The shop had become something beyond my expectations. What began as a desperate venture to pay off the orphanage's debts had transformed into a cultural phenomenon that even I couldn't have predicted. For the past eight days, Phoenix Brand Books had been inundated with customers—first the noblewomen, then their servants, and now, to my quiet amusement, their husbands. The shelves I'd once worried would gather dust were now nearly bare, the constant stream of patrons requiring daily restocking.
The noblewomen had been the initial wave, arriving in their silk gowns and pearl-embroidered gloves, clutching their copies of Pride and Prejudice like sacred texts. They whispered behind their fans about Mr. Darcy, debated Elizabeth Bennet's choices with the fervor of military strategists, and—most importantly—spent lavishly.
Their maids soon followed, discreetly purchasing extra copies for their own secret readings. I had not anticipated how quickly word would spread through the servant quarters, but it seemed even the kitchen staff had opinions on whether Jane should have forgiven Mr. Bingley.
The noblemen's transformation from skeptics to devoted readers was both amusing and profitable to witness. At first, they arrived in carefully constructed pairs - two barons here, a viscount and his brother-in-law there - moving through the shop with exaggerated nonchalance. Their performances were almost comical in their transparency:
Lord Harwick would linger by the history section for a full quarter-hour before casually meandering toward The Art of War, his fingers twitching toward the spine like a nervous debutante reaching for her dance card. Beside him, Count Evermoor would loudly declare, "One really must stay informed about military matters," while conspicuously angling his body to block view of the romance novels he'd been perusing moments before.
Their exit strategies were equally transparent. Without fail, one would finally mutter, "Well, if my wife insists..." before grabbing a volume with the furtive haste of a man purchasing contraband. The first time it happened, Vale had to turn away to hide his coughing fit.
By the third day, the charade collapsed spectacularly.
Baron Rethis—a man better known for stuffing prize boars than reading—came barreling through the door like a cavalry charge, nearly flattening Lady Yvaine's youngest daughter in his haste. "Where's that musketeer book?" he demanded, flecks of spittle visible in his beard. "The one with the swordfights and the 'all for one' business?"
When I informed him we had one last copy, the ensuing scuffle with Viscount Tellar would have done d'Artagnan proud. Rethis emerged victorious, clutching The Three Musketeers to his chest like spoils of war, leaving behind a trail of overturned display stands and a very confused spice merchant.
The real shock came when Marquess Kethel—whose legendary disdain for literature was second only to his legendary drinking—appeared at dawn, still in last night's formalwear. He proceeded to hold the shop hostage for three hours, arguing with a spice merchant about whether Sun Tzu's "know your enemy" principle applied to trade negotiations.
"Absolute rubbish!" Kethel bellowed, slamming his palm on a shelf. "Chapter Five clearly states—"
The merchant, to his credit, held his ground. "With respect, my lord, the text says terrain determines tactics, not—"
"Blasphemy! Here, right here—" Kethel stabbed at a page with a sausage-like finger, "—it says the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy! Just last week I—"
I discreetly moved the more expensive volumes out of splash range as the debate escalated into a full-blown philosophical duel. By noon, they'd attracted a crowd of other noblemen, all suddenly experts in ancient military strategy.
The most telling moment came when Duke Evermire, who hadn't read anything longer than a wine list in decades, cornered me near the shelf.
"About this... Monte Cristo fellow," he murmured, glancing about like a conspirator. "Does he ever get to the part with the poisoned earrings? My wife keeps hinting—"
I handed him the book. He tucked it into his coat with the reverence most men reserve for holy texts.
That night, as I counted the day's earnings—a record 28 gold—Lysandra leaned against the doorframe. "So when are you telling them you made half this stuff up?"
I smiled. "When the sequels start selling."
**Revenue Update:*
Total Profit:* 312 Gold, 47 Silver
The effects were immediate. The orphans no longer looked like hollow-cheeked wraiths. Their laughter now echoed through the halls at supper. Even Lysandra, who had initially grumbled about being "stuck playing nanny," had stopped complaining. Mostly.
I even instituted nightly reading lessons for the orphans, though I told myself it was purely pragmatic.
"An illiterate workforce is a liability," I explained to Vale as I distributed primers. "If they can read invoices and tally accounts, they'll be far more useful."
The boy had merely raised an eyebrow. "Of course, Master Eamond. A purely practical decision."
**Karma Adjustment: +3**
**Reason: Literacy Initiative (Disguised as Cold Calculation)**
I ignored the notification.
Yet I couldn't deny the results. Jake, who had once struggled to sign his own name, now pored over Treasure Island with the intensity of a scholar. Little Pip, who could never sit still for more than a minute, now demanded Aesop's Fables every night. Even Garret, our resident troublemaker, had taken to carrying a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in his back pocket like a talisman.
"See?" I told the System mentally. "This is just future-proofing my investments."
**Karma Adjustment: +2**
**Note: Continued denial of altruism noted. Additional points awarded for creativity in self-deception.**
I quickly discerned a pattern among my male clientele:
The noblemen's reading habits followed a predictable pattern. First came denial ("I'm only here because my wife insisted"), then addiction (returning at dawn, bleary-eyed, demanding to know if "that Holmes fellow solves more cases"), and finally the shameful admission ("Do you have anything... darker? Like that Jekyll book, but with more swordfights?"). Recognizing the trend, I discreetly moved The Count of Monte Cristo behind the counter—a decision that increased revenue by another forty percent.
The shop's success created ripple effects throughout the community. Lady Thorne's maid delivered a warning that "The Temple is furious. Keep stock hidden," prompting me to install a false-bottomed crate beneath the counter. The orphanage's nightly readings became an event, with even the youngest children sounding out words with fierce determination. Matron Celine's health improved dramatically—where once she'd been too weak to scold anyone, now she threatened to wash Garret's mouth with soap for repeating Lysandra's more colorful language.
**Karma Adjustment: +5 (Unplanned Virtue)**
Of course, success brought its own challenges in the form of Grown noblemen who wept openly over The Count of Monte Cristo, forcing me to install a curtained alcove for discreet emotional outbursts. Most pressing was the paper shortage—Vale was currently negotiating with a mill in the next province to secure additional supplies.
Yet, despite the chaos, there was one sight that gave me pause: Alfon and Alsa—Marquess Alexander's supposedly "kidnapped" twins—sitting cross-legged among the orphans, patiently teaching them to sound out words from Treasure Island.
For the first time in either of my lives, I felt something unfamiliar—the weight of honest gold.
**Karma Adjustment: +5 (Unplanned Virtue)**
**Host Ego: [Error—Conflicting Metrics]**
As I continue my musing, I didn't notice that time had flown by if Mira hadn't woken me from my musing. The sun was beginning to set, and the pack store had become quieter.
" Eamond?" she called softly from the doorway. "It's getting late."
I blinked, glancing up from the ledger where I'd been tallying the day's profits. The shop had grown quiet, the usual bustle of customers replaced by an unusual stillness. Outside, golden light slanted through the windows, painting long shadows across the floorboards. I hadn't realized how much time had passed.
As I rose to close up for the evening, my fingers lingered on the lock. The street beyond the shop window was alive with activity, far more than usual for this hour. Shopkeepers climbed ladders to hang lanterns between buildings, their paper shades adorned with intricate paintings of golden lions and crossed swords. Flower garlands draped across doorways, their vibrant colors stark against the weathered stone. A group of children darted past, giggling as they trailed ribbons behind them.
Odd, I thought, watching a merchant carefully arrange a display of ceremonial daggers in his window. Did I miss a notice about some local celebration?
Garret bounded ahead of our group, his boots kicking up little puffs of dirt as he spun in an excited circle. "Can't wait for the festival!" he crowed, his cat-like tail flicking with unrestrained enthusiasm. "The sweets stalls are always the best part—last year, a baker from the southern provinces made honey cakes shaped like little dragons! They even piped the frosting to look like scales!"
He skidded to a stop in front of me, eyes gleaming. "And there's this old toymaker who sets up near the square—carves these amazing wooden figurines that move when you wind them. Got a jumping fox from him two years back!" His hands animatedly traced the shape in the air. "Oh! And the fire-dancers from the coastal cities! They wear these sea monster masks and—"
I paused mid-step. "What festival?"
Vale cleared his throat. "The Leonid Festival, Master Eamond," he said, as if this were common knowledge. "It commemorates the day Hero Leon united the races and ended the Five Thousand Year War." He gestured to the decorations with a gloved hand. "It lasts a full month—markets, performances, and a grand tournament. The king hosts a banquet on the final day."
A month-long festival?
The concept alone was staggering. Back on Earth, even the grandest celebrations—World's Fairs, Olympic Games, Carnival in Rio—rarely stretched beyond a few weeks. Yet here, an entire city would transform for thirty days of revelry. My fingers twitched toward the ledger in my coat pocket as my mercantile instincts roared to life.
**Opportunity Detected:
Tournament Crowds: Estimated 200% increase in foot traffic
Foreign Nobility: Potential new markets
King's Banquet: High-profile promotional opportunity**
Jake, who had been listening quietly, piped up. "The streets get so packed you can barely move. Last year, a group of minstrels from the eastern kingdoms set up right outside the orphanage—played for three days straight!"
I stared at the bustling preparations, the pieces clicking together in my mind. This wasn't just a festival—it was a month-long marketplace, a golden opportunity to expand our reach beyond Alcasa's nobility.
"Vale," I said slowly, "how many visitors does this festival typically draw?"
"Tens of thousands. Traders from across the continent, noble houses sending representatives for the tournament, even dwarven merchants from the mountain kingdoms."
I stared at the bustling street, seeing not decorations, but a golden opportunity.