Fame, even the smallest kind, comes with a cost.
By the time I turned sixteen, the market no longer treated me like a stray rat hiding between stalls. I had become something else—an asset, a threat, a moving profit generator. People smiled at me, not because they liked me, but because they feared losing whatever advantage I brought.
The whispers followed me everywhere.
"That's the kid who doubled Kreg's earnings."
"No, no, he's the devil who predicts the future."
"I heard he can see numbers floating in the air."
"A demon economist, that's what he is."
Some were flattering.
Most were ridiculous.
But all of them had one thing in common:
They were spreading.
And when rumors spread, profit follows.
The Choice
One afternoon, as I walked through the market, I found a group of vendors waiting for me. Ten men, each holding a small envelope. They didn't even try hiding their intentions.
"Montig," one of them said, "we need your insights."
"I need you to evaluate my new fish supplier."
"Tell me which grain brand will spike next month."
"Predict meat price changes for the next two weeks."
"Help me choose between linen and cotton imports."
And then they all lifted their envelopes.
Inside each one… money.
Bribe money.
All at once, I realized something alarming:
I had become a commodity.
Not a consultant.
Not a helper.
A product.
People had begun competing for me.
Demand was rising.
Supply was only one: myself.
And any economist, even a street-trained one, knows what happens when demand spikes for a scarce item.
The price skyrockets.
I didn't ask for their envelopes.
I didn't refuse either.
I simply said, "I'll help who I can. One at a time."
But deep inside, I felt it.
A shift.
A weight.
A dangerous responsibility pressing on my shoulders.
Recognition always comes with a price.
And I was about to learn just how heavy it could get.
When the Big Sharks Arrive
A week later, a carriage stopped at the entrance of the market.
Not a rickety supply cart or a vegetable wagon.
A polished, lacquered, expensive carriage—the kind nobles used.
People froze. A noble in our slum market? Impossible.
A tall man stepped out, dressed in clean beige attire, wearing a badge with a symbol of a roaring wave—mark of the Seawave Trading Guild, one of the largest merchant guilds in our region.
He spoke in a tone like he owned the air itself.
"Where is the boy called Montig Levan?"
Every vendor pointed at me simultaneously. Fucking Traitors.
The man approached, stopping a few steps away.
"You are Montig?"
I nodded.
"Good. You're coming with me."
I didn't move. "And why would I?"
He smiled. "Because our guildmaster wishes to hire you."
Hire me?
A street kid?
By the wealthiest trade guild in the region?
Even the vendors held their breath.
The man continued, "Your 'predictions' have reached noble ears. The guildmaster is impressed. He wishes to test you personally."
A test.
From nobles.
This could be my chance—or my downfall.
But inside my head, something buzzed.
Ping.
A window appeared.
[Opportunity Detected]
Risk Level: Medium
Potential Reward: High]
My heart beat faster.
This was it.
The fork in my road.
If I said no, I stayed a market legend.
If I said yes, I stepped into the world of large-scale economics—the real battlefield.
I took a breath. "Okay. Lead the way."
The Guildmaster
The interior of the Seawave Guild was nothing like the dusty market. Tall ceilings, glass windows, polished marble floors. People in uniforms moved in a rhythm, like workers in a giant machine.
They led me to an office.
Inside sat a man with silver hair tied back neatly, dressed in robes with embroidered waves.
His eyes were sharp—not cruel, not kind, just calculating.
"You're Montig," he said.
I nodded.
He picked up a document. "Multiple reports describe you as a boy who 'sees profits where none exist.' Tell me, is that true?"
"No," I said calmly.
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I see patterns. Profits are just a side effect."
For a moment, he stared at me in silence.
Then he laughed.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
He tossed a bag onto the table. Coins spilled out like raindrops.
"Your test is simple. Multiply this money in one week. Return here with the results. If you succeed, I will give you a place in my guild."
"How much freedom do I get?"
"Full autonomy. But if you fail…"
He leaned forward.
"Don't show your face here again."
My fingers clenched.
A week.
One bag of coins.
And a chance to step into big-league commerce.
Another window appeared.
[Quest Received: The First Capital]
Difficulty: High
Reward: Entry into Seawave Guild]
This wasn't just a quest.
This was the exam that would determine whether I stayed a street consultant—
—or became a true economic force.
I picked up the coin pouch.
"See you in one week," I said.
The guildmaster's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Good luck, Montig Levan."
But I didn't need luck.
I had an economy to conquer.