"...and that's how you make semi-fraudulent money," a young man dressed in a ragged tunic finished his teaching. He had rough black hair and a pair of cracked glasses resting on his nose. He was no older than sixteen, but the way he spoke and taught his agemates was magnificent.
Dory sighed as he dismissed everyone. He went to the back of his parents' cottage, brought back a bucket of water, and used it to wash the chalk off the wall where he had written different ways to make money.
"It would have been great if it had actually helped me achieve anything."
Dory was actually Davidson Matthew, a college student with a PhD in Business and Marketing in his previous life. He had reincarnated in this medieval world as a youth named Dorian after getting hit by a truck on his way to his graduation ceremony.
All those promising job offers, marriage proposals from billionaires, and much more were gone—replaced by a harsh, coming-of-age world filled with different races.
Luckily, he was still a human, but a poor one at that. One would have thought that with his excellent knowledge, he would have become a billionaire in a week. But Dory had figured out that the economy in this world was much more complex and rigid. Between wars, famine, and limited resources, he simply didn't know where or how to start. Not to mention, the world lacked the resources and the educated population necessary to invent and create a more conducive economy.
Knowledge is power, yes. But in a world of magic, deep-seated beliefs, and monsters, knowledge without a platform is just an intellectual way to starve.
He took the bucket back and entered the cottage. It was dark inside, even though it was mid-afternoon.
Used to the gloom, he navigated through the darkness until he found a candle and placed it on a top shelf. He then took two shining pebbles and, placing them at the center of an oak table, struck them together to create a spark.
Finally, the candle caught, and a miniature sun brightened the room—though as far as "brightening" went, the candle wasn't doing a great job.
Dory shook his head and lay down on a small mat at the far end of the room, ready to take a nap.
He hadn't even closed his eyes when he heard a loud knock at the door. Soon, a very angry voice yelled from the other side.
"Come out! You damn thief!"
Dory rolled his eyes, already knowing what was going on. He reluctantly stood up and walked to the door. As soon as he opened it, a large hand grabbed him by the collar and threw him out of the cottage, sending him rolling across the ground.
A large mob surrounded him.
He frowned. "...Now what?..."
As if answering his question, the man who had thrown him stepped forward. He was a large, tall, bald man wearing a sleeveless brown tunic. He was supposed to be a customer, but this felt more like a lynch mob. The man was a local blacksmith named Horg, whose forearms were the size of Dory's thighs and were currently gleaming with sweat and rage.
"You told my boy that if he diversified his assets by trading my steel ingots for those magic beans from the traveling merchant, we'd be rich by winter!" Horg roared, his spittle landing on Dory's cracked spectacles. "Winter is here, the merchant is gone, and all I have is a bag of literal soybeans and a forge with no iron!"
The mob behind him murmured in agreement. It turned out Dory's morning lecture on "High-Risk Investment Trading" had been taken a bit too literally by the village youth.
Dory wiped his face, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Technically, Horg, I warned him about market volatility. If he didn't hedge his—"
Horg didn't wait for the explanation. He hauled Dory up by the hair, aiming a massive fist right for the center of his face. Dory squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a hit that would likely send him back into the reincarnation cycle.
The fist connected. As Dory fell back, his skull slammed sharply against the bark of a tree near his cottage.
Before he could stand up or say a word, countless hands fell upon him. That day, Dory received the beating of his life.
Dory crawled slowly along the ground toward his cottage. It was already evening; the villagers had left long ago after he passed out.
His body ached from the countless blows, yet he didn't feel angry. He felt sorry.
He understood the situation of this world, especially this village. People were desperate. When people are hungry and watching their children grow thin, they don't want a lecture on market volatility—they want a miracle.
"Dammit," he wheezed, coughing up a bit of dirt. "I really am going to die as a footnote in history."
He finally reached the threshold of his cottage. His fingers gripped the rotting doorframe, pulling his battered body inside. The candle he had lit earlier had long since burned down to a puddle of wax, leaving the room in a thick, suffocating shroud of blackness.
Dory tried to pull himself up using the edge of the rickety table, but his hands were slick with cold sweat and blood. His grip slipped.
His head slammed against the sharp corner of the oak table—the exact same spot that was already tender from Horg's initial assault.
This time, the world shattered. A sound like a tuning fork struck inside his brain, and a blue interface materialized in front of him.
[Ding!]
[System Integration commencing... 10%... 45%... 100%.]
[Welcome, User. You have successfully bound with the SSS-Rank Service System.]
[Current Rank: F-Rank 'Dirt-Poor' Freelancer]
[Service Points: 0]
[Account: 0]