Thanks to another crossbow I’d assembled and a couple of small wooden trinkets, I’d earned 50 CP yesterday evening, and despite the fact that I’d probably be very busy in the coming days with cashing out the ore, finding a place to live, and moving, I set myself the goal of earning at least 50 CP a day.
My main strength was the System, and even if I got money, a home, and some semblance of stability in life, the worst thing I could do was relax and stop developing.
“Hello, good afternoon.
I’m calling the Manhattan Gold and Silver workshop, right?” Before heading out, I dialed the number of the best option for smelting, by my modest assessment.
The voice on the other end, a woman’s, sounded professional and pleasant.
“Yes, this is us.
How can I help you?”
I paused briefly, choosing the right tone — not too confident, so as not to arouse suspicion, but not too timid either.
“You see, I have a slightly unusual situation.
I recently inherited…
some pieces of gold ore from my grandfather.
I’d like to know if you could help me smelt them into small bars.”
After the words “inheritance” and “gold ore,” the girl’s intonation shifted subtly, becoming more interested and businesslike.
“Of course, we do that.
Could you give us the approximate dimensions, the weight?
Do you know the ore’s purity?”
“Just two pieces, total weight — one point eight kilograms.
Grandpa said the purity was high, around eighty-five to eighty-eight percent, but that’s not exact.
I think you’ll be able to tell me more precisely.”
“Absolutely.
We have high-precision laboratory spectrometers, so determining the purity won’t be a problem.
We’ll be able to advise you on all the details.
When can we expect you?”
“I plan to be there in the next few hours, but first I’d like to clarify a few points.
I’ve read excellent reviews about you and visited your website, but still…” I deliberately paused, feigning caution.
“Can you really accept part of the metal from the smelting as payment for your services?”
“Yes, that’s standard practice,” the girl replied amiably, and a small weight lifted from my shoulders.
“We just deduct the cost of the work from the final weight of the pure metal.”
“Great.
Then the second question that concerns me.
Can I be present during the process myself?
After all, we’re talking about serious money, and it’s…
well, a keepsake from my grandfather.
I’d like to oversee everything.”
“I completely understand,” sympathy crept into her voice.
“And yes, of course, that’s a fairly common request.
The process won’t take much time, and our master can even explain everything to you as we go, if you’re interested.”
“That’s exactly what I’m interested in,” I thought.
“And, of course, in making sure I don’t get cheated in the process.” “Wonderful.
And one last question, probably.
Can I sell part of the gold directly to you?
I’ll need some cash, but I really don’t want to get involved with banks and declarations.
I’m talking about an amount under ten thousand dollars, to avoid unnecessary paperwork.”
I was almost sure they’d agree.
For a workshop like this, buying back some gold from a client who’d brought in a large order was a profitable deal.
Like pawn shops, they’d take it at a discount, which I was prepared for.
The girl answered almost immediately, without hesitation.
“Of course.
We do buyouts, but the price will be twenty-five percent below the current market rate.
At the moment, that comes to approximately $24,562 per kilogram of pure gold.”
“Okay, that works for me.
And what about certification?”
“Don’t worry.
When the work is done, we’ll provide you with all the necessary certificates and receipts.
They’ll show the exact weight before and after smelting, the purity rating, as well as the cost of our services and the sale amount, if applicable.
All official.”
“Well, I’ve found out everything I wanted.
Thank you so much for the detailed consultation.
Expect me within an hour or two.”
“Thank you for choosing our workshop.
We look forward to seeing you!”
I ended the call and exhaled.
Manhattan Gold and Silver — one of the oldest jewelry workshops in New York, and apparently one of the most honest.
The plan seemed solid.
Loading the heavy ore, wrapped in cloth, into the bottom of my backpack, I felt its substantial weight.
The absurdity of the situation amused me: carrying in an ordinary backpack a fortune capable of changing my entire life.
I set off on foot toward 47th Street in Manhattan.
Right there, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, was the famous Diamond District.
The streets changed before my eyes.
The gloomy brick facades of Hell’s Kitchen gave way to sparkling shop windows and glass skyscrapers of Midtown.
The air grew denser, filled with the roar of expensive cars and snatches of conversation in dozens of languages.
Here, in this melting pot of ambition, my riches were just a drop in the ocean.
I saw orthodox Jews with briefcases chained to their wrists, Arab sheikhs stepping out of armored limousines, Asian businessmen discussing million-dollar deals right on the sidewalk.
Against that backdrop, I was just another customer.
My story about an inheritance from my grandfather seemed surprisingly plausible here.
People left collections of Pokemon cards worth hundreds of thousands of dollars as inheritances, and that was nothing.
Just business.
Forty minutes later, I stood in front of a five-story building with a dignified sandstone facade.
The workshop took up the first two floors.
Behind the massive door of dark wood and glass, I was met by the coolness of the air conditioner and a silence broken only by the hum of an invisible exhaust fan.
A young man in a perfectly fitted suit, one of the managers, politely asked about the purpose of my visit.
When he learned that I was the one who’d called earlier about a large smelting order for ore, he immediately led me deeper into the workshop, to the work area. Find the original chapter at novelping . com.
The master, a hefty guy in his forties with perfectly curled mustaches and a leather apron, was already waiting for me.
His hands were the hands of a working man — strong, with metal dust ground into the skin, but his gaze was sharp and appraising.
I took off my backpack and carefully unloaded two dull, heavy pieces of ore onto a specially prepared table covered with heat-resistant material.
The master, without wasting precious time on unnecessary words, just nodded and immediately began the inspection.
I respected that.
First thing — appraisal.
I watched silently as the master, whose name was Enrique, worked the spectrometer like a surgeon.
He turned my nuggets this way and that, pressing the sensor to different spots, and the numbers on the small device’s screen kept changing.
The master wrote something down in a worn notebook, frowning his thick eyebrows.
Those fifteen minutes felt like an eternity to me.
A swarm of thoughts circled my head: “What if he’s lowballing the readings?
What will I do?
Argue?
Leave?”
Finally, Enrique put down the device and delivered his verdict, tapping his pencil on the notebook.
“So, kid.
The first piece — 87.6% gold content.
The second is a bit worse, but still good — 83.1%.”
I mentally exhaled.
In the Inventory, the nuggets had values of 88% and 83%.
The System obviously rounded the numbers, but the master’s verdict was frighteningly accurate.
If he’d said something like 85 and 80, I would have turned around and left, but this was all honest.
I nodded, giving my consent.
Then things moved fast.
A deafening grinding sound filled the room as the steel jaws of the crusher turned my nuggets into a pile of small fragments the size of a fingernail without visible effort.
Another ten minutes, and those pieces were carefully poured into a graphite crucible.
“It’s going to get hot now,” Enrique warned, putting on safety goggles and thick gloves.
A wave of dry, scorching heat burst from the furnace, making me step back.
The master placed the crucible inside, and the room filled with a growing roar.
I watched through the small window of heat-resistant glass as the fragments of ore began to lose their shape, melt, turning into a single, glowing mass.
Inside the crucible, in a blinding radiance, a small sun splashed and swirled — a hypnotic and dangerous sight.
Twenty minutes later, my 1.8 kilograms of ore had become liquid fire.
With a confident, practiced motion, Enrique removed the crucible and began pouring the molten metal into small molds.
The gold flowed in a thick, shining stream.
Another fifteen minutes for cooling, and there it was, the result: on the table in front of me lay sixteen perfect hundred-gram bars and one small, solidified droplet weighing 37 grams.
The master immediately, like a jeweler, separated 12 grams from that droplet — payment in metal for his services.
I was left with 1,625 grams of pure 999-fineness gold.
Each bar was accompanied by a small receipt confirming its authenticity.
“Good ore,” Enrique said unexpectedly, wiping his hands with a rag.
“Your grandfather had a good eye.
I think you said to the manager you wanted to sell some of it?”
“Yes, they confirmed I could do that here,” I replied, reverently placing the warm, heavy bars into plastic containers and hiding them in my backpack.
“You can, of course,” he agreed easily.
“But if you want to sell more, and with a discount of only twenty percent instead of the twenty-five we’d give you, I can recommend a friend’s pawn shop.
Tell them Enrique sent you, and they won’t ask unnecessary questions.
If you go out on the street blind, they’ll fleece you.”
“Hm, sounds pretty good.
Give me the address.”
Getting the pawn shop address from the master, which to my surprise turned out to be on the same street, I felt my paranoia recede a little.
Here, in the Diamond District, reputation was everything.
I headed back to the same manager who’d met me at the entrance.
Half an hour later, I stepped out of the workshop onto the bustling street, and the world seemed completely different to me.
In my backpack, besides the 1,225 grams of gold bars, lay a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills — $9,825.
I was rich!
Well, okay, by New York standards I barely even qualified as middle class, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was the feeling.
It was as if an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Breathing became so easy, and my thoughts, no longer burdened by worrying about how I’d survive the next day, flowed freely and clearly.
It was euphoria, an indescribable emotion of freedom.
It was probably something like what a person feels when they’ve just paid off their mortgage completely!
In that buoyant mood, I walked into the pawn shop the master had recommended.
I told the slightly overweight man behind the armored glass that Enrique had sent me, showed him the certificates, and sold another 325 grams of gold without any questions, pocketing $8,380.
And right then, the euphoria drained away, replaced by a cold stab of fear.
All told, I now had $18,205 in cash and another 900 grams of gold.
Suddenly, the busy streets of Manhattan felt hostile.
Every passerby who happened to glance at my backpack turned into a robber in my imagination.
Without a second thought, I ducked into the nearest convenience store, bought the cheapest, most inconspicuous plastic shopping bag, put all the cash and the remaining bars into it, and then shoved this precious bundle into my Inventory.
Phew.
I felt much calmer.
Now I could walk down the street without flinching at every shadow.
I could sell the remaining gold over the next couple of days, at different pawn shops, so I wouldn’t flash a large sum all at once.
But that was for later.
A financial safety net had been created.
Which meant the next item on the agenda was renting a new place to live!
When I got back to my cramped studio, I felt a sharp dissonance.
The air was stale, and the walls seemed to press in even harder than before.
The contrast between this wretched shelter and the tens of thousands of dollars hidden in my Inventory was almost physically palpable.
It was time to end this.
I immediately sat down at my laptop. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Pages of Craigslist and StreetEasy flashed on the screen.
I set the filters clearly: Brooklyn and Queens neighborhoods, absolutely required — an attached garage and a backyard.
The first results made me wince.
The prices jacked up by brokers looked like outright extortion.
These digital vultures were ready to skin me for thousands of dollars for a couple of emails and one showing.
After ten minutes of fruitless searching, I clicked my tongue in annoyance and unchecked the “brokers” box in the filters.
And a miracle happened.
The price, which had seemed unreasonable before, suddenly looked beautiful.
Private individuals were renting places for twenty, even thirty percent less.
The deposits were more reasonable, and there was no commission to pay.
I might have become significantly richer than I was this morning, but that didn’t absolve me of responsibility.
Easy money left just as easily if you spent it thoughtlessly.
Another half hour went by on careful selection.
I settled on three options that won me over with their reasonable descriptions and seemingly genuine, non-fake owner profiles.
The first, the most attractive: a one-story house in Brooklyn, in Bay Ridge.
An attached garage, a backyard thick with greenery — a perfect cover from prying neighbors.
Price — $3,000 a month plus utilities.
The second: a two-story house in the same Brooklyn neighborhood, but in Marine Park.
$4,500, but utilities included.
Expensive, and too much extra space.
The third: a two-story house in Queens for $3,500.
This option was the most suspicious.
Too sweet a price for that square footage.
Obviously some catch.
I decided to call this one last, if at all.
All my thoughts kept coming back to the first option.
It was perfect.
Compact, no extra rooms I’d have to overpay for.
Bay Ridge was strategically advantageous: the bridge to Staten Island nearby, the port not far — if I needed to rent a shipping container or a warehouse, everything would be close at hand.
The listing itself inspired trust: notarized contract, minimum lease term of one year, a deposit of only $3,000, and — importantly — a willingness to accept cash.
From the looks of it, the house was being rented out by a family moving to another city.
Which meant they’d probably not bother with excessive checks; they just needed a reliable tenant.
Done.
I dialed the number, hoping for luck.
“Hello, good afternoon.
I’m calling about the rental listing in Bay Ridge.
Is it still available?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
“Good afternoon.
Yes, it’s still available,” replied a woman’s voice, laced with the weariness of moving and endless phone calls.
“Great.
I’d like to see it.
I could come by soon, if it’s convenient for you.”
“Okay…
And who will be living there?
A family?”
“No, just me.
I’m a student, moving for my studies.
I need a quiet place to study in peace.”
“Oh, a student…” A hint of doubt crept into her voice.
“You see, we’re looking for someone long-term.
No parties, no loud music…”
“I completely understand,” I hastened to assure her.
“I’m not the partying type; quite the opposite, in fact — I’m the most introverted introvert on earth.
Loud gatherings aren’t my thing.
And a one-year lease suits me perfectly — that’s actually why your listing caught my eye.”
There was a short pause on the other end.
She was clearly weighing my words.
“Alright,” she said finally.
“You’re…
local?”
This was a veiled question about my appearance and ethnicity.
“I’m Caucasian,” I answered directly.
“Can you expect me within an hour or two?”
“Yes, okay, come by.
Do you have the address?”
“Yes.
I’ll be there soon.”
I ended the call and breathed a sigh of relief.
I’d passed the initial screening.
Now I just had to live up to the image I’d created.
The plan was simple: make an impression of reliability.
First thing — wash off the very aura of Hell’s Kitchen.
After a shower, I went into the nearest clothing store and spent a hundred dollars on simple but decent clothes: clean jeans, a polo shirt, and good sneakers.
Ideally, I’d also have time for a haircut, but there was no time.
Changing right in the fitting room, I called a taxi.
In the yellow cab carrying me from Manhattan to Brooklyn, for the first time in a long while, I felt like I wasn’t just surviving, but living.
I wasn’t going to hide; I was going to start a new life.
And my future home was waiting for me.
I hoped.