Two months passed like the wind, and Timothy barely recognized his own life anymore.
Gone were the endless late nights at the café, scrubbing tables for a few hundred pesos. He had quit without regret the moment his savings reached stability. Now, his days revolved around two things—tutoring Tiffany Co and expanding the quiet empire he was building in secret.
The Reconstruction System had become his greatest weapon. Every midnight, without fail, another chance stacked onto his tally. By now, sixty shimmering attempts were waiting in reserve. Sixty chances to turn worthless junk into fortune. Sixty golden bullets aimed at poverty's head.
And he had already made good use of them.
Tiffany had noticed it first.
"You're sharper than ever these days," she remarked during one of their sessions, watching him glide through explanations as if he had memorized entire textbooks.
What she didn't know was that he had reconstructed an entire vial of brain enhancer pills—thirty capsules born from a handful of mentos. One reconstruction, thirty doses. He didn't take them every day, only when he needed to teach Tiffany or face his own exams, but the difference was staggering. Every time the pill kicked in, his mind blazed like a forge, and his tutoring transformed from simple lessons to masterclass.
She had increased his pay without hesitation. What started as ₱2,000 per session was now ₱5,000. Twice a week, sometimes thrice when exams drew near. For Tiffany, the money was pocket change. For Timothy, it was another step out of the pit he had been born into.
Beyond tutoring, his true fortune came from jewelry.
Scrap rings, fake watches, tarnished necklaces—he bought them for next to nothing in Quiapo and Divisoria, then reconstructed them into flawless luxury items with complete certifications. Goldenhills Jewelry, Lucerne, Miladay—all had seen Timothy return more than once. He was careful never to flood one shop with too many items, spacing his visits across the city. A ring here, a Rolex there, a necklace the next week. Always modest, always explained as "inheritance" or "family property."
The numbers piled up faster than he imagined. His first deposit into a BDO account had been shaky, his hands sweating as he handed over the crisp bills. But now? The account balance stared back at him like a quiet crown:
₱2,432,000.
He sometimes caught himself just staring at the digits on the ATM screen, as if willing them to vanish so he could confirm it wasn't all a dream. But it was real. His name. His money.
With money came responsibility. He had applied for his driver's license right after his tutoring sessions stabilized, and the test felt laughably easy with a pill sharpening his thoughts. The examiner had barely finished asking questions before Timothy answered them. Within weeks, he had the plastic card in hand—his ticket to mobility, to freedom.
That same freedom led him to his next move.
The plan was clear: cars.
But to do that, he needed space.
He found it in Tondo, not far from his own neighborhood—a wide, open lot tucked behind high concrete walls and an iron gate. It was cheap, just ₱50,000 a month, because nobody wanted to set up shop in a place where the roads flooded and the neighbors whispered about crime. For Timothy, it was perfect. It could fit about 15 units.
The walls gave him cover. No one would see when a rusted Corolla rolled in and a week later drove out gleaming like brand-new. Inside, a shipping-container-sized room served as his office. He furnished it with only the basics for now—an old desk, a chair, a filing cabinet—but it was his.
He handled the paperwork himself too. Barangay clearance, DTI registration, BIR filing. He greased the right palms when needed, reconstructing documents to look flawless when offices dragged their feet. Within weeks, everything bore his name: Flawless Auto Resale.
Standing inside the lot for the first time, Timothy felt the weight of his journey settle on his shoulders. The drizzle from the sky pattered against the tin roof of the office. He brushed his hand against the rough wall, imagining it filled with cars waiting to be sold.
"I guess I'll have to build a scaffolding to protect the vehicles from the elements. How long would it take two weeks? And for the cost of one hundred to two hundred thousand pesos? Okay let's do it."
Timothy wasted no time. The very next morning, he went to a local hardware supplier and asked about materials—steel tubes, galvanized sheets, bolts, paint, and concrete mix for footings. The clerk gave him a rough estimate: around ₱180,000 for a simple roof structure that could cover ten to twelve cars. Labor was extra, but Timothy already had a plan.
"I'll handle the workers myself," he told the man confidently. "Just deliver the materials here."
The supplier raised an eyebrow. "You sure, boss? That's a big job. Normally needs contractors."
Timothy smiled faintly. "I'll manage."
By the end of the week, trucks began unloading steel and roofing panels into the lot. Neighbors peeked curiously through the gate, whispering about what kind of business was setting up in their backyard. Some thought it was a junkyard, others guessed a warehouse. Timothy didn't mind the rumors. The less people knew, the better.
Inside, he had hired five local men for labor—neighbors who usually took on construction jobs. ₱600 a day plus meals was more than enough to keep them motivated. They worked fast, hauling beams, welding frames, and slowly raising the skeleton of a roof.
Timothy supervised closely, brain buzzing with calculations. The System gave him the option of reconstructing the steel into finished scaffolding instantly, but he decided against it. That would raise too many questions. Better to let the workers handle the visible part, and he'd "adjust" things in secret when no one was around—smooth welds, stronger beams, perfect alignment.
Within ten days, the roof was nearly complete. A simple but sturdy shelter stretched across half the lot, ready to protect cars from the sun and rain.
When the last nail was hammered in, Timothy stood at the center of the lot, looking up at the finished structure.
It wasn't flashy. No big signs yet, no cars gleaming under the lights. But it was the foundation of something far larger.
"Flawless Auto Resale," he whispered, tasting the words like they were already carved into a signboard.
He had the money. He had the license. He had the space. Now, all he needed were the cars.