Chapter 018: The Chime of Profit
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{MORNDAS, SOLYRA 23, 999 – 10:31}
{LUCIAN GILFORD}
The door clicked shut behind me, and the quiet that followed was almost holy. No nobles, no gods, no expectant eyes waiting for miracles — just me, the counter, and the faint smell of sawdust and bottled water.
I had exactly five seconds of peace before my phone went berserk.
Bloop.
Bloop-bloop.
Bloop!
Another bloop. Then two more in quick succession, followed by one long, triumphant chime that sounded far too smug for something without a mouth.
I pulled it out of my pocket, squinting against the bright screen.
[Costco Wholesale System Notification]
Congratulations, Valued Supplier!
Oh no.
One tap opened a stack of pop-ups that cascaded like falling cards.
You have achieved 1,000,000Ʌ̶ in total sales!
You have achieved 2,000,000Ʌ̶ in total sales!
You have achieved 3,000,000Ʌ̶ in total sales!
You have achieved 4,000,000Ʌ̶ in total sales!
You have achieved 5,000,000Ʌ̶ in total sales!
You have achieved 5,000,000Ʌ̶ in a single transaction!
Merchant Tier Upgraded: Prestige Merchant Certification Granted!
The screen glowed with what I could only describe as bureaucratic enthusiasm. I scrolled, more out of self-defense than curiosity, watching lines of cheerful text parade past:
"Thank you for your continued excellence."
"Your exemplary sales performance has been recognized across all regions."
"Please enjoy your new benefits as a valued partner in interdimensional trade."
"Interdimensional," I muttered, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Great. Because I wasn't weird enough already."
Each milestone had apparently unlocked a perk. The app politely summarized:
Merchant's Insurance (Lv.1): now I'm protected from 'Unwanted Seizure'—whatever that meant. Theft? How could it protect me from that?
Preferred Handling(Lv.2): personal carry weight reduction by twenty-five percent.
Market Affinity: competitive merchants in range will now 'adjust pricing upward for your benefit.' Translation: I'm contagious capitalism.
Catalog Expansion: new section unlocked—Imports & Rarities. I didn't even want to imagine what counted as "rarity" by their standards.
Preferred Supplier Program (Lv.2): my costs dropped from twenty-five percent off to thirty.
And finally—
Prestige Merchant Certification: I could now open a "branch" anywhere in the city, and large-scale clients could issue "custom requests." That one would be a while. I wanted to get this shop settled before I opened another.
The total message count at the top corner said seven. Seven entire achievements. No wonder it sounded like a slot machine having a religious experience.
I dropped onto the stool behind the counter, letting my forehead rest against my knuckles. "I deliver one order to a goddess," I said, "and suddenly I'm the CEO of fantasy Costco."
Still, the numbers didn't lie. I'd sold more in one day than most small Familia merchants made in their lifetimes. And if the app was to be believed, I hadn't even scratched the surface of what it could do.
The light from the window slid slowly across the floorboards. Outside, the street was filling again with adventurers and vendors calling out prices. My phone dimmed back to its idle glow, quietly humming as if it had just upgraded my life without permission.
"Fine," I sighed. "Show me what counts as rare."
I scrolled to the new tab labeled Imports & Rarities, the little gold icon beside it pulsing like it was proud of itself. The app hesitated a heartbeat before loading, as if considering whether I was worthy.
Then the screen flooded with product tiles, each one cleaner, brighter, and more absurd than the last.
The first item was a silk duvet set — five thousand thread count, hypoallergenic, embroidered with what looked like tiny gold cranes. Price: 82,000Ʌ̶. Under the image, a tagline shimmered: "For when divine comfort just isn't enough."
"Yeah," I muttered, "that's what's been missing from my life. God-tier bedding."
A crystal decanter carved from something called 'hyper-tempered glass'. The description said it refracted light like a prism and was "resistant to both heat and mild divine radiance." Whatever that meant.
A luxury cookware set. Stainless steel, full polish, complete with utensils, trivets, and a cutting board that could double as a riot shield. I checked the price. 210,000Ʌ̶. I whistled under my breath.
Then came the fragrance section—small glass bottles with names like Elysian Drift and Babel Bloom, each worth more than ten times what I'd paid for two nights at an inn. And the reviews were glowing. Literally glowing, if the star icons were to be believed.
It didn't stop there.
An oak dining table, expandable, pre-treated for moisture and pest resistance. A telescope with digital calibration assistance. A collection of rare literature, titles in half a dozen languages, some I didn't even recognize. An acoustic piano, one of those big concert ones, priced so high I instinctively checked if the app had added an extra zero by accident.
I leaned back on the stool, blinking at the list. "Imports and Rarities," I said quietly. "They weren't kidding."
Still, something about the way the interface sorted itself caught my eye. There were subtle subcategories now: Home Goods, Luxury Decor, Cultural Imports, and a new, greyed-out one — 'Commissions (Locked)'. When I tapped it, the app politely buzzed and displayed:
"Prestige Merchant access in progress. Custom Requests will be available upon further establishment of client network."
So basically, I needed more rich people. Fantastic.
I flicked back to the main list, half-laughing under my breath as my gaze landed on something truly absurd: a solid marble bathtub, delivery only through "Large-Item Protocol," complete with "free installation assistance."
"Yeah," I murmured, "because the first thing I'm doing in a fantasy city is upgrading my bathroom."
Still, every item had potential. The nobles would eat this stuff up. Gods, too, probably. A single sale from this catalog could triple what I made selling water for a month.
I drummed my fingers on the counter and brought up the calculator again. If the trend held, I could float the next quarter's expenses on one noble's ego alone. Maybe I'd even start accepting "patronage" requests—just not from anyone whose divine aura made my spine itch.
The last product tile scrolled into view: a Velvet Curtain Set (Imported from the Other Side). The tagline read, "For those who understand luxury transcends worlds."
I stared at that line longer than I should have. Then I shut the screen and pocketed the phone.
"Transcends worlds, huh," I muttered. "Guess they finally got something right."
By the time I shut the Imports & Rarities tab, the sun was halfway up the neighboring rooftops. The window light had gone sharp and gold, catching in the dust motes that drifted lazily through the shop's quiet air. I stretched, rubbed at the back of my neck, and checked the clock again. 11:03.
For the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I was caught between relief and mild panic. Relief because the place was actually running—people came, they bought, they left. Panic because the more I succeeded, the more this app rewarded me like a casino trying to see if I'd ever stop pulling the lever.
The door chime broke my thoughts. I looked up just as it swung inward and caught a familiar pair of honey-like eyes.
"Morning," I said, straightening from the counter. "Back again?"
Rose Fannett stepped inside, her tail flicking once in acknowledgment before it settled again. The white shirt of her Guild uniform caught the light, sharp against the muted wood tones of my walls.
"I was interrupted this morning," she said, tone even but softer than before. "I prefer to finish what I start."
"I respect that," I said. "Welcome back. I'll try not to summon any gods this time, or their servants, rather."
Her brow ticked upward—just slightly—but she didn't rise to it. Instead, she set a folded sheet of parchment on the counter and adjusted her gloves. "I thought I might resume our earlier discussion. If that's inconvenient, I can return later."
"No, no. You're fine. As long as you don't mind a few interruptions."
I gestured toward the spice rack. Someone had finally stopped to browse. A tall human woman with a scarf pulled low over her nose was squinting down at the tin labels. I slipped around the counter while Rose leaned back, observing everything with quiet focus.
"Good morning," I greeted the customer. "Interested in cooking, or are you just trying to figure out why the prices are weirdly fair?"
The woman blinked, then chuckled under her breath. "Both, actually. I've never seen pepper this pure before." She turned the tin over in her hand, reading the neat label: Ground Peppercorns – 500Ʌ̶.
"Half a pouch," I said. "You'll find it strong enough that a little goes a long way."
"I'll take two, then."
I reached for the scale and parchment wrapping while she picked up another tin—this one cinnamon, finer ground and reddish. "And one of these. Smells divine."
"That one's 750Ʌ̶," I said, tying off the first two parcels.
She nodded, handed me a small pouch, and counted out the coins. I gave her the faintest smile in return, tucked them into the drawer, and handed over her neatly packed spices.
"Enjoy your meals," I said. "And try not to let anyone smell the cinnamon while you're walking home, or you'll have half the street following you."
Her laughter lingered a little after she left.
When I turned back, Rose had crossed her arms, one ear slightly tilted in amusement. "You treat customers with humor. Not something I see often among merchants here."
"Old habit," I said, moving back behind the counter. "Where I'm from, the first rule of sales was: if they laugh, they trust you. If they trust you, they buy twice."
"That seems… manipulative."
"Effective," I corrected, and earned another subtle flick of her ear that might have been a scoff.
She stepped closer to the counter again. "You mentioned before that this device—your 'ledger'—records your sales. May I see how?"
I hesitated only a second. "Sure, but I should warn you, it's like magic manifest."
Her brows drew together faintly, but she didn't argue. I turned the screen toward her, opening the transaction log—each line crisp and automatic: Pepper x2 – 1,000Ʌ̶, Cinnamon x1 – 750Ʌ̶, Balance updated: +1,750Ʌ̶.
Her gaze lingered longer than I expected. "It records every transaction immediately?"
"Every one," I said. "Sometimes faster than I do. Which, honestly, I'm not sure if I find comforting or creepy."
Before she could ask more, the bell chimed again. This time a pair of young adventurers walked in—barely older than teenagers, still dusty from the Dungeon. They whispered among themselves before one of them stepped forward.
"Uh, how much for that… brown powder?"
"Cinnamon," I said. "Seven hundred fifty a tin."
They exchanged a look, clearly not used to spending that much on food. The taller one pointed at the salt instead. "That one?"
"Thirty per pouch," I said. "Much more practical."
They paid for two, bowing awkwardly before hurrying off.
When the door closed again, I turned to Rose. "See what I mean? Sometimes it's just salt day."
Her eyes softened slightly—approval hidden beneath professionalism. "You keep a thorough track of small details. Prices, quantities, behavior."
"It's how I used to work," I said. "Back where I came from."
She tilted her head, studying me a little too closely, as if the phrase itself had weight she didn't recognize. "And where was that, exactly?"
I smiled faintly. "Somewhere a lot less interesting."
That earned the smallest hint of a smirk. "I'll need to return again soon," she said at last. "You're… different from what I expected."
"I get that a lot," I said, resting a hand on the counter as she turned toward the door.
The bell chimed once more when she left, and the street noise folded in behind her. I let out a slow breath, checking the new totals on my screen.
Three tins of spice. Two pouches of salt. 1,810Ʌ̶ in total sales before noon. Not a bad morning.
Still, my mind drifted to the way she'd looked at the device—the faint curiosity that hid under all that discipline. If she kept visiting, I'd have to find a way to throw her off the scent. Or maybe… let her look, just enough to keep her wondering.
Either way, the day was far from over.