21. Why Not Just Open an Online Store Instead?
Blackmoon Ginseng for the base. The Pain-Quelling Herb and Darkshadow Herb, chewed in her own mouth until they'd refilled her spirit qi to the brim. And the Ten-Thousand-Year Ultimate Blood Herb, ground to powder and sifted fine. From the enormous bowl heaped with dough, she pinched off pieces one by one and rolled them into round pills—
Crafting complete.
Cho-young gazed with satisfaction at the pile of High-Grade Blackmoon Pills laid out before her. All that was left now was to sell them.
"These ten or so are going to the Sect Leaders, so I'm setting them aside..."
The donations promptly exploded.
And on and on it went — donations bursting in so fast and so furiously that the chat window lagged in real time. They were so backed up that, even with the Chrome Stones piling up in droves, some never made it onto the broadcast at all.
"Okay, hold on, everyone. That's too many! At this rate I can't possibly keep them all straight..."
What am I supposed to do about this? One shipping mistake and everything's toast. Trust was the lifeblood of any business. You took people's money, you sent them exactly what they paid for. But this was already past the point where she could keep it all straight!
That was when it happened.
One comment leapt out at Cho-young.
"An online store?"
Whoa — why didn't I ever think of that?
Even before she'd gone to Biseungdo and woken up in a woman's body, Cho-young had run an internet shopping mall of her own. But when she'd returned to 2087 Korea, she'd been so single-mindedly obsessed with raising her Universal Resonance percentage that the idea had never once crossed her mind.
Cho-young hurriedly shut off donations. The orders already stacked up numbered well past thirty.
"L-look, everyone — for now, I'll sort out the orders I've received so far and get those shipped. Anything after that, please order through the store. I'm really sorry."
"Donations are off for now. I'll ship the thirty orders that came in on stream first. Don't worry — there's a lot, and I can always make more. They won't sell out."
After apologizing again and again, Cho-young pored over the donation log to tally everything up. Ninety-seven pills in all. She'd raked in 970 Mid-grade Chrome Stones alone.
Whoa. Insane. Her palms were sweating whether she liked it or not.
For now, Cho-young packaged up the ninety-seven pills that had been ordered and called for a delivery drone.
A short while later, with the stream window tucked off to one side, Cho-young prodded at a holographic screen with her fingertip, hunting down the store.
Back in the days when Cho-young had been Seon-ju, Zewibe had been the biggest search platform there was. It had also been a place where anyone could open a store — a little shopping mall all their own.
"I have a store from way back, you see? I figured reviving that one would beat building a new one from scratch."
Cho-young tilted her head as she paged through Zewibe. Apparently people had stopped using it. There were no updates, no ad banners hanging anywhere — the whole thing existed as nothing more than a bare-bones shell of a program.
"Does nobody use Zewibe anymore?"
Cho-young had no nostalgia to speak of. At most, it was a search engine she'd been using just days ago. What struck her now was that every trace of its old sparkle had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a bleak, empty website.
Anyway, Cho-young typed in her store's name.
It was still alive after all.
"Yes. It's actually mi—"
But finishing that sentence could spell trouble if anyone who knew the old Seon-ju happened to still be watching.
"...Er, no, wait. It's my older brother's, actually."
"He passed away."
Let's just leave it at that.
Anyway, having now mourned a brother who never existed, Cho-young fixed the holographic screen with a long, hard stare. Thank goodness the store was still breathing. The listings she'd put up long ago — sweet potatoes, potatoes, corn, carrots, and the rest — were all sitting there untouched, and her notification box read 999+. Every last one was an order record or a message inquiry.
Cho-young took down every product she'd ever listed, then tapped Create New Listing. The first thing she uploaded was the High-Grade Blackmoon Pills she'd crafted.
For any online store, the thumbnail and the product page were everything. In the beginning, Cho-young had simply snapped a few phone photos — the sort that belonged on Pumpkin Market at best — and slapped them up as thumbnails, but no matter how good the goods, customers never came. Only after long trial and error did she master the craft of thumbnails and product pages, and that craft was what had drawn her thousands of followers. So no matter how remarkable the Spirit Pills were, she couldn't just throw up careless snapshots.
"Everyone — does anybody know a good studio where I could take some proper product photos?"
"I can't do that. I intend to keep this store running for a long, long time — you have to ladle the first bowl out right."
"Oh, that place sounds great."
Once outside, Cho-young made her way down the street with the stares of countless men converging on her from every direction. The place had once been called Dongdaemun District; these days, people knew it as Sector 54. Relying on her map app, she arrived at a row of half-collapsed storefronts where a very small neon sign spelled out Nice Pictures. The studio was located in a basement.
"Oh, I came to shoot some photos for my store's listings."
Bantering with her viewers all the while, Cho-young walked down into the underground shop. She slid through the glass door — and there was someone behind the counter, dozing off, head bobbing.
Tap, tap— Cho-young rapped her knuckles on the counter.
"Welcome!"
The man jolted in fright, eyes snapping open.
"Hello. I'm here to have some photos taken..."
"...Whoa. It's really Cheon Cho-young."
The owner — who wore a Chrome-Stone-plated implant on his right arm and nowhere else — breathed the words with the look of a man standing face-to-face with a celebrity. His gaze slid, all too naturally, down toward Cho-young's chest before he caught himself and snapped his eyes back up to her face.
"Don't tell me — you're a viewer?"
"Ah — yes! I'm a regular viewer!"
Cho-young gave an awkward grin. Of all things, a viewer had recommended his own establishment. Well, as long as the photos came out well, it probably didn't matter.
"I can still get my shoot done, right?"
"Of course! Right this way!"
Cho-young followed the owner's buoyant steps. And the place they arrived at—
"Huh?"
"You can shoot here."
"Wait..."
Cho-young was thrown off balance. This is even more legit than I expected?
The studio was far too lovingly put together to be dismissed as some fly-ridden ruin — the label didn't even come close. A warm solid-wood table like something out of a drama's living-room set. A vase of artificial flowers that somehow looked perfectly fresh, and wall-mounted greenery hanging on the walls. Across the enormous window, a holographic video played, evoking a view of the Alps. A plush carpet covered the floor, and beside it sat a pastel-toned fabric sofa that buoyed the whole atmosphere. Posters of natural landscapes papered the walls, right down to a simple wall clock that clashed with nothing. It was a thoroughly warm room — a quiet showcase of the owner's aesthetic sense.
"Wow."
At her gasp of admiration, the owner's eyes flooded with sorrow.
"Wh-why are you crying!"
"Huuueegh!! Someone who understands my aesthetic sense... has finally appeared......"
Oh dear. Business had apparently been dead for quite some time. Cho-young glanced at the chat window.
All hell broke loose. From Cho-young's perspective it was a special S-tier studio, but apparently it didn't sit right with the sensibilities of 2087 Korea.
But Cho-young shook her head at the camera.
"I think this place is nice. I'll shoot here."