Ahhh, I could cry..... from happiness.
To think that I started at the bottom and rose to a semi-middle position in a matter of weeks. Truly, my genius/ and luck are truly frightening.
< Host Ego is increasing by 10 %, Karma point is increasing by 3 points>
Tch, this system knows how to dampen the situations.
Leaning against the miraculously stable (and freshly painted) newel post at the orphanage entrance, I radiated benevolent oversight like a sun god. Below me, the chaotic symphony of my reconstruction played out – the rhythmic thwack of hammers (funded by yours truly), Gerrik's gravelly shouts about 'structural integrity' (suddenly passionate after a little… persuasion), and the delighted shrieks of kids finding un-rotted apples (courtesy of a merchant's conveniently rediscovered conscience). Ah, the fruits of semi-middle genius.
Idly swirling a faint, golden shimmer around my finger like a coin, I prodded the system. Alright, you cryptic ledger, that little chime earlier. Sounded suspiciously like an update notification you tried burying under the 'Karma +1' confetti. Spill. What shiny new feature are we pretending is for my own good this time?
Before the system could muster its usual evasive nonsense, a shadow fell over me – the very real, very solid kind cast by Lysandra.
She stood, hands planted firmly on hips, sawdust flecking her dark braid, a smudge of plaster on one cheekbone. Her gaze, usually calm, held the steely glint of a quartermaster running a siege. Utterly unamused.
"Eamond."
My golden eyes shimmer didn't quite flinch. I offered her my most dazzling, utterly disarming grin. "Lysandra! Marvelous work, truly. The velocity of laying bricks at? Inspired! Almost makes me believe in the inherent goodness of—"
"Mortar," she stated, slicing through my smooth patter like a rusty knife. "East wing. Needs it. Now."
I blinked, my grin held by sheer force of will. "Mortar? Lysandra, my dear, have you seen the sheer logistical ballet I'm conducting? The subtle financial nudges keeping this timber flowing? The delicate—"
"I see you leaning," she interrupted, her voice dangerously level. "Commentating. Like a particularly smug gargoyle in a nice coat. The mortar mixer," she jabbed a dusty finger towards a contraption manned by two hopeless-looking adolescents, "is empty. stops in three minutes. Fix it."
< Host Ego -5% due to External Reality Check> The system pinged, sounding unbearably smug.
Oh, stuff it, I shot back mentally, my charming facade cracking into a roguish pout. "Fix it? Lysandra, be reasonable! My talents lie in the strategic application! Grand orchestration! Not... manual slurry transportation!" I waved dismissively at the mixer. "Couldn't we... incentivize one of the strapping lads? A copper or two works wonders!"
Lysandra took one step closer. She didn't yell, but the sheer, quiet intensity of her presence was a physical force. "Eamond. The system might give you points for thinking about blankets. I need mortar mixed. Delivered. Right. Now." Her eyes narrowed lethally. "Or shall I inform the children their 'Saintly Benefactor' considers fetching and carrying beneath his newly semi-middle dignity?"
I winced. Blast. The kids were the one chink in my glorious, self-made armor, and she knew it. I glanced at the hapless adolescents, then back at Lysandra's implacable stare. The golden shimmer around my hand guttered out.
"Fine! Fine!" I huffed, pushing off the post with theatrical reluctance. "Tyranny! Utter tyranny! Exploiting my frightening genius for brute labor..." I stomped towards the mixer, muttering loud enough for her sharp ears, "...should be a Karma bonus for this, System. At least +5 for enduring indignity with such magnificent grace..."
As I passed her, I shot her a look pure cheek–wounded pride mixed with begrudging respect. "You realize this is a catastrophic misuse of assets, don't you? The sheer inefficiency of me mixing muck!"
Lysandra just pointed again, unwavering, at the waiting bags of sand and lime. "Three minutes, Eamond. The clock's ticking. And try not to ruin the fancy coat too much. We wouldn't want to dampen your... situation."
I sighed like the heavens themselves were unjust, rolling up my sleeves with the air of a martyr ascending the scaffold. The view from the semi-middle, it seemed, occasionally involved getting one's impeccably manicured hands disgustingly dirty.
...
The last coherent thought dissolved somewhere between collapsing onto the mattress and the groan that escaped me. Proper bed. The words echoed in the blissful darkness behind my eyelids. Not a straw pallet on a cold floor, not a creaking cot in a flophouse smelling of despair and cheap gin. A bed. With springs that didn't stab and a mattress thick enough to swallow me whole. The sheer, unadulterated luxury of it was almost painful.
I lay sprawled like a shipwrecked sailor, every muscle screaming a chorus of protest. The phantom scent of lime and wet sand clung to my nostrils, a pungent reminder of my… indignity. Jake, that boy, who knew such ferocity lurked beneath the grime? After my initial, masterful attempts at magically encouraging the sand (result: minor, dusty explosion, much coughing,
A faint sliver of moonlight slipped through the uncracked window of my room. My room. I let my gaze drift lazily. Walls plastered smooth, painted a soft, calming cream – no more flaking horrors or suspicious stains. A real wooden floor, swept clean, not dirt compacted over decades. A sturdy dresser, a small desk (for future strategic planning, naturally), and this magnificent bed. The lingering scent of fresh timber and paint, not mould and damp despair. It was… livable. More than livable. It was peaceful. Quiet. A door that shut properly, locking out the world. A luxury I'd nearly forgotten existed.
The thought expanded, warming the exhaustion. Not just my room. Theirs. Little Pip, who'd hugged my leg sticky with apple juice after discovering the crate. Garret, who'd smiled when he saw the new wool blankets piled high. Even that perpetually scowling older boy, Thom, who'd grunted something that might have been approval at the repaired roof beams. They all had doors that shut now. Rooms without drafts whistling through rotten frames. Beds that weren't crawling. The Matron… gods, the Matron. I'd found her earlier, standing in the newly weatherproofed dormitory hallway, just… touching the smooth wall. Her usual strong facade had crumpled. Silent tears tracked paths through the dust on her cheeks. When she saw me, she didn't speak. Just grasped my hand, her grip surprisingly strong, her eyes holding a depth of gratitude that made my usual glib remarks die in my throat. I'd simply squeezed back, muttered something utterly inadequate like "Getting there," and beat a hasty retreat before my own treacherous eyes did something embarrassing.
Lying here now, the silence profound, the soft mattress cradling my aching body, the sheer scale of it hit me. Weeks. Mere weeks ago, I was scheming for my next meal in a gutter. Now… I'd done this. Me. Eamond Richard, Billioner, turn gutter rat turned… well, turned whatever semi-middle meant. With frightening luck, undeniable genius, and a magic system that finally seemed to appreciate the value of fixing a leaky roof over exploiting a merchant's greed.
Oh, I almost forgot
Alright, you digital busybody, I prodded the system, my mental voice thick with fatigue but laced with familiar curiosity. Enough stalling. Before I succumb to the siren song of this proper mattress… what was the update earlier?
The system's response was almost instantaneous, the notification appearing in my mind's eye with a soft, silvery chime, devoid of its usual judgmental undertone. It seemed even the system recognized the bone-deep weariness of genuine effort.
< New Feature Unlocked: System Shop>
< New Feature Unlocked: VIP Tier System>
I blinked slowly in the darkness. Shop? VIP Tier?
A flicker of something old and deeply ingrained sparked through the exhaustion. Shop implied things to buy. VIP implied… levels. Status. Advantages. My billionaire instincts, long buried under grime and desperation, twitched like a sleeping dragon sensing gold.
Details? I pressed, though my eyelids felt like lead weights. What kind of shop? What does VIP do?
A ghost of my usual smirk touched my lips. Measurable advancement beyond the vague "semi-middle." My mind, ever the opportunist, immediately began conjuring possibilities: rare materials, potent boosts, maybe even something to make mortar mix itself next time...
But the heavy, satisfying ache in every muscle, the profound quiet of the repaired orphanage around me, the memory of Jake's fiercely concentrated face as he stirred the muck… it all anchored me. The scheming billionaire in me saw tools, advantages. The man who'd just collapsed onto his first proper bed in years saw… potential. For more than just survival.
Fine, I conceded, the thought already blurring at the edges as sleep pulled harder. After this synchronization, we talk shop and VIP.Knew there had to be a proper rewards program for geniuses.