Last evening, thanks to another assembled crossbow and a couple of wooden trifles, I earned 50 OP, and despite the fact that in the coming days I will likely be very busy with the chores of cashing in ore, searching for housing, and moving, I set a goal to try to earn at least 50 OP a day. My main strength is the system, and even having acquired money, a house, and some stability in life, the worst thing I can do is relax and stop developing.
"Hello, good day. I'm calling the Manhattan Gold and Silver workshop, correct?" Before going out into the city, I dialed the number of the best, in my humble estimation, option for smelting. The voice on the other side, belonging to a woman, sounded professional and pleasant.
"Yes, it's us. How can I help?"
I made a short pause, choosing the right tone—not too confident so as not to cause suspicion, but not too timid either. "You see, I have a bit of an unusual situation. I recently inherited from my grandfather... several pieces of gold ore. I'd like to find out if you can help melt them into small ingots."
After the words "inheritance" and "gold ore," the intonation in the girl's voice changed subtly, becoming more interested and businesslike. "Of course, we do that. Can you give approximate dimensions, weight? Perhaps you know the purity of the ore?"
"Only two pieces, total weight—one and eight kilograms. Grandpa said the purity there is high, somewhere around eighty-five to eighty-eight percent, but that's not precise. I think you'll be able to tell more accurately."
"Certainly. We have high-precision laboratory spectrometers on hand, so there will be no problems with determining purity. We will be able to advise you on all questions. When should we expect you?"
"I plan to be there in the next hour or two, but first I'd like to clarify a few points. I read great reviews about you and was on your site, but still..." I intentionally paused, portraying caution. "Can you really take part of the metal obtained from smelting as payment for your services?"
"Yes, it's standard practice," the girl replied kindly, and a small stone fell from my soul. "We simply subtract the cost of work from the total weight of pure metal."
"Excellent. Then the second question that concerns me. Can I personally be present during the process? After all, we're talking about serious money, and this... well, it's a memory of my grandfather. I'd like to control everything."
"I perfectly understand you," notes of sympathy sounded in her voice. "And yes, of course, that's a fairly common request. The process won't take much time, and our master can even explain everything to you as he goes, if you're interested."
"That's exactly what I'm interested in," I thought. "And so that I'm not shortchanged in the process, of course." "Wonderful. And the last, probably, question. Can I sell part of the gold directly to you? I'll need a little cash, but I really don't want to deal with banks and declarations. We're talking about an amount less than ten thousand dollars to avoid extra paperwork."
I was almost sure they would agree. For such a workshop to buy a little gold from a client who brought them a large order is a profitable deal. They, like pawnshops, will take it at a discount, which I was ready for. The girl answered almost instantly, without hesitation.
"Of course. We buy it, but the price will be twenty-five percent below the current market price. At the moment, that would be about 24,562 dollars per kilogram of pure gold."
"Alright, that more than suits me. What about certification?"
"Don't worry. Upon completion of the work, we will provide you with all the necessary certificates and receipts. They will indicate the exact weight before and after smelting, the purity fineness, as well as the cost of our services and the sale amount, if required. Everything is official."
"Well, I've found out all I wanted. Huge thanks for the detailed consultation. Expect me within an hour or two."
"Thank you for choosing our workshop. Looking forward to seeing you!"
I ended the call and exhaled. Manhattan Gold and Silver is one of the oldest jewelry workshops in New York, and apparently one of the most honest. The plan seemed solid.
Loading the heavy ore, wrapped in cloth, into the bottom of the backpack, I felt its solid weight. The absurdity of the situation amused me: carrying a fortune in an ordinary backpack, capable of changing my entire life. I moved on foot toward 47th Street in Manhattan. It was there, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, that the famous Diamond District was located.
The streets were changing before my eyes. The somewhat grim brick facades of Hell's Kitchen gave way to the sparkling shop windows and glass skyscrapers of Midtown. The air became denser, filled with the hum of expensive cars and snatches of conversations in dozens of languages. Here, in this melting pot of ambitions, my riches were only a drop in the ocean. I saw orthodox Jews with cases chained to their wrists, Arab sheiks getting out of armored limousines, Asian businessmen discussing multi-million dollar deals right on the sidewalk. Against their background, I was just another client. My legend about an inheritance from my grandfather seemed surprisingly plausible here. People leave collections of Pokémon cards worth hundreds of thousands of dollars as inheritance, and nothing. Ordinary business.
Forty minutes later I stood before a five-story building with a noble sandstone facade. The first two floors were occupied by the workshop. Behind a massive door of dark wood and glass, I was met by the cool of the air conditioner and silence, broken only by the hum of an invisible hood. A young man in a perfectly fitting suit, one of the managers, politely inquired about the purpose of my visit. Learning that it was I who recently called about a large order for smelting ore, he immediately led me deep into the workshop, into the work area.
The master, a big fellow of about forty with perfectly curled mustaches and in a leather apron, was already waiting for me. His hands were those of a worker—strong, with metal dust ingrained in the skin—but his gaze was sharp and assessing. I took off the backpack and carefully unloaded two dull, heavy pieces of ore onto a specially prepared table covered with heat-resistant material. The master, not wasting precious time on extra words, only nodded and immediately set about the inspection. I respect that.
First thing—assessment. I watched silently as the master, whose name is Enriki, like a surgeon, operated a spectrometer. He turned my nuggets this way and that, applying the sensor to different parts, and the numbers on the small screen of the device constantly changed. The master concentratedly wrote something in a worn notebook, furrowing thick brows. These fifteen minutes stretched for me an entire eternity. A swarm of thoughts spun in my head: "What if he undervalues the indicators? What will I do? Argue? Leave?"
Finally, Enriki set the device aside and delivered his verdict, tapping a pencil on the notebook:
"So, kid. The first piece—87.6% gold content. The second is worse, but also not bad—83.1%."
I mentally exhaled. In the inventory, the nuggets had values of 88% and 83%. The system, obviously, rounded the numbers, but the master's verdict was frighteningly precise. If he had called roughly 85 and 80, I would have turned around and left, but here everything was honest. I nodded, giving my consent.
Then everything started spinning. A deafening grinding sound was heard, and the steel jaws of the crusher without visible effort turned my nuggets into a pile of small fragments about the size of a fingernail. Another ten minutes, and these pieces were already carefully poured into a graphite crucible.
"It's going to get hot now," Enriki warned, putting on safety glasses and thick gloves.
A wave of dry, scorching heat came from the furnace, making me take a step back. The master placed the crucible inside, and the room filled with an increasing hum. I watched through a small window made of heat-resistant glass as the ore fragments began to lose their shape, melting away, turning into a single, glowing mass. Inside the crucible, in a dazzling glow, splashed a small sun—a hypnotic and dangerous sight. Twenty minutes later, my 1.8 kilograms of ore became liquid fire.
With a confident, practiced motion, Enriki removed the crucible and began pouring the melt into small molds. The gold flowed in a thick, glowing stream. Another fifteen minutes for cooling, and here it was, the result: sixteen ideal hundred-gram ingots and one small, frozen drop weighing 37 grams lay on the table before me. The master immediately, like a jeweler, separated 12 grams from this drop—payment in metal for his services. I had 1625 grams of pure 999 gold in my hands. Each ingot was accompanied by a small receipt confirming its authenticity.
"Good ore," Enriki suddenly said, wiping his hands with a cloth. "Your grandpa had a practiced eye. You said to the manager you want to sell some?"
"Yes, they confirmed that I could do it here," I replied, with awe placing the warm, heavy ingots into plastic containers and hiding them in the backpack.
"You can, of course," he easily agreed. "But if you want to sell more, and with a markdown of only twenty percent, not twenty-five like with us, I can suggest a pawnshop of a friend of mine. Say you're from Enriki, and he won't ask extra questions. If you take it to the street blindly, they'll rip three skins off you."
"Hmm, sounds quite attractive. Give me the address."
Having received the address of the pawnshop from the master, which to my surprise was on the same street, I felt my paranoia recede a little. Here in the Diamond District, reputation is everything. I headed toward the same manager that met me at the entrance.
Half an hour later I stepped out of the workshop onto the busy street, and the world seemed completely different to me. In the backpack, besides the gold ingots for 1225 grams, lay a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills—9,825 dollars. I'm rich! Well alright, by New York standards I even fit into the middle class with a stretch, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the feeling. As if an invisible weight had fallen from my shoulders. It became so easy to breathe, and my thoughts, no longer burdened by worries about what to live on the next day, flowed freely and clearly. This was euphoria, an indescribable emotion of freedom. Probably something similar is felt by a person who has just completely paid off their mortgage!
In such a benevolent mood, I went into the pawnshop recommended by the master. Telling the stout man behind the bulletproof glass that I'm from Enriki and presenting the certificates, I without extra questions sold another 325 grams of gold, receiving 8,380 dollars on hand.
And here the euphoria subsided, replaced by an icy prick of fear. In total I now have 18,205 dollars in cash and another 900 grams of gold. Suddenly the busy streets of Manhattan seemed hostile. Every passerby that cast a casual glance at my backpack, in my imagination turned into a robber. Not thinking long, I popped into a nearby shop, bought the cheapest and most inconspicuous plastic t-shirt bag, folded all the cash and the remaining ingots into it, and then stuffed this precious bundle into the inventory. Phew. It became much calmer. Now I can walk down the street without shying away from every shadow.
I can sell the remaining gold within a couple of days, in different pawnshops, so as not to shine a large amount at once. Но that's for later. A financial safety cushion has been created. Which means the next question on the agenda—renting new housing!
***
Returning to my cramped studio, I felt a sharp dissonance. The air was stale, and the walls seemed to press even harder than before. The contrast between this miserable shelter and tens of thousands of dollars hidden in my inventory was almost physically palpable. It was time to end this.
I immediately sat down at the laptop. On the screen pages of Craigslist and StreetEasy flashed. The filters were set clearly: Brooklyn and Queens districts, mandatory presence of a garage-extension and a backyard. The very first results made me wince. The prices, jacked up by brokers, looked like form of mockery. These digital vultures were ready to rip off thousands of dollars for a couple of emails and one showing. After ten minutes of fruitless search I, with an annoyed click, removed the checkmark "brokers" from the filters.
And a miracle happened. The price, which previously seemed inadequate, suddenly began to please the eye. Private owners rented housing twenty or even thirty percent cheaper. Deposits were more reasonable, and there was no need to pay a commission. Even though I had become an order of magnitude richer than I was in the morning, this didn't release me from responsibility. Easy money leaves just as easily if spent mindlessly.
Another half hour was spent on careful selection. I stopped my choice on three options that won me over with a decent description and live, not fake accounts of the owners.
The first, most attractive: a one-story house in Brooklyn, in the Bay Ridge area. A garage-extension, a backyard overgrown with greenery—the ideal cover from curious neighbors. Price—3,000 dollars a month plus utilities.
The second: a two-story house in the same place, in Brooklyn, but already in Marine Park. 4,500 dollars, but utilities included. A bit expensive and too much extra space.
The third: a two-story house in Queens for 3,500 dollars. This option was the most suspicious. Too sweet a price for such square footage. Obviously some catch. I decided to call it last, if I decide at all.
All thoughts returned to the first option. It was ideal. Compact, without extra rooms for which I'd have to overpay. The Bay Ridge area is strategically advantageous: next to the bridge to Staten Island, not far from the port—if I need to rent a shipping container or a warehouse, everything will be at hand. The ad itself inspired confidence: notarized lease agreement, minimum term from a year, deposit only 3,000 dollars and, importantly, readiness to accept cash. Apparently the family of Luiza was moving to another city. This meant they would likely not bother with excessive checks; they just needed a reliable tenant. Decided. I dialed the number, hoping for luck.
"Hello, good day. I'm calling about the house for rent on Bay Ridge. Is it still available?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
"Good day. Yes, available," a female voice answered, in which fatigue was heard, likely from the move and endless calls.
"Excellent. I'd like to see it. I can come over in the near future if it's convenient for you."
"Alright... And who will be living? A family?"
"No, just me alone. I'm a student, moving for studies. I just need a quiet place to study peacefully."
"Ah, a student..." in her voice a note of doubt slipped through. "You see, we're looking for someone for a long time. No parties, loud music..."
"I completely understand you," I hastened to reassure her. "I'm not a party person, on the contrary, the most introverted introvert in the world. Noisy crowds are not my thing. And a year's contract absolutely suits me, that's exactly why your ad attracted me."
On the other end of the line, there was a short pause. She was clearly weighing my words.
"Alright," she finally said. "Are you... a local?"
This was a veiled question about my appearance and origin. "I'm Caucasian," I replied directly. "Can you expect me within an hour or two?"
"Yes, alright, come over. Do you know the address?"
"Yes. I'll be there soon."
I ended the call and exhaled with relief. I passed the primary assessment. Now I needed to correspond to the created image.
The plan was simple: make an impression of reliability. First thing—wash off the very aura of Hell's Kitchen from myself. After a shower I went into a nearby clothing store and spent a hundred dollars on simple but decent clothes: clean jeans, a polo shirt, and decent sneakers. Ideally I'd also go to the barber, but there was no time left. Having changed right in the fitting room, I called a taxi.
In the yellow cab carrying me from Manhattan to Brooklyn, I for the first time in a long time felt not just surviving, but living. I'm not going to hide, but to start a new life. And ahead of me my future home awaits. Hopefully.