Chapter 11
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 010
Chapter Title: The Taste of Capitalism
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Time is money.
And money makes you forget about time.
It had been exactly two weeks since I'd gaslit and bamboozled the glasses guy, seizing control of the South Gate Tavern's operations.
A short time, if you thought about it.
But in those fourteen days,
this rundown old dump had been turned completely upside down.
"Oppa~ One more drink?"
"Kahaha! If it's from our Lulu, I'd drink poison!"
"Oh really? Then chug this, and I'll give you a kiss."
"You trying to kill me, you little devil! Hey! Bring the most expensive booze you've got!"
The most expensive stuff still only cost a little over two silvers, but whatever.
Anyway, the first-floor hall was no longer a dreary waiting room.
Instead of the stench of men's sweat, the air was thick with cheap but sweet perfume scents,
and it was filled with flirtatious moans and laughter, the clink of glasses.
The key to the change was simple.
A systemic revolution.
The old way was trash.
Customers would show up and just sit there blankly until the Master said "go upstairs," then they'd head to a room, bang, and done.
High turnover, sure, but low per-customer spend.
So I introduced the "Slum-Version Room Bang System."
Now the girls didn't hole up in the upstairs rooms.
They came down to the first floor actively, sitting right next to customers.
Pouring drinks, stroking thighs, nudging them to order pricier snacks.
"Master! Extra snacks for table three!"
And that little girl darting busily around the hall.
New hire, the part-timer 'Anne.'
Her specialties: short stature, orphan background, dirt-cheap labor costs.
A few hunks of bread and a handful of coppers, and she'd wag her tail all day.
"...Miss, who's that? New face."
"Yeah, just started recently. But oppa... you're pretty handsome, huh?"
"Huh? Heh heh, yeah? Guess I am kinda good-looking!"
To meet the surging demand, I ramped up supply too.
Brought in three prostitutes from the neighborhood who'd heard the rumors, putting them in the empty upstairs rooms.
Contract terms like this:
[No room rent. In exchange, 50% of sales go to us.]
Sounds like brutal profiteering, right? That's the point.
But for girls who had nowhere to crash right then,
that "no room rent" phrasing must've hit like a lifeline.
Worries about later could wait—surviving the day, having a place to sleep.
For slum dwellers, man or woman, that's the top priority above all else.
Anyway, the skeptical girls at first,
now grinned ear-to-ear at the daily sales explosions.
The Master, who used to just collect rent sitting on his ass,
was equally dumbfounded by the massive 50% cut revenue.
Money duplicating itself before your eyes, literally.
.....
4 AM. The storm of business finally over,
doors locked tight, an odd silence and tension hung over the first-floor counter.
Clink. Rattle.
The Master's hands shook as he dumped the money pouch onto the table.
Silvers, coppers, and the occasional gold coin formed a little mountain.
"......"
The Master gulped.
He took off his glasses, wiped them roughly on his shirt, and put them back on.
Like he needed to confirm it wasn't a hallucination.
"This week's net profit..."
His voice trembled like a goat's bleat.
"......10 gold."
10 gold. Back in the day, it'd take 3-4 months of scraping to even touch that much.
And now it sat piled on this narrow counter after just one week.
"...Does this even make sense?"
"No reason it shouldn't."
I casually downed my water.
"Scraped the dregs from bottles for recycling, jacked up snack prices, added seating fees and tips on top."
"Even taking all that... I mean, is it really okay to rake in this much? I still don't get it."
"Tsk tsk. If you don't get it, just don't. Let's settle up."
I stretched out my spindly hand,
expertly dividing the gold and silver piles.
Swipe, swipe.
6 to me, 4 to Master.
"......Leon."
The Master furrowed his brow, staring at my hand.
"The split's off."
"Oh, right."
Again.
Swipe, swipe.
6 to me, 3 to Master, and 1 set aside.
"That's the exact math. Yup."
"...What the hell are you doing?"
I folded fingers one by one, itemizing point by point.
"Listen up. First, 51% equity dividend. That's baseline.
Plus, management planning fee since I revamped the system with my ideas.
Training the girls, handling problem customers— that's personnel management fees..."
I rattled off about ten different "fees" or whatever,
totally mind-blasting the glasses guy.
Not like he'd understand anyway, but that's fine.
Hell, I don't really get it either. Just hot air.
"And crucially,"
pointing at the extra 1 I'd separated,
"we're reserving this much as retained earnings."
"...Retained earnings?"
"Gotta fix up the shop, stock better booze, buy the girls more clothes.
Reinvest to make more money. Need insurance for emergencies too."
Simple: emergency fund.
He got that much, nodding.
"Fine, but this split is way too..."
"Look, straight up—what've you even done, old man?
I planned the strategy, ran the ops, trained everyone."
The Master shut his mouth.
Couldn't argue—it's all true.
I rolled the brains; he just provided the body.
"And... 3 gold a week ain't chump change, right?
Think about what you used to make."
"Well... yeah, but."
He stared straight into my eyes for a moment,
"......Fine, got it."
sighed, and pocketed his 3 gold share.
I grinned, scooping my 7 gold into my pouch.
Heavy. The happy weight that might drag my pants down.
"Then I'm off to bed."
"...Oh, right. Leon."
As I stood to head upstairs,
the Master called from behind.
"What now."
"But next month's 3-gold tribute... how're we..."
I turned with a genuinely baffled look.
"Why ask me?"
"...Huh?"
"This is your shop, old man."
Conversation over.
I waved and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
You're the boss. I'm just the powerless majority shareholder.
Figure it out yourself.
.....
[This is your shop, old man.]
Watching the kid spit that and saunter off without a care,
I swallowed a hollow laugh.
"Ha, that cheeky little punk..."
Jerome. He'd spent over ten years slinging drinks on this South Gate street, seen it all.
Toughened up plenty, the type to keep cool through damn near anything.
But honestly, that kid was the exception.
The brat was born different.
When Rinea finally popped out the bloody bundle after labor,
and showed me that tiny thing for the first time,
any normal baby would've screamed bloody murder at my mug.
Not this one.
Fresh out the womb, no crying—just round eyes staring right at me.
Like asking, 'You the guy footing my life bill?'
'...What the hell is this kid?'
That chill I felt then was just the start.
Things got wilder once he started talking.
Three years old or so.
While other kids played in dirt and snot, he'd climb up to the counter where I tallied books and plop down.
"Old man."
"What."
"Another deficit this month?"
The shock of a diapered toddler saying "deficit."
Figured he overheard it somewhere, but he clicked his tongue and added,
"Dilute the drinks moderately. You think the customers are idiots?"
That's when I knew. He was something wearing a kid's skin.
Demon, genius—who knows.
But no normal human, that's for sure.
"Management planning fee? Dignity maintenance fee? Jeez..."
Jerome chuckled wryly, clearing the empty counter.
Thinks slapping fancy labels makes it legit.
Pretty words packaging "shut up and give me more money"—who can't see that?
But Jerome willingly played along with the nonsense logic.
Because he knew what fueled that ruthless greed.
[50 gold.]
The price of praying for a miracle from the gods.
The only hope to save his mother's rotting leg without amputating more.
A mere five-year-old,
stretching his face into a mask, aping adults to scrape toward that near-impossible sum.
How could you squeeze blood from a stone knowing that?
"Me... I've gone soft."
He smiled bitterly, pocketing the remaining 3 gold.
This would go to the tribute.
And if Leon didn't hit his goal...
He'd chip in from his own share then.
Stoic and prickly on the surface,
deep down, he was pretty serious about this weird family game too.
"...Whew, beat."
Jerome set aside his oil-smeared glasses for a sec,
pressing fingers into the bridge of his nose.
Another grueling day.
[Look, straight up—what've you even done, old man?]
I'd busted my ass all day nonstop, you ungrateful twerp.
So of course I was wiped.
Shop closed ages ago,
time to head home and rest for tomorrow.
The instant Jerome reached to snuff the candle,
Ding-a-ling.
A cheerful bell shattered the dawn quiet. His hand froze.
"......?"
Around 4:30 AM.
Business ended long ago, doors locked tight.
Yet the bell rang?
Jerome's eyes sharpened.
He reflexively reached under the counter for the hidden club.
Unwelcome visitors at this hour were predictable: sloppy drunks or money-sniffing thugs.
"...We're closed. Get out."
His voice rumbled low in warning.
But,
Step, step.
The figure pushing through the door didn't stop.
A small kid bundled in a cheap cloak.
And behind, a rough-looking man standing guard.
Jerome frowned. Weird combo for robbers.
Then the kid halted in front of the counter.
And tilted back the hood.
Shh—
Silver hair gleaming coldly even in the dark.
Arrogant, noble silver eyes that didn't fit the slum's grimy air.
The girl looked up at Jerome,
commanding him boldly like a subordinate.
"A slum rat named Leon here, right?"
"......Who the hell are you."
"A customer."
The girl flashed a twisted smile.
"One ready to pay top dollar... so call him. Now."
Jerome gripped the club tighter.
Instinct screamed.
This girl wasn't just some kid.
'What mess has that Leon gotten into...'
The punk had finally dragged in another monster like himself.