The next morning, I woke up determined.
Not hopeful.
Not confident.
Just determined — the stubborn, stupid kind that keeps humans crawling even when the world kicks them in the teeth.
The bird-feed shop had traffic but zero sales.
Zero.
Not even a pity purchase.
And I still had the guild's coin pouch untouched.
Seven days to multiply it?
More like seven days to invent a miracle.
I marched to the shop, ready to break my brain again.
The old man was slumped over the counter like a corpse.
"You alive?" I asked.
He groaned. "Barely. Did you bring a real plan today or more of that 'trust me' bullshit?"
"I brought both."
He glared.
"Relax," I said. "I need to understand the problem better."
"You mean the problem where people want bird feed but don't want to carry bird feed?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "That problem."
The Real Enemy
I spent the next few hours following potential customers around.
A woman with a basket.
A man with a cane.
A teenager feeding birds in the park.
Every time someone looked interested, they backed out for the same damn reason:
"It's heavy."
"I don't have a bag."
"I'll buy it some other day."
"My hands are full."
"It's too far from home."
I wanted to scream.
This wasn't about demand.
This wasn't about price.
This wasn't about value.
This was about inconvenience.
The worst kind of enemy — invisible, untouchable, and annoying as hell.
I returned to the shop in the afternoon.
The old man looked like he'd aged ten years.
"See anything useful?" he asked.
I pressed my palms to my face.
"…We're screwed."
"Wonderful," he sighed. "I'll start packing."
"No, wait."
He froze mid-reach.
The Chain of Tiny, Stupid Problems
"I know why people aren't buying," I said.
"Because the feed is cursed?"
"No."
"Because birds went extinct?"
"No."
"Then WHAT?"
I took a deep breath.
"It's the tiny shit."
He stared blankly. "What tiny shit?"
"All the little things that pile up."
I began counting on my fingers:
"No bags, no transport, too heavy, too far, no storage jars, takes up space at home, spills easily, attracts insects, messy to carry, you can't put it in your pocket—"
"Hold on," he said, raising a hand. "Are you telling me the problem isn't the feed— it's everything around the feed?"
"Yes!" I snapped. "Your product isn't bad. Everything around it is bad."
The old man blinked rapidly.
He finally understood.
And he hated it.
"Kid…" he whispered. "That's insane."
"It's reality."
We both fell silent.
Because the truth was ugly:
Even if the feed was valuable, the inconvenience killed it.
A thousand tiny, stupid costs — none fatal alone, but together?
They murdered every sale before it even started.
A silent killer of profit.
A hidden enemy.
I rubbed my temples. "God, this is irritating."
"You think?" the old man barked. "Should I start selling pillows instead?!"
"Maybe."
"DON'T JOKE LIKE THAT!"
But the panic in his eyes wasn't fake.
The guild's pressure was crushing him.
The manipulation.
The fake suppliers.
Now this invisible chain of inconveniences.
He couldn't fight any of it.
But I could.
If I found the right crack.
The Failed Attempt
"Let's try bundling," I said. "Sell small sample packs."
The old man blinked. "We have no small packs."
"Then we make them. Hand me a knife."
"Why?"
"To cut this sack."
He handed me a knife with the look of a man surrendering to insanity.
I sliced the sack, made ten tiny bags using scrap paper, and wrote SAMPLE — 1 COIN on each.
We placed them neatly at the front.
People came.
People looked.
No one bought.
Not even the kids.
The old man groaned. "Why!?"
"It's still messy," I muttered. "It spills. It looks cheap. People don't want to waste money on something that feels like… bird dust."
"This is bird dust!"
"That's the problem!"
He threw his hands up. "We are done for. Finished. Buried. Cremated—"
"Stop dramatically dying. Let me think."
The Market's Cruel Nature
As the sun started to set, I walked outside alone and leaned against the wall.
The plaza was alive.
Stalls glowing.
Merchants yelling.
Coins clinking.
Everything moved—
goods, money, people.
Except the bird-feed.
The sacks sat there like dead stones.
No matter how many tricks I tried, they wouldn't move.
That's when it hit me:
It wasn't enough to understand the product.
I had to understand the people.
And people weren't logical.
They were lazy.
Impatient.
Easily annoyed.
If you wanted them to act—
You had to remove every single obstacle.
Even the stupid ones.
Especially the stupid ones.
The system chimed faintly.
Ping.
[New Insight: Human Friction]
People avoid effort more than they seek value.
I laughed dryly.
"No shit."
An Unexpected Visitor
When I returned to the shop, someone was waiting at the entrance.
Not a guard.
Not a customer.
Not the old man.
A woman.
Young.
Sharp eyes.
Clean clothes.
A guild badge — silver.
She was tapping her foot like she'd been waiting for hours.
When she saw me, her eyes narrowed.
"You're Montig Levan?" she asked.
"…Yeah."
She crossed her arms.
"Then congratulations," she said coldly.
"You've pissed off the wrong people."
My stomach tightened.
Before I could reply, she stepped closer.
"And now," she added, voice low—
"You've got exactly one day to get out of this district."
One day?
What the hell did I step into?