The Banker Who Sees Potential 072: Sweet Success and Forgotten Oaths
Three months had passed since the wedding feast. Adijen and Minoli, the newlywed couple, had opened a small shop in the commercial district on the outskirts of Linden. Due to budget constraints, they hadn't done much promotion, but word of mouth on social media had spread, and customers kept streaming in without pause.
It was no wonder. The two were the youngest heirs to Huuriten's most renowned patisserie houses. With centuries of chocolate-making expertise from both families at their fingertips, if their confections didn't taste divine, it would mean the eaters' tongues were broken.
"Thank you. Thanks to you, we're managing to stay in business."
"It's all because of your outstanding skills."
I visited the shop about a month after it opened. When I arrived during their break time as planned, the floral wreath from the Dimensional Credit Vault was still proudly displayed out front. The couple greeted me with beaming faces, radiating pure happiness. Their fingers were dotted with bandages, a sign that handling everything without staff wasn't easy.
"We're using fragrance-free bandages to keep any chemical smells from seeping into the food during prep."
Misreading the concern in my gaze toward their hands, Adijen gave an awkward smile.
"I just meant you've been working hard."
The shop wasn't large, but considerable effort had gone into the equipment and interior setup. During construction, the couple had saved costs by painting and hammering nails themselves, even bringing over items originally meant for their new home to decorate. They'd lived frugally for those three months of prep, bracing for potential losses post-opening. Seeing they'd secured a steady base of regulars and business was booming put my mind at ease.
Well, I'd confirmed they'd succeed via Job Authority from the start, so I never doubted it. They were exceeding even those expectations.
"I came to cheer you on, but it feels like I'm the one leaving energized."
"Hearing that leaves me at a loss for words."
"We wouldn't have made it this far without you, Jian."
As Adijen extended his hand for a shake, his eyes shone with genuine gratitude. This was the pinnacle of fulfillment as a banker—not the thrill of receiving thanks, but the profound realization that you'd helped reshape someone's life. That was true purpose.
"Wishing you endless happiness ahead."
I offered my heartfelt blessing and stepped out. They were born with silver spoons, yet asked nothing from their parents. Sure, they might have started their careers from an advantageous line, but even with the power to demand more, they'd requested only their families' presence at the wedding. That resolve deserved respect.
Steady principal and interest payments were badges of trust. Once again, the bank had aided a customer's path to joy.
With chocolates for Mira in hand, my steps toward central Linden felt lighter than air.
"What's for dinner?"
I was on a one-night, two-day business trip to Linden. It was my first overnight away from Kikiwai Island since using vacation time to visit Dimension 3-1. No restaurant reservations since it was last-minute, so I planned to grab a casual bite with colleagues at HQ.
After busting my ass today, hangover soup with Senior Fred tomorrow lunch, then back to Kikiwai for half a day before a fun weekend. I'd brought Earth content to binge—my salary in gulden converted easily, letting me stock up thriftily on comics, Blu-ray movies, and games in Seoul. A few films I'd already watched fully, planning to lend to Fred.
Games, though…
"Stuck with single-player only, huh."
No matter how similar the hardware specs, no local servers meant no multiplayer. Guess inviting folks over for console co-op at home was the way.
"…Yeah, right. As if I have time for games."
I shook my head. Comics were one thing, but games would devour all my study time for work. Even with my glowing rep lately, complacency could send me tumbling anytime.
Officially, I was under the guD leader Okerus's favor. And per senior chatter, during the Nanoi loan, Elama had given a speech to the board without my knowledge. From guC and guE views, I probably looked like Elama's heir apparent.
Asked to be the neutral buffer averting faction wars without binding to any, but was I pulling it off? Bishuti's attitude toward me had softened a tad lately, but not dramatically. Probably just baseline colleague trust.
guC ace Razma? Honestly, still no clue what made him tick. No idea his pre-undead race, and he barely showed emotion anyway. His private banking counter felt like an isolated island on land—privacy paramount, understandably.
Thinking of his clients' visuals, I wished they'd stay away from me. Half seemed upright enough, but the other half—or more like sixty percent—were trouble. Hooded bruisers hiding faces indoors, women with menacing tattoos on their hands. Not your average professionals.
Even probing, Razma saw through my unease, lecturing, "Don't judge by appearances." Fair point, unarguable, but it felt aimed at his own expressionless undead self too, leaving me uneasy.
"Come to think of it, I know zilch about undead."
Maybe guilt? Lately, I'd questioned if my guC biases were misplaced.
"…I'll take this one."
Unable to resist curiosity, I grabbed a book at a bookstore. Researching this world's races and cultures was routine anyway. Tonight, I'd cut sleep to learn about undead.
While Kim Jian browsed the bookstore and met HQ colleagues, guC powerhouse and veteran private banker Ectopl Razma was vacationing in his northern Huuriten hometown. No family left after his long-ago death, but he felt no sorrow. Most human emotions had faded into oblivion.
The sole reason he lingered as undead in the living world: upholding an ancient vow.
"When's your next visit?"
A young woman approached him on the hill, gazing blankly at the lit orphanage below.
"Likely next month at earliest."
"The kids miss you dearly, Razma."
"…Good."
Razma's flat reply didn't faze her. She knew him well—the orphanage director, descendant of a friend whose face he couldn't recall. His rare non-work outings were hefty donations here, spanning decades.
Charity was a third-party label. He supplied cash to cover shortfalls, sustaining the orphans. To him, mere ingrained habit.
His near-perfect memory blurred only on this place: friend's face, exact promises, even sponsorship reasons—all hazy. Yet he persisted, not for fulfillment from kids' thanks, but mechanically forging ties to affirm identity.
Humanity was vital for bankers facing clients. Lose it fully, and even guC vets lost private banker creds. The bank sought blood-and-soul "people," not rote machines or corpses.
Razma's identity: banker. He wouldn't forfeit the pillar sustaining his emotionless shell.
"Thanks for this month's help."
"I'm the grateful one."
That thanks held a sliver of sincerity—for the orphanage's existence.
"How are the children?"
A perfunctory query, social mask for societal integration. He'd never cared for them; his recall etched names and traits unbidden.
"All healthy, thanks to you. Except one."
"……."
"Rainy. Remember her?"
Razma nodded. He recalled: last year, a five-year-old girl succumbed to terminal illness. No personal meeting, but he'd seen her photo on papers. Director requested surgery funds; he donated extra. After? Failed op, death—nothing more recalled.
Maybe she raised it to chide his disinterest. But he'd done his duty, he thought.
Her next words shattered expectations.
"No hope left, so we did the undeading procedure."
"…A five-year-old became undead?"
"Better than never living. She consented."
Razma nodded. Not novel—parents undeading young dead kids was common in Dimension 6-2. First for an orphan, though. Kids rarely self-consent post-mortem sans parents; free surgeons scarcer.
"Procedure succeeded, but…"
Thus, the instant Razma showed faint interest in Rainy.
"Her soul wouldn't settle, started shattering. Top scholar's mentoring prof long-researched it; now borrowing Dimensional Credit Vault funds. You knew?"
Another intriguing topic from the director.