After a series of experiments, Rod reached a conclusion.
The essence of his "Equivalent Exchange" ability was indeed equivalence, but the definition was far more abstract than he had anticipated.
A sophisticated, modern art clock exchanged for a battered antique from the last century? Equivalent.
A precision-engineered wristwatch exchanged for a pile of factory-fresh gears and springs? Equivalent.
A leather sofa exchanged for a stack of raw, rotting lumber? Also equivalent.
The return on his investment was effectively a game of cosmic roulette.
Rod looked over the table at the results of his latest session.
There were several silver coins, minted with archaic designs but shining as if they were 90% new. These had come from sacrificing the few crumpled dollar bills he had in his wallet.
Beside them lay a pristine acoustic guitar.
Then there was a gilded, European-style mantel clock, a pile of loose mechanical parts, and a heap of materials that barely qualified as scrap.
"Put it all together, and I should be able to scrape up some cash."
Rod picked up the antique mantel clock. He wasn't an appraiser, but the craftsmanship screamed "old money." It was heavy, intricate, and impeccably preserved.
He found a cardboard box, packed the gilded clock along with the other oddities, and headed out.
His destination was the largest antique dealer in the city center.
The shop didn't just sell history; they bought it, too. Rod chose this specific location because he knew the reputation of the owner. The man was a tycoon who treated the business as a passion project rather than a livelihood. When he saw something he liked, he paid top dollar, no questions asked.
Ding-a-ling!
The brass bell above the door chimed as Rod stepped inside.
Behind the counter sat a white man in his late sixties, peering through spectacles as he meticulously polished the barrel of an antique silver musket.
Scattered throughout the cavernous shop were several large, imposing floor staff.
In the "Lighthouse Country," the phenomenon of "Zero-Dollar Shopping"—mass looting—was famous. A shop like this, filled with high-value, portable goods, was a prime target for desperate street gangs.
These weren't just waiters. Rod swept his gaze over them. Their posture, the way they held themselves, the calluses on their hands—they were veterans.
Tsk.
This shop had some serious muscle behind it.
Rod didn't waste time looking around. He walked straight to the counter.
"I'm looking to offload some items. Can you give me a quote?"
He reached into his box and hoisted the heavy gilded clock onto the velvet mat.
"Oh?"
The old man's eyes lit up behind his glasses.
He immediately pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began to examine the piece with reverence.
"A mid-century European court clock... gilded bronze. It is rare to see one preserved in such immaculate condition."
The old man fondled the clock, clearly captivated.
"Market price for a piece like this usually hovers between eight and ten thousand dollars. But the condition is superb, and I have a personal weakness for this era."
He looked up at Rod, his expression candid.
"If you sell it to me right now, I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars. You won't find a better offer in the city, young man."
Hiss.
How much?
Fifteen. Thousand.
Rod's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected a dusty-looking clock to be worth a small fortune.
The modern "industrial art" clock he had sacrificed cost him less than a hundred bucks at a department store.
He had just flipped it for a profit margin of nearly 15,000%.
This wasn't just business; it was highway robbery.
"Deal."
Since the item was practically free to begin with, every cent was pure profit. He didn't bother haggling.
Watching the old man carefully box up the clock, Rod reached into his carton again and pulled out the guitar case.
"I'm looking to sell this too. Give me a price for the whole lot."
Rod tossed the guitar case onto the counter casually. He didn't have high hopes; the clock was an antique, but a guitar was just a guitar. He figured it might fetch a few hundred bucks.
The old man opened the case, glanced at the instrument, and shrugged.
"The guitar is a decent handmade piece, but nothing historic. If you want to sell it, I can give you a thousand dollars, tops."
The old man closed the lid, his interest clearly waning.
A thousand wasn't bad. It was still double what Rod had expected.
He was just about to nod in agreement when a voice cut in from behind him.
"Excuse me. May I take a look at that?"
A middle-aged man had appeared silently behind Rod, his eyes burning with intensity as he stared at the counter.
"Sure."
Rod blinked, stepping aside.
He couldn't imagine what was so special about a used guitar.
But the middle-aged stranger didn't even look at the instrument. Instead, he ran his fingers over the leather of the case, inspecting the stitching and the hardware with obsessive detail.
"I knew it..."
After a moment of intense scrutiny, the man looked up at Rod.
He opened his mouth and dropped a number that made Rod's scalp tingle.
"One hundred thousand dollars. I want the case."
One hundred thousand?
Rod stared at him, dumbfounded. What kind of box was worth a hundred grand?
Seeing the disbelief on Rod's face, the man didn't play coy.
"This isn't just a case. It's a custom Hermès commission, specifically designed for the guitar legend Eric Clapton. The craftsmanship is one-of-a-kind."
"I don't know how it came into your possession, but to me, this is a holy grail."
As he spoke, the man produced a business card and slid it across the counter.
Bruno Blancard.
President, Hermès Group.