Bomb Necklace (3)
It had been less than half a century since the Empire officially opened its stock exchange. Of course, companies had existed before then, and shares had changed hands in the shadows. But those deals were strictly a private league—information traded between acquaintances in noble salons, clubs for wealthy merchants, or quiet cafés.
The futures market, where people wagered on the future value of grain or specialty goods, was a lawless wilderness of fraud and scams. The arrival of the stock exchange changed everything. It ushered in an era where anyone with even a modest fortune, even the middle class, felt their eyes gleam at the sweet word investment. To them, the exchange was a new frontier of opportunity, a dream factory running at full tilt.
The young Giuseppe—or “Frog Pepe,” as his friends affectionately teased him—was one of the countless ants chasing that dream. His only pleasure was using the money he had diligently saved from his steady job at a trading firm to buy small stakes in stocks.
“Right, let’s do this again today!”
Pepe gave himself a silent cheer and pushed open the heavy revolving door of the exchange. The moment he stepped inside, a wave of stifling heat washed over him, carrying the buzz of countless voices, the sharp scent of paper and ink, and the faint tang of sweat. A massive blackboard dominated one wall, covered in barely legible chalk numbers and symbols. Men in suits shouted in front of it, clutched their heads, or argued with feverish intensity. Boys clutching papers darted everywhere, their footsteps clattering across the floor.
Pepe cut through the familiar chaos and headed for a quiet corner. His destination was a small kiosk buried under mountains of magazines, newspapers, and every investment book imaginable. This was the domain of Spencer Wise, an employee at a minor brokerage and the stall’s owner. The word domain suited him perfectly—he was a beast in his own right, and a hungry one at that.
The fact that Spencer himself was notoriously terrible at stocks somehow created a strange sense of kinship and trust. His legendary failure from ten years ago—buying the wrong company’s shares, selling his house to cover the losses, and still ending up buried in debt—was known to everyone in the business. Yet people still flocked to him. They clucked their tongues at his inability to quit the game, but his cheerful personality kept drawing them back.
Pepe was one of those regulars.
“Bring out the booze and the women! It’s time for the golden heroes to make their entrance!”
Pepe greeted his old acquaintance, now a genuine friend, with their usual ritual phrase.
Spencer, who had been sorting newspapers, looked up. Deep, bruise-colored circles hung beneath his sunken eyes, evidence of yet another sleepless night.
“Hey, you’re back. Been a while, Frog.”
Spencer’s reply was tired. Pepe dropped into the small chair in front of the kiosk.
“How’ve you been, Penny? Making any money these days?”
The question made Penny’s face twist instantly.
“Fucking hell, it’s all blue! All blue! Everything I bought has crashed! The heavens have no mercy! The second I touch something, it drops like it’s cursed!”
He slammed his fist on the table and wailed. A few people glanced over, but they were used to his outbursts and quickly returned to their own business.
Pepe chuckled and tried to console him.
“Even the bottom has a lower bottom. At least you didn’t start doing drugs.”
Though honestly, for this man, stocks were the drug.
“Are you fucking mocking me right now?”
Penny Wise glared, but his voice carried no real heat. Pepe simply shrugged. The two men stared at each other, then burst into simultaneous laughter before letting out matching sighs.
“Any decent new magazines or books lately?” Pepe asked, steering the conversation away from the minefield.
“Now that you mention it, something fresh just arrived.”
Penny reached under the counter and produced a thick, luxurious volume made of unusually fine paper. The cover bore only one word in bold, powerful lettering: Salcher.
“What is this? Did Conrad Salcher actually publish a book?” Pepe asked, eyes wide.
Conrad Salcher. The legendary, almost mythical investor of goblin blood. A book from him?
“You’re late to the party,” Penny said, tapping the cover. “The man’s running a credit rating agency now. Tells you whether a company or bond is solid gold or pure shit. I read it first—sharp analysis, accurate information. He’s planning to release these regularly.”
Spencer Wise stared down at the book and let out a deep sigh. A storm of emotions crossed his face.
“Fuck… If only I’d had something like this back then…”
He still hadn’t escaped the nightmare of ten years ago. If only someone had told him that stock was garbage. His life might have turned out completely different. At the very least, he might have kept his house.
“I’ll take a copy, then.” The thought moved him.
“Any chance of a used one? I’d even take the one you’ve already read.”
Spencer’s expression changed instantly.
“No chance, kid. Buy it new.”
Pepe clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.
“You’re too harsh. You know I’m broke after that opium company burned me.”
“You conscienceless frog bastard.”
Spencer burst into a helpless laugh. He tapped the crisp new cover; the sound alone revealed its high quality.
“I set this one aside for you, idiot. It’s selling out faster than we can stock it. You know how it is—information is the lifeblood of investing.”
There was the usual salesman’s bravado in his tone, but he wasn’t wrong. Glancing around the exchange, Pepe spotted quite a few people already carrying copies of Salcher.
“Then I’ll take this one.”
Pepe stopped haggling and opened his wallet. It had only been a joke, and he had no interest in fighting a friend over pocket change. He counted out the exact price, then added a single five-iron coin into Penny’s palm.
“A tip. Go buy yourself some cheap tea.”
“...Thanks a fucking lot, you little shit.”
Spencer grinned and pocketed the coin. Seeming slightly embarrassed by the gratitude and the tip, he cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away.
“Mind if I read it here for a bit?”
“Of course. What, afraid I’ll start charging for the chair?”
Penny jerked his chin toward the worn-out seat beside the kiosk. Pepe thanked him, sat down, and opened the book. The rich scent of premium paper and ink rose immediately.
The contents were astonishingly clear. Next to the names of corporations and bonds were credit ratings from Aaa down to B, arranged like entries on a student report card. Each rating came with a concise, precise analysis—at least it looked that way to Pepe—explaining exactly why it had been assigned.
The Imperial Railroad and Empire-guaranteed government bonds received the highest Aaa rating, exactly as expected. Below them sat the massive trading houses and banks operated by ancient, prestigious noble families. There was no mention of Grand Duke Mikhail’s Tourism Special Zone or the bonds he had issued. They had probably not yet been converted into public companies, so ordinary investors could not trade them.
Assets rated below B grade do not belong to the realm of sound investment, but rather to the perilous domain of speculation.
Pepe was still absorbed in the book when Spencer, who had gone back to sorting newspapers, suddenly muttered, “But what’s the point of any of this?”
“What do you mean? This seems excellent. At least you could clearly tell the difference between cow shit and pig shit,” Pepe answered without looking up.
With this book, tragedies like Penny losing his house without understanding why could be prevented.
“Hey.” Penny’s voice dropped. “So if you only ever buy safe stuff, when the hell do you actually get rich? Ten years from now? Twenty? I want to get rich right now! Immediately!”
Spencer Wise had shot to his feet.
“You think those lunatics over there are screaming and fighting just to buy Imperial Railroad stock or some scraps from the Albrecht ducal family’s grain company?”
His voice grew louder, his gestures more frantic as he swept an arm across the chaotic trading floor.
“No! Absolutely not! Those guys, me—every last one of us—is waiting for the one strike that changes everything! One massive jackpot! And for that, we’re ready to dive headfirst into a river of shit!”
Spencer paused to catch his breath. His eyes burned with manic fire.
“A man’s gotta taste every kind of shit there is—dog shit, bird shit, cow shit, pig shit! You have to eat it all before you can get rich quick!”
He jabbed a finger at the book in Pepe’s hands, pointing straight at the line about assets below B grade belonging to the realm of speculation.
“That’s exactly where the real gold is buried—in that pile of shit that isn’t even good for fertilizer! In that realm of speculation! The kind of mega-hit that can explode ten times, twenty times, even a hundred times is hiding in there!”
His near-scream dissolved into the roar of the exchange as if it had never existed. Just like the house he had lost.
Pepe simply stared at him in silence. Then he spoke quietly.
“Says the guy who ate all that shit and still lost his house…”
The words hit like a hammer. Spencer Wise collapsed back into his chair like an opium addict whose strength had suddenly vanished. For a long time he stared into empty space before finally opening his mouth again.
“I’ve got to recover it… I’ve got to make it all back, you bastard!”
His voice was raw and hoarse.