11.4K
Rapporto danni · 1%
Danni subiti1.7M
Attività
Cosa vola, dove combatte, le ultime kill e perdite
I più preziosi
Le kill più costose del periodo
Chi incontra
Chi uccide, da chi viene ucciso e cosa perde
Ultimi 90g
Uccisi
Ucciso da
Scafi persiPerdite suddivise per classe di scafo.
Bio in gioco
"They say I was born for war. They were wrong. I was born to profit from it."
I wasn’t bred by nobles or chosen by doctrine. I came up in the rust-choked veins of an orbital refinery—where sermons echoed louder than engines, and everything, even faith, had a price.
The Empire taught me structure. I kept the structure—then replaced the values.
On the surface, I’m Amarr: devout, groomed, diplomatic. I raise glasses at galas, quote the Scriptures, wear gold-trimmed lies. But robes don’t make saints. They make smuggling easier. Every bishop I toast is a customs gate that waves me through.
Because I don’t traffic in hope—I traffic in hardware.
Boosters? I supply fleets. Slaves? I supply labor. Relics? I sell ancient death wrapped in promises of power. And the minerals... oh, the minerals.
I mine the rarest cores from the deepest shadows of wormholes—Arkonor, Bistot, rock-embedded royalty no empire dares chart. I don’t just dig riches from the void—I move them, refine them, convert them into missiles, reactors, promises. And my deliveries? Always on time. Always complete. Always paid for—one way or another.
You don’t fight empires with fleets—you unbalance them with logistics. I sell what you need to win.
I’m not a warlord. I’m the quartermaster of chaos.
Life? It’s a ledger entry. Death? It’s inventory. Every corpse is a reclamation opportunity. Every addiction is a contract. Every asteroid is a shipment waiting to change hands.
I don’t lead with threats. I lead with options. I don’t run from war—I invoice it.
Fear is a business strategy. Reputation is a product line. And peace? Peace is the slow season.
Code §1.1: "Contracts are sacred. Even lies must be honored—until you’re paid."
Code §2.4: "No ship is ever truly yours. It belongs to debt, duty, or destiny."
Code §3.2: "Explorers are not targets, unless they act like predators."
Code §4.6: "Cargo is currency. Life is overhead."
Code §5.9: "You don’t need a fleet. You need leverage."
Code §7.7: "Smugglers pray. Miners plot. Only brokers win."
Code §8.3: "Trust no silence. It’s either stealth or death."
Code §9.1: "The wormhole doesn’t care if you're ready. Only if you're worthy."
You want to survive in New Eden? Find someone like me.
You want to thrive? Be me.
I wasn’t bred by nobles or chosen by doctrine. I came up in the rust-choked veins of an orbital refinery—where sermons echoed louder than engines, and everything, even faith, had a price.
The Empire taught me structure. I kept the structure—then replaced the values.
On the surface, I’m Amarr: devout, groomed, diplomatic. I raise glasses at galas, quote the Scriptures, wear gold-trimmed lies. But robes don’t make saints. They make smuggling easier. Every bishop I toast is a customs gate that waves me through.
Because I don’t traffic in hope—I traffic in hardware.
Boosters? I supply fleets. Slaves? I supply labor. Relics? I sell ancient death wrapped in promises of power. And the minerals... oh, the minerals.
I mine the rarest cores from the deepest shadows of wormholes—Arkonor, Bistot, rock-embedded royalty no empire dares chart. I don’t just dig riches from the void—I move them, refine them, convert them into missiles, reactors, promises. And my deliveries? Always on time. Always complete. Always paid for—one way or another.
You don’t fight empires with fleets—you unbalance them with logistics. I sell what you need to win.
I’m not a warlord. I’m the quartermaster of chaos.
Life? It’s a ledger entry. Death? It’s inventory. Every corpse is a reclamation opportunity. Every addiction is a contract. Every asteroid is a shipment waiting to change hands.
I don’t lead with threats. I lead with options. I don’t run from war—I invoice it.
Fear is a business strategy. Reputation is a product line. And peace? Peace is the slow season.
Code §1.1: "Contracts are sacred. Even lies must be honored—until you’re paid."
Code §2.4: "No ship is ever truly yours. It belongs to debt, duty, or destiny."
Code §3.2: "Explorers are not targets, unless they act like predators."
Code §4.6: "Cargo is currency. Life is overhead."
Code §5.9: "You don’t need a fleet. You need leverage."
Code §7.7: "Smugglers pray. Miners plot. Only brokers win."
Code §8.3: "Trust no silence. It’s either stealth or death."
Code §9.1: "The wormhole doesn’t care if you're ready. Only if you're worthy."
You want to survive in New Eden? Find someone like me.
You want to thrive? Be me.