Rowan's eyes snapped open to the sting of damp mud against his cheek.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Cold rain pelted down in fine, miserable droplets, seeping through his hair and trickling into his collar. His ears filled with the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the muffled shouting of vendors, and the metallic creak of a cart's wheel in need of oil.
The sky above him was gray, sagging low over a town he didn't recognize. The stink of spoiled vegetables, horse manure, and unwashed bodies pressed into him from all sides. The narrow alley where he lay was little more than a dumping ground: broken barrels, rotting hay, and sharp-smelling refuse piled against walls of uneven stone.
Rowan groaned, forcing himself upright. His arms trembled from the effort. His body felt different—lighter, weaker, bones far too close to the surface of his skin. He glanced down and froze.
His clothes were nothing but rags. Torn sleeves barely clung to his shoulders, and the fabric was stiff with stains he didn't dare identify. His bare feet were coated in grime, toenails cracked and dirty. Thin ribs jutted from beneath his skin, and each breath drew a sharp ache through his chest.
"…This isn't the library." His voice rasped, raw and thin.
The last thing he remembered was leaning back in his creaky desk chair, surrounded by piles of folktales and children's storybooks. He'd been halfway through one of his favorites—The Fox and the Lantern Road, a story he'd read a hundred times before—when the words had begun to blur. He remembered blinking slowly, the edges of his vision going dark.
Then nothing.
Now here he was. Not in the library, not in his cramped apartment, but a filthy alley that smelled like it hadn't known a breeze in years.
He rubbed his eyes, half expecting to wake up again. But the damp was too real. His stomach growled in a hollow, gnawing way he had never experienced before.
"Where…" He coughed, the sound cracking in his throat. "Where the hell am I?"
Before panic could fully take root, a crisp, mechanical voice chimed directly inside his mind.
[Infinite Market System Online.]
[Welcome, Trader.]
Rowan froze.
That tone. That cadence. He'd spent countless quiet nights in the library reading web novels uploaded by hobbyists online. He knew that robotic voice pattern.
"…No. Don't tell me." He gave a dry laugh, pressing a filthy palm to his forehead. "I've been isekai'd into poverty?"
As if in answer, something shimmered in his right hand. He opened his fingers slowly.
Resting on his palm were six silver tokens. They gleamed faintly despite the gloom of the alley. Etched into their faces were twisting runes that shifted like liquid whenever he blinked, refusing to stay still long enough for him to memorize.
The voice returned, steady and calm:
[Tokens are the currency of the Infinite Market.]
[Drop them, and fate will guide them to those who require your trade.]
"Drop… coins?" Rowan muttered. "And then what? They come crawling to me with requests? That's it?"
The System gave no answer.
Rowan stared at the tokens, baffled. His new, frail body shivered as the drizzle intensified, plastering his ragged hair against his skull. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, deep and resonant. A town clock, perhaps.
"Great. Just perfect." He rubbed his face. "You'd think if I got reincarnated, I'd at least land as a swordsman, or some overpowered mage. But no. Not me. I get…" He let out a humorless laugh. "The merchant class?"
No response.
He tipped his head back against the brick wall, staring at the overcast sky. His thoughts drifted to the library back home. The dusty smell of paper. The worn spines of books loved too much by children. Quiet evenings with nothing but a lamp and the sound of pages turning. He had always believed stories carried weight, that they shaped the people who told them and those who listened.
But this? This was ridiculous.
And yet, the tokens still gleamed in his hand.
"…Alright." He sat forward, lips curling faintly. "Let's test your nonsense, System."
He flicked one of the silver tokens into the muddy alley. It spun twice in the air, landing with a soft clink against the stones.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, before his eyes, the token pulsed faintly. Light traced the runes, silver-blue in the gloom. The coin sank into the ground like a pebble slipping beneath water, vanishing without a ripple.
Rowan blinked.
"…Huh." He tilted his head. "Well, that's ominous. Hopefully I didn't just pay rent to the rats."
The System said nothing.
The drizzle became a steady rain. Merchants outside the alley called to passersby in thick accents. Somewhere, a child cried, only to be hushed by a weary mother. Boots splashed through puddles as townsfolk hurried to cover. Life moved on, utterly indifferent to the man crouched in the gutter.
Rowan pulled his knees to his chest and exhaled slowly. The weight of his new body pressed on him—the hunger, the exhaustion, the sheer strangeness of it all.
"So this is my second life, huh?" he murmured. "A beggar with magic coins."
The words should have filled him with despair. But instead, they made him laugh—quiet, shaky, but real.
"I suppose it's still better than student loans."
The sound of his laughter faded into the patter of rain. He pressed his forehead to his knees, letting the damp cold seep into his bones.
And yet, despite everything—the hunger, the misery, the absurdity of it all—something flickered inside him.
Curiosity.
If fate truly guided these tokens…
Then who would find the first one.