Dalton's Grand Bazaar made the markets back in Bolexe look like a fucking lemonade stand.
Al and I stepped out of The Copper Kettle and into a river of bodies. Humans, dwarves, elves, things I couldn't name, things I didn't want to name. A three-foot-tall lizard in a waistcoat walked past, selling skewered insects. A woman with moss growing out of her shoulders haggled over a bag of blue grain.
"Fuck me," I said.
"Indeed, sir." Al's voice was flat. "Shall we acclimate before proceeding?"
"No. Let's dive in."
We dove.
The Bazaar sprawled across what must have been a dozen city blocks. Tents and stalls and carts crammed into every available inch. The smell was chaos — roasting meat, exotic spices, sweat, smoke, something floral, something rotting. My chef's brain catalogued it all instinctively.
The first thing I noticed was the bread.
Every stall had it. Round loaves, flat discs, twisted rolls studded with seeds. Most of it was dense and dark — hearty, practical, built to last. But tucked between two fabric shops, I found a baker selling something lighter. Soft rolls with a golden crust. Not bad. Not great. But the potential...
I bought one and tore it open. The crumb was uneven. Big irregular holes near the top, dense at the bottom. Underproofed, or maybe the oven wasn't hot enough.
"Interesting," Al said, his voice carefully flat, watching me inspect the bread like it was a crime scene.
"Shit technique," I said. "But the flour's good. Actually, really good. Earthy. Sweet."
"You're analyzing bread in the middle of a foreign market, sir."
"I'm scouting."
"Of course."
We pushed deeper. Past a spice merchant with pyramids of crimson powder. Past a blacksmith selling knives I wanted to steal. Past a tent where something screamed and the owner told customers not to worry, it was "only a little cursed."
I stopped at a produce stall. Tomatoes. Piles of them. Red and round and absolutely gorgeous. I picked one up and brought it to my nose.
The vendor, a stout woman with three chins, watched me suspiciously. "You gonna sniff 'em all day or buy something?"
"How long 'til you close up?"
She blinked at me. "Close?"
"Shut down for the day. End of business."
"I... when the sun's..." She frowned, genuinely confused. "When it starts getting dark, I reckon. Some time after that."
I glanced at Al. His expression was unreadable. The mask was too good to show anything he didn't want it to.
"Right," I said. "I'll take a dozen."
She bagged them without another word.
I kept my mouth shut until we were well past her stall. "Al. That woman. She couldn't tell me what time she closes."
"Time, sir?"
"Yeah. Time. You know. The thing clocks measure."
Al blinked. "Clocks?"
"Timepieces," I said. "Big ones. With hands. You know."
"Ah." A pause. "I've heard them called many things, but never that. A clock." He tested the word like it was a new flavor. "I've noticed a certain... looseness regarding temporal precision among the common population. It seems to be a widespread phenomenon."
"And you didn't think to mention this?"
"I assumed you'd observed it yourself, sir. The innkeeper told us dinner would be served 'when the bell rings.' I asked when the bell rings. He said, 'When dinner's ready.'"
I stopped walking. "That's not a bug. That's a feature of this world."
"It would appear so."
"And you can tell time."
"My upbringing was... unorthodox, sir. Many noble households keep a timepiece. The servants learn to read it by proxy."
Huh. Another piece of the puzzle. I filed it away and kept moving.
The building caught my eye a few minutes later. It was set back from the main thoroughfare, tucked between a tannery and a shuttered warehouse. A sagging wooden sign read "The Rusty Tankard" in faded letters.
The place was a wreck. Roof patchy. Windows grimy. A few rough-looking men loitered outside, nursing tankards and looking like they'd nursed a few too many already.
But the location was perfect. Corner spot. Foot traffic from the Bazaar. Enough space for a dozen tables and a kitchen.
"I want it," I said.
Al followed my gaze. "That dilapidated tavern, sir?"
"That dilapidated tavern."
"Might I ask why?"
"Because it's going to be a pizza joint."
He sighed. It was a masterpiece of a sigh. Long-suffering but not surprised. The sigh of a man who'd signed on for butlering and ended up as a fantasy restaurateur's wingman.
"Shall I inquire about the owner?" he asked.
"Yes, Al. Yes, you shall."
He walked toward the tavern. I stayed back, watching the building, already imagining it.
The awning would go there. Red and white stripes. A sign in warm copper lettering — something simple, something that didn't try too hard. Inside, warm light. The smell of baking bread. Music. People laughing.
I'd need a wood-fired oven. A proper one. Brick dome, stone floor, burns hot and clean. I'd need a heavy-duty work table, marble or stainless if I could find it. Good knives. Quality ingredients.
And I'd need the motherfucking guts to pull this off in a world where tomatoes were sold by women who couldn't tell you the goddamn time.
I grinned.
The Rusty Tankard stared back at me, sagging and hopeless.
I was going to make it beautiful.
Al returned a few minutes later with a thin man trailing behind him. Thin mustache. Thin patience. The owner.
"Barnaby Harkness," Al said. "He's willing to discuss terms."
Barnaby squinted at me like I'd offered to purchase his left kidney.
"You want to buy the Tankard?"
"That's what I said."
"It's a shithole."
"I know."
"It's got a reputation."
"I know."
"The roof leaks. The cellar floods. Last spring, we found a badger living in the fireplace."
"I heard about the badger." I hadn't. "I'm still interested."
He stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged and led us inside.
The Rusty Tankard was worse than I expected. The bar was scarred with knife marks and stained with decades of spilled ale. The floorboards sagged in the middle. Cobwebs hung from the rafters like decorations someone forgot to take down. The windows were so grimy they barely let in light. A faint smell of sour beer and old grease hung in the air like it had soaked into the wood itself.
But the bones were good. The building was solid — thick stone walls, a slate roof that looked recent, and proper drainage away from the foundation. A massive fireplace dominated the far wall, big enough to fit an oven later. The ceiling was high, which meant heat wouldn't suffocate the room in summer. The kitchen was in the back, small but workable, with a stone floor that could be scrubbed clean. A back door opened onto a narrow alley that could work for deliveries.
I walked through every inch. Ran my hand along the bar — solid oak, could be refinished with sandpaper and oil. Looked up at the beams — sound, no rot, good craftsmanship underneath the grime. Kicked a loose floorboard and made a mental note to nail it down before someone broke an ankle. Opened the cellar door and peered down at the damp darkness. The flood damage was old and dried. A minor fix. The well in the corner was still active — clean water, sweet taste when I cupped a handful.
The neighborhood was rough. Next door was a tannery — that explained some of the smell. Across the street, a tenement building with laundry strung between windows. A group of kids was kicking a ball made of rags in the gutter. They stopped to stare at me. I stared back. One of them waved. I waved back.
"This place has been in my family for three generations," Barnaby said, following me like a ghost. "My great-grandfather built it with his own hands. The Tankard was the first tavern in this district. Had a reputation, once. Travelers came from across Dalton just to drink here."
"And you want to sell it."
"I want to sell it before it collapses on someone and I get sued." He paused. "And before I have to watch another badger take up residence."
I laughed. Despite myself. The man had a point.
We sat at a table that rocked when I put my elbows on it. Barnaby named a price. It was high, but not outrageously high. High enough that he was testing me, seeing if I was serious or just a dreamer with a pocketful of copper.
I didn't flinch. I'd dealt with harder negotiations in IT procurement. This was nothing.
Al handled the heavy lifting. He didn't argue. He just sat there, quiet, letting Barnaby fill the silence. Every time Barnaby dropped the price by a fraction, Al waited five full seconds before responding. Five long, uncomfortable seconds where the only sound was the creak of the building and the distant clatter of the Bazaar through the grimy windows.
It was beautiful to watch.
Barnaby started sweating. He adjusted his collar. Named a lower number. Al waited. Barnaby named an even lower number. Al tilted his head, considered it, then said, "I believe we can work with that."
Ten minutes later, we had a deal. Almost half the original asking price. The gold changed hands. Barnaby pulled a deed from a locked box behind the bar — parchment so old it was soft at the edges, ink faded to brown — and slid it across the table. I signed my false name. Passed over the coins.
"Pleasure doing business," Barnaby said, pocketing the gold. "I'll be at the Grey Griffin if you need anything."
He grabbed his coat and was out the door before I could respond. The bell chimed. The door swung shut.
The Rusty Tankard was mine.
I sat there for a moment, holding the deed. The paper was warm from Barnaby's hands. It felt like nothing. Like everything. A key to a door I hadn't known I was looking for.
Al stood by the door, arms folded, watching the street through the grime. "If I may, sir — what exactly are we going to do with a dilapidated tavern in the worst part of Dalton?"
"Make pizza."
"Pizza, sir?"
"The greatest pizza this world has ever seen."
He sighed. That familiar, long-suffering sigh that I'd come to recognize as his way of saying I love you, you absolute madman. "Of course, sir."
I folded the deed and tucked it into my coat. Ran my thumb along the edge of the parchment. Felt the weight of it.
A building. My building. The first thing I'd owned in this world that wasn't borrowed or stolen or part of a dead man's life. Back on Earth, I'd rented apartments, leased cars, borrowed tools. Never owned anything outright. Now I had a tavern. A shitty, run-down, badger-infested tavern in the worst part of a fantasy city. And it was mine.
I looked around at the grimy windows, the sagging floors, the decades of neglect. Saw past it. Saw checked tablecloths, warm light, and the smell of baking bread. Saw customers laughing. Saw myself standing at an oven, doing the one thing I was good at.
This was the start.
And then the world stopped.
A blue window appeared in front of my face. Not a physical thing — no glass, no frame, no light source. It just... existed. Floating in my field of vision like a heads-up display in a video game. Translucent text on a translucent blue background.
**Welcome, Paul.**
**The Fantasy Pizza Master System is now active.**
**You have been chosen as the realm's first Pizzaiolo.**
**Preparing initial bonus: Renovation.**
I stared. I blinked. The window stayed.
"Sir?" Al's voice was distant, worried. "Are you quite alright?"
"Hang on."
I held up a hand. The text shifted.
**Renovation in progress: The Rusty Tankard → Pizzeria.**
**Estimated time: 30 seconds.**
A low rumble came from the building behind me. Wood groaned. Stone scraped. Something crashed inside. Then a series of smaller sounds — popping, cracking, the hiss of something settling.
Thirty seconds. I counted them.
When it was done, the blue window updated.
**Renovation complete.**
**Welcome to your Pizzeria.**
I turned around.
The Rusty Tankard was gone.
In its place stood a pizzeria. Warm terracotta walls. A curved wooden door with iron hinges. Windows that caught the afternoon light and threw it back golden. Through the glass I could see checked tablecloths, copper pots hanging from a rack, and at the far end of the room — a wood-fired dome oven. Already built. Already seasoned. Waiting.
"Al."
He didn't answer. He was staring at the oven, his face pale, his hands frozen at his sides. I'd never seen him like that. Al was always composed. Always controlled. Right now he looked like a man who'd just watched a building rebuild itself in thirty seconds.
"Al."
He blinked. Swallowed. "Yes, sir?"
"I think I have a magic system."
He took a slow breath. Let it out. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but I could hear the crack underneath. "I gathered as much, sir."
I walked inside like a man in a dream. The interior was perfect. Worn-in but not dirty. Cozy but not cramped. A long wooden bar, wooden chairs, and shelves waiting to be filled. The kitchen was open to the dining room — a counter separating the two, so customers could watch me work.
And the oven. Fuuuuuck.
It was beautiful. Brick dome, arched mouth, a stone floor that looked hand-laid. Copper tools hung beside it — peels, brushes, scrapers. Everything I'd need.
Another blue window appeared.
**Fantasy Pizza Master System**
**Status: Active — Tier 1**
**Features Unlocked:**
**- Renovation (Complete)**
**- Ingredient Catalog (Locked)**
**- Tool Catalog (Locked)**
**- Test System (Locked)**
**To unlock features, complete the First Test.**
**Requirements:**
**- Prepare one (1) flatbread using available ingredients.**
**- No system ingredients permitted.**
**- Test must be completed within 24 hours.**
I read it twice. "Al, are you seeing this too?"
"Seeing what, sir?"
"Nothing. Fuck. It's just for me."
I focused on the window. More details expanded.
**Available Ingredients (Non-System):**
**- Common Wheat Flour**
**- Water (Well-pumped)**
**- Salt (Rock, coarse)**
**- Lard (Pork, rendered)**
**- Random Bazaar Vegetables**
**System Ingredients (Locked — Unlock via Tests):**
**- Dawn Wheat: ???**
**- Sun-ripened Tomatoes: ???**
**- Aether Yeast: ???**
**- Ember-hard Wood: ???**
**- ???: ???**
More entries below, greyed out. Dozens of them. Herbs. Cheeses. Meats. Oils. All locked.
And at the bottom of the screen:
**Currency: Real-world Coinage (Connected)**
**Current Balance: 43 gold, 12 silver, 8 copper**
So the system could handle money transactions. I could buy ingredients from it, not just from Bazaar vendors. But I had to unlock them first through tests. Achievements. A gamified progression tree for pizza.
I laughed. A loud, slightly unhinged laugh.
"Sir?" Al's voice was cautious. "Should I be concerned?"
"There's a system, Al. A fucking fantasy pizza system. It renovated this entire building in thirty seconds. It has an ingredient catalog. It wants me to pass tests to unlock better flour."
"That does sound like a system, sir."
"I'm going to be the best pizzaiolo in the world."
Al's brow furrowed. "Pizz-ay-oh-lo, sir?"
"Pizza maker. It's a title."
"Ah." He considered this. "I've been a butler, a stable hand, and a fugitive's accomplice. I suppose 'pizzaiolo's assistant' is a natural next step."
"Pizzaiolo's assistant. I like that."
"I don't doubt it, sir."
I turned to face my butler. He stood in the doorway of my new kitchen, arms at his sides, expression neutral. Behind him, the pizzeria glowed in the afternoon light. Warm. Inviting. Mine. Behind him, the pizzeria glowed in the afternoon light. Warm. Inviting. Mine.
"Find me some ingredients," I said. "Whatever the Bazaar has. I've got a test to pass."
Al nodded once. "At once, sir."
He turned and walked out.
I looked at my oven. My copper peels. My empty worktable.
Tomorrow, I'd unlock Dawn Wheat.
Tonight, I'd earn it.