"Poverty is not a lack of money. Poverty is a lack of leverage." — Kael, Year 0.
The radiator in Dorm Room 304 rattled like a dying man's chest, leaking more steam than heat.
Kael sat wrapped in a thin wool blanket, his breath misting in the freezing air of Voransk. Outside the frosted window, the grey skyline of the industrial district was choked with smog. It was midday, but the sun looked like a bruised coin behind the clouds.
On his desk, a battered laptop hummed—the only source of warmth in the room.
Kael ignored the cold. He was staring at a number on the screen.
Balance: 4,200 Voransk Rubles (VR).
"Price of a loaf of bread," Kael muttered, checking a news ticker in another tab. "Four hundred and fifty. Inflation rate... twelve percent since yesterday morning."
He did the mental math instantly. At this rate, his entire life savings—money scraped together from fixing professors' laptops and doing other students' homework—would buy him exactly nine loaves of bread by next week. By the end of the month, it wouldn't even buy the air in the bag.
The Republic of Voransk was collapsing. The sanctions had strangled the economy, the central bank was printing money to heat the furnaces, and the people were starving.
But Kael wasn't panicking. He didn't feel fear. He felt a cold, detached fascination.
To everyone else, this was a tragedy. To Kael, it was an accounting error.
The system is inefficient, he thought, tapping a frozen finger against the desk. Value still exists. The farmers are growing potatoes. The power plant is burning coal. The students are studying. But the medium of exchange—the currency—is broken.
He looked away from the screen and picked up a heavy, leather-bound notebook. It was physical, tangible. He opened it to the first page.
Project: Zero-Point.
He stood up, his joints popping, and walked to the window. Below, in the university courtyard, he saw a line of students queuing for the subsidized cafeteria. They were freezing, hungry, and desperate. They had skills—coders, engineers, biologists—but they were broke because their scholarships were paid in worthless currency.
"Labor exists," Kael whispered to the glass. "Demand exists. But the bridge is burned."
He put on his coat. It was threadbare, but it looked professional enough if he kept the collar up. He wasn't going to the bank. He was going to the Dean's office.
Dean Volkov looked like a bulldog who had been forced to eat lemons. He sat behind a mahogany desk that was too big for his shrinking budget, rubbing his temples.
"I don't have time for scholarship appeals, Kael," Volkov grunted, not looking up from a stack of unpaid utility bills. " The heating bill for the server room alone is enough to bankrupt us. Unless you have a way to turn snow into coal, get out."
"I don't want a scholarship," Kael said calmly, taking a seat without asking. "And I can't turn snow into coal. But I can make your heating bill disappear."
Volkov stopped rubbing his temples. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "I'm listening."
Kael placed a single sheet of paper on the desk. It wasn't a plea; it was a spreadsheet.
"The University runs its own power generator," Kael stated. "It's old, Soviet-era, but it works. You have surplus electricity at night when the labs are closed. Yet, you pay the city grid for peak hours during the day."
"The grid is mandatory," Volkov snapped.
"The grid is inefficient," Kael corrected. "Here is my proposal. You give me full administrative access to the dormant servers in the basement. The ones you haven't used since the '90s. And you give me the surplus power from the generator at night."
"To do what? Mine cryptocurrency? The market crashed, boy. Digital coins are worth less than the Ruble."
"No," Kael said. "Not to mine. To host."
Kael leaned forward. "The local businesses in town—the logistics companies, the black-market pharmacies—they can't afford Amazon or Google cloud services anymore. The sanctions blocked their payments. They need local data storage. They need a ledger that doesn't route through the Central Bank."
"And?"
"And I build a closed intranet," Kael said. "We rent out our server space to them. But we don't ask for Rubles."
Volkov frowned. "Then what do we ask for?"
"Resources," Kael said. "The logistics company pays us in fuel for the generator. The pharmacy pays us in medical supplies for the infirmary. The bakery pays us in flour for the cafeteria."
Volkov laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "Barter? You want to turn the Voransk State University into a medieval bazaar?"
"I want to turn it into a Clearing House," Kael said sharply. His eyes locked onto the Dean's. "I will create a digital token. Let's call it a 'Credit.' The businesses buy Credits with goods. The University uses Credits to pay the students for campus work. The students use Credits to buy food at the cafeteria."
Kael pointed at the window.
"The Ruble is dying, Dean. If you stick to it, this university closes in a month. My system creates a closed loop. No inflation. No sanctions. Just value for value."
Volkov stared at the student. He saw the cheap coat, the hollow cheeks, the hunger. But he also saw eyes that looked like a calculator display—cold, unblinking, and precise.
"And what do you get out of this, Kael?" Volkov asked suspiciously. "You're an accounting student, not a saint."
Kael stood up and buttoned his coat.
"I take a 1% transaction fee on every Credit generated," Kael said. "And I want complete control over the server architecture."
"1% of zero is zero," Volkov muttered.
"Then you have nothing to lose," Kael countered.
The Dean looked at the unpaid heating bill. He looked at the freezing radiator. He picked up his pen.
"You have one week," Volkov said. "If the servers crash, or if the lights go out, I'm expelling you."
One Week Later.
Kael sat in the basement of the Science Building. The room was humming.
It was warm here. The heat from the racks of old servers, now dusted off and rewired, filled the concrete bunker. Kael typed rapidly on his laptop.
Code Name: OMNI_v0.1
Status: Online.
It wasn't an AI yet. It was just a sophisticated script, an automated ledger that matched supply with demand.
Ping.
A notification appeared on his screen.
Transaction #001:
Source: Voransk Logistics Co.
Input: 500 Gallons of Diesel Fuel.
Output: 5,000 Credits.
Ping.
Transaction #002:
Source: University Generator.
Input: Diesel Fuel Received.
Output: Power Output Increased to 90%.
Ping.
Transaction #003:
Source: University Cafeteria.
Input: 500 Loaves of Bread (Paid via Credits from Bakery Client).
Output: Student Lunch Program Active.
Kael watched the lines of code scroll by.
Upstairs, for the first time in months, the radiators in the dorms were kicking on.
Upstairs, students were receiving notifications on their phones that they had been "Paid" in Credits for attending lectures.
Upstairs, the cafeteria was serving hot stew.
Kael didn't go up to eat. He stayed in the dark, watching the numbers rise.
System Wallet (Admin): 50 Credits.
It was a tiny amount. Enough for maybe half a sandwich.
But Kael smiled. It was the first time he had smiled in years.
Because he knew something Dean Volkov didn't.
He knew something that nobody in Voransk realized.
He controlled the Ledger.
He controlled the supply of the currency.
And unlike the Central Bank, he wasn't going to print more. He was going to let the need drive the value up.
"Start small," Kael whispered, watching the balance tick from 50 to 51. "Never spend the principal."
He leaned back in his chair, the blue light of the servers reflecting in his eyes like distant stars.
"And let time do the rest."
[System Notice]
User: Kael
Role: Admin
Net Worth: 51 Credits
Asset: Voransk State Intranet (100% Ownership)