We had to take a detour to reach the Old Waterfront by crossing Kaldwell Bridge. The other route cut through rival gang territory, and traveling there with the Gutter Rats would only brand me as one of them, making me a target for other gangs. I made it clear to Charles that I intended to maintain some degree of neutrality. To my surprise, he didn't protest.
Setting foot on Kaldwell Bridge was like stepping into another world. The people here wore better clothes, carried themselves differently, and looked at us with undisguised scorn. Clearly, this was a higher stratum of society compared to the docks. We stopped at a guard checkpoint where Bran handed over a pass. After a glance at me, the guards waved us through. Normally, commoners weren't permitted on the bridge, but certain groups—merchants, servants of the nobility—were granted special passes so they could move quickly between the estate district and the docks. Now that I was opening a shop straddling the border of the Old Waterfront and the estates, I too was eligible.
Once inside, the contrast became even sharper. On one side stood the neat streets and ornate houses of the estates. On the other, the Old Waterfront, scarred and sagging from years of neglect. Its buildings were half-collapsed or boarded up, with only the distant factories providing signs of life—thick columns of smoke blotting the sky. Remnants of old barricades still lingered, reminders of the Plague years when the two districts had been forcibly divided.
Bran led me to a house just a stone's throw from the border, plainly visible from both the estate side and the guards on patrol. Its position was ideal: close enough for wealthy clients to approach without fear of gangs, and secure enough that any attack would draw swift guard attention. The building itself had three floors and a basement with a fully stocked pantry. Before the Plague it had been a shop: the ground floor for business, the upper floors for the owners' residence, and the basement for storage.
It was even close to the Wrenhaven River, perfect for moving goods in and out by boat. Too perfect.
I turned toward Bran, who was busy assessing which furniture could be salvaged. He noticed my stare.
"Something the matter?" he asked.
"This house will do nicely. In fact, it's so great that I have to wonder why no one else claimed it before me."
Bran smirked. "Knew you'd notice that. Long story short, Mr. Blue and Madame bought it back during the Rats' heyday. Smuggling brought in coin hand over fist, so we snapped up prime buildings while they were cheap during the Plague—either to expand into or resell once the city recovered."
"I take it that things didn't go as planned."
"No. We were betrayed. Some noble got to one of our enforcers, promised him riches, and he turned on us—took a chunk of our cargo and most of the property deeds with him. We never recovered. Those traitors now call themselves the Rat Gang. They've set up in the eastern Old Waterfront, and they've been harassing our shops ever since."
"And how does that involve me?"
"Charles is trying to keep the gang afloat. But it's not like during the Plague—contacts are harder to find. Most either don't want to join a gang or they're already taken by rivals, often with aristocratic backing."
"Unlike me."
"Exactly. You're young, new, and from a nation no one here's familiar with. You bring goods we don't have. Lending you one of our last properties is both an investment—and a gamble."
His words rang true. Justice's Shades confirmed it.
---
Three Days Later
It took three days to scrub and prepare the shop. Bran and a few Rats helped me sort the salvageable furniture and buy replacements for the rest. We fixed up the other floors as well, though I kept spending minimal—not out of thrift, but because the Gutter Rats were footing the bill and I preferred to funnel my own resources elsewhere.
I also "retrieved" the rest of my stock, claiming it had been hidden in a warehouse. The excuse earned me skeptical looks, but no one pressed further. To smooth things over, I shared some of my food and drink with them—cans of coffee and packs of biscuits. Small luxuries, but enough to win me some favor.
"Quite the spread you've brought," Bran remarked, eyeing the coffee.
"Yeah, I wasn't sure what would sell here, so I brought a little of everything."
"Generous of you to hand these out. Don't they cost a fortune?" Pan, one of the men, asked.
"Not at all. Back home these are everyday items. Decent quality, made affordable for commoners. A can or a pack only costs about one gold."
They peppered me with more questions about my homeland. I embellished freely. Democracy fascinated them—the idea that people could elect their leaders instead of living under a crown. Cars astonished them even more. Trains, they understood, but vehicles that roamed roads freely? That was unthinkable with their whale-oil engines, far too bulky for anything smaller. Perhaps a genius like Sokolov could devise one, but the odds of my meeting him seemed slim.
---
Four More Days Later
At last, the building looked presentable. The crew left after wishing me luck, promising to visit occasionally. As soon as they were gone, I sprinted upstairs to the third floor. The mattress I'd been sleeping on vanished into my inventory, and within minutes, my system shop had transformed the barren room into something out of a noble's dream: a king-sized bed with cashmere blankets, polished mahogany furniture, and a tidy work corner. All dirt cheap, thanks to the system's "mundane" category.
The second floor soon followed. Wooden chairs gave way to cushioned sofas and a recliner with a massage and heating function. The kitchen sprouted a gas stove, a microwave, even a pizza oven. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with my favorite novels. A television was out of the question, but otherwise, this was comfort incarnate.
I left the ground floor untouched. The ground floor had to remain austere—any hint of wealth there might spook patrons or arouse suspicion. The upper floors, I could hide behind curtains and locks.
As for the basement, I bought mothballs and rat poison. I had seen the size of rats both in game and in person and frankly, they need to stay the hell out.
Satisfied, I sat down—only to remember the tickets I had yet to redeem. I started with the silver random tickets first.
[Warhammer 40k]
|Uncommon Item|
40,000 regular quality standard Iron Warhammers, you can take out one at a time from your system storage. What did you think it was?
Oh well. At least I won't run out of them any time soon.
[Cardboard World]
|Uncommon Trait|
You have complete and perfect control over your own strength and the power you exert, even with enough power to shatter a planet you can still easily punch with low enough force to not hurt a foam brick.
Useful.
[Trainee Tinker]
|Rare Trait|
You are a Tinker who just started their journey. The efficiency of all Tinker abilities are slightly enhanced; you are faster and more resourceful when building technological constructs.
Nice. It means I can build my own items.
(AN: I kinda forgot to explain how the system works in detail)
The system lets me sell just about anything, though the price changes depending on the world and how much demand the item has. But there are rules that keep me from abusing it. For one, I can only sell things that actually belong to me—I can't just steal rare gear and flip it for a profit. That means my main ways of earning SC are either selling stuff I pull from the chaos gacha or things I buy from the system store.
Both have downsides. The gacha costs tickets, and while the items I get are usually better than what's in the store, I don't get to choose—RNG decides what I pull. On top of that, the system takes a cut whenever I sell gacha items, so I lose part of the profit. The system store, on the other hand, lets me pick exactly what I want, but buying from it eats into my SC. Basically, I end up spending SC just to earn SC, which makes the profit smaller than the gacha.
But there's a loophole: crafting my own stuff. If I make it myself, it doesn't fall under the gacha or the store rules, so none of the penalties apply. Feels intentional, too—I doubt eldritch beings who designed this system would miss something that obvious.
With that thought in mind, I redeemed the bronze item tickets.
[Gale Force Reading Glasses]
|Uncommon Item|
Fairy Tail - A magical item in the form of a pair of spectacles. Wearing these glasses allows one to read books much faster. Allowing them to read any book they are holding 64x faster without sacrificing reading comprehension.
This would synergize well with my grimoire and my Trainee Tinker Trait.
[Scrap Iron Candy]
|Common Item|
Blacksouls -"Tastes like its name" When consumed, bolsters the user's defence for 30mins
I headed down to the shop floor and started stocking shelves with just about everything I wasn't using—except XII – The Hanged Man and the Weapon Voucher. I could pass off most of my odd items as "alchemy," but those two were harder to explain. Better to keep them tucked away in case of an emergency.
---
Six hours later
Business was slow. A few people wandered in, mostly factory workers, but none of them were too interested in the stranger-looking things I had for sale. What they really wanted was food and booze. That made my decision easy—I'd stock alcohol from the system store. I wouldn't make much SC from it, but it would put my shop on the map. More customers meant more sales, more sales meant more SC and gold.
By the end of the day, I'd sold seven items: food, water, alcohol, and coffee.
+100 SC.
Not amazing, but not bad either. And once Charles finished moving the cigarettes, things would really pick up. Bran had said they were still negotiating with a distributor, but the guy was hesitant since he'd never heard of the brand or where it was "imported" from. Still, premium quality speaks for itself, and money talks louder than anything else in this city.
I sat behind the counter, nose deep in Return of the King, when the shop bell jingled. Folding the page corner, I looked up. In walked Archibald.
"Evening, Eivor," he said, setting his coat and hat on the hanger.
"Archibald."
He raised a brow. "A tip, if I may. When addressing someone of higher station, you're expected to use 'Sir' or the family name. I don't mind in private, but in public it's best to keep up appearances." His tone was calm—advice, not a scolding.
"Fair enough. I'll keep that in mind. What brings you here?"
"Curiosity. I wanted to see how business was going… and what else you have in stock."
He browsed until his eyes landed on the [Gold Ring Gift]. He picked it up, turning it in his fingers. "Strange piece of jewelry. Can't quite put my finger on it."
"It's said that if you gift it to someone you love, the pattern shifts to match them."
"So it's magic?" he asked with a smirk.
"Not magic. Alchemy. The alchemists back home mastered metallurgy and chemistry well enough to make things that look like magic to outsiders."
He chuckled, unconvinced—until I showed him the [All-Purpose Tool]. I switched it from screwdriver to hammer to knife.
The look on his face was priceless. He snatched it up, fascinated.
"How?"
"Alchemy. Picture a tool—any tool," I told him.
He did. The tool shifted into a drill, then a carving knife, before snapping back to a screwdriver.
"How is this possible?" he muttered, still staring at it.
"Don't ask me. I grew up around alchemists and even I don't know the details." A flat-out lie, but one he was too dazzled to question.
"How much for the ring and the tool?"
"How does 1000 sound?"
His jaw dropped. "That's far too cheap!"
"Think of it as a discount—from one business partner to another."
He looked ready to argue but gave in, dropped the money, and hurried out with his new treasures like a man fleeing a crime scene. A few seconds later, I heard him yelling at someone, followed by a carriage pulling away.
I sat back down, shook my head, and reopened my book. His reaction had been worth it, but I couldn't help wondering if I'd just made a mistake letting him see that.
"That's future Eivor's problem," I muttered, and kept reading.
[ All-purpose tool]: Sold
-200SC-
100SC
[ Gold Ring Gift]: Sold
-600SC-
450SC
Excerpt from a week later: Damn you Past Eivor!!!!!