Morning began with an obsessive thought: I need to get money.

  Greg sat up in bed and froze. Something clicked in his head.

  “Hold up,” he said out loud. “Money? Seriously? Am I living for money now?”

  He looked at his hands. “Like, two days ago I didn’t even think about it. Sheep don’t ask for money. Grass is free. Clouds are free. And now? Now I need those little metal circles more than ever.”

  He scratched the back of his head. His black hair was stiff like wire. “Greg, money isn’t the main thing,” he told his reflection. “Probably. I don’t know yet. But they don’t give you food without it. That’s a downside.”

  He went downstairs. His stomach growled, reminding him of last night’s feast, but Greg marched past the tables on purpose. He had only twenty coins left. No more waste.

  He walked up to the bar. The bartender was wiping glasses, looking like he hadn’t slept at all.

  “Hey,” Greg asked, leaning on the counter. “How do people even make money?”

  The bartender choked on air and laughed. The laugh turned into coughing. “Kid, you’re a real weirdo. You surprise me every minute. Maybe you are a demon. Who else doesn’t know stuff like that?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” Greg shrugged. “Demons usually want souls. I want breakfast.”

  “Alright, philosopher,” the bartender smirked. “It’s simple. You get paid for work. Take a farmer. He plows fields, sweats, grows wheat. Sells it to a miller so the miller can make flour. The miller sells flour to bakers so they can bake bread. You get the idea.”

  Greg frowned, processing.

  “Huh,” he drawled. “Weird system.”

  He looked the bartender in the eyes. “So… then that farmer and that miller go to the same baker and buy that bread? With the same money they got earlier?”

  The bartender froze with the rag in his hand. He opened his mouth to answer—then shut it. His eyes unfocused. He stared past Greg into nothing, like his whole life flashed by and he suddenly realized existence was pointless.

  “Yeah…” the bartender breathed quietly. “Turns out that’s exactly it. We just pass metal circles around until we die.”

  A heavy, existential silence hung in the air.

  “Alright,” Greg broke it. “Farmers, sure. But guys like me—how do we make money? I’m not plowing anything. That takes forever.”

  The bartender shook himself, chasing off the depression. “Well…” he sized Greg up. “You look like a shepherd who got fired for eating a sheep. But judging by last night, you can do something.”

  He waved toward the door. “You can go to the Royal Army. They pay, they feed you, but you have to march in lines and scream.”

  “Nope,” Greg grimaced. “Screaming is effort. Marching is boring.”

  “Then go to the Adventurers’ Guild,” the bartender suggested. “They pay for jobs. Kill a monster—get money. Find a cat—get money. Flexible schedule.”

  “Guild…” Greg rolled the word around his tongue.

  Something inside him answered. A faint, distant echo. Guild. Familiar. Warm. Like he’d already been there. Like it smelled of old paper and cheap ale.

  “Where?” Greg asked.

  “There,” the bartender jerked his thumb to the right. “Couple streets over. Big building with a shield-and-sword sign. You won’t miss it.”

  “Alright. Thanks.”

  Greg pushed off the counter and headed for the door.

  “Hey!” the bartender called after him. “Good luck, demon-economist!”

  Greg stepped into the street. The sun was bright, but he didn’t care—his black eyes drank light without leaving leftovers.

  “The Guild,” he muttered. “Hope they pay right away. And hope nobody makes me plow a field.”

  The building with the crossed sword-and-shield sign looked impressive. Greg shoved the heavy door open and walked into шум: crowded, smelling of ale and old leather. Adventurers sat in groups, shouting over each other.

  He went straight to the job board. His eyes jumped across the papers:

  “Catch the runaway sheep” — 10 bronze.

  “Help irrigate fields” — 20 bronze.

  “Clear a cave, danger level D” — 100 bronze.

  “Oh, this one works for me!” Greg ripped the cave notice off the board. One hundred bronze sounded a lot better than ten.

  “Hey, kid,” a grim man in battered armor called. “What rank are you?”

  “Rank?” Greg blinked. “No idea. Why?”

  The man gave him a heavy look, then jabbed a finger at the paper in Greg’s hand.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “It says: Required rank — B. Can you read?”

  “Well it says that, so what?”

  “What do you mean ‘so what’?” the man gaped. “Do you even have a party name?”

  “A party…?”

  “You really are brand new. Idiot…” He waved toward the counter. “Girl registrar over there. Register first. Then jobs.”

  Greg shrugged. “Got it. Thanks.”

  At the counter stood a girl with hair black as pitch—slim, pretty—

  “Damn,” slipped out of Greg as he walked up.

  She didn’t even look up from her paperwork. “Registration? Name. Surname.”

  “Uh… name’s Greg. Surname… don’t remember.”

  The girl rolled her eyes so hard Greg thought they might complete a full circle. “Of course. Another one. Age? Class: warrior, swordsman, mage? Experience?”

  “Age—don’t know, didn’t count… don’t remember,” Greg answered honestly. “Class… I’m universal.”

  She stared at him like he’d escaped from somewhere, sighed deeply, and started writing fast.

  “Putting fifteen. Rank: beginner, F.”

  “Uh, can you explain the rank system?”

  “You’re messing with me,” she rubbed her temples. “Listen. Lowest is F. Then E, D, C. After that, elite: B and A. Then legendary S-rank, which is way above your daydreams. You should try reaching E without dying on day one.”

  Greg nodded. “Alright. Got it.”

  Back at the board he discovered almost every interesting job needed at least E or D.

  “Yeah…” he muttered. “Guess I’ll have to plow. Literally.”

  He grabbed a paper: “Irrigate field. Pay: 20 bronze.”

  “Fine,” he thought, walking out. “How hard can it be? Carry water, pour it. Done.”

  When he reached the place, he whistled. The field was huge. If he watered this by hand, he’d be old before he reached the middle.

  The farmer met him—tired, sunburned, calloused hands.

  “Short on workers, kid,” he complained, wiping sweat. “Had to post to the guild. If I don’t water it in time, half the crop dries out. No rain for a month.”

  Greg looked at the cloudless sky, then back at him.

  “You want rain specifically? A downpour enough?”

  The farmer looked at him like he was an idiot and smirked. “If you make a downpour right now, I’ll pay thirty, not twenty.”

  “Deal.”

  Greg lifted his head.

  Wind… gather moisture. Condense.

  He just wanted it. He drove air currents, collecting moisture from all around into one point. In under two minutes the sky went black. Heavy lead clouds rolled in.

  BOOM.

  Thunder shook the ground and a wall of water slammed down on the farm. The farmer started hopping with joy, letting the rain hit his face. He sprinted inside, returned with a coin pouch, and shoved it into Greg’s hands.

  “Take it! You’re a real mage!”

  Greg nodded and turned to leave—then the farmer screamed over the roar of the rain:

  “Wait! Hey! When does it stop?!”

  Greg glanced back and shrugged. “Dunno. When it feels like it.”

  “What?!” the farmer’s eyes filled with horror. “The field’s flooding! STOP IT! You’ll ruin my crop! We’ll starve!”

  Greg looked at the beds—puddles already forming.

  “Oh. Right. Too much.”

  He looked at the clouds and shoved them with wind in his mind: Move.

  The massive black bulk obediently slid north, dragging the downpour away.

  Back at the guild, Greg felt like a winner. He’d done the job fast and even got a bonus. Surely they’d promote him.

  He returned to the board.

  “Rank E…”

  “Kill three wolves attacking sheep.” — 30 bronze.

  Good enough.

  He ripped the paper off and went to the registrar.

  “I’m done. Taking the next one. Wolves.”

  She finally looked up, eyebrow bending skeptically. “That fast? A whole field?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where’s the signature?” she asked, holding out her hand. “Proof the job was done?”

  “In what sense?” Greg froze.

  “In the literal sense. The client signs the completion form.”

  “Uh… I forgot.”

  She narrowed her eyes like he was a petty scammer. “Listen, kid, if you’re trying to con me—”

  The guild doors slammed open.

  The same farmer burst in—soaked, panting, caked in mud.

  “Whew… made it!” he wheezed, hands on knees. “You idiot! I didn’t sign!”

  He rushed to the counter, grabbed the pen. “I was worried they’d throw you out, you really are dumb as hell!”

  He scribbled his signature and exhaled at the registrar. “He did it. Almost drowned my whole field, but he did it!”

  The farmer ran off to save what was left of his harvest. The registrar sighed, stamped Greg’s form.

  “Fine. Promoted to E. Here’s your wolf job. Let’s see if you just got lucky with the rain—or if you’re actually good for something.”

  Greg headed for the woods—and then it hit him: the storm he’d shoved north went straight here. Roads were ruined. Everything was knee-deep mud.

  “Yeah…” he thought, staring at the swamp underfoot. “Did that to myself.”

  At the treeline a shepherd met him, eyeing him nervously.

  “You sure you can kill them?”

  “Relax. I’m a professional. Probably. We’ll see.”

  The shepherd shook his head. “No rain for a month and then that nightmare downpour… it’ll be rough. Follow the path to the end. Stone hill by the stream. They’re there.”

  Greg nodded and stepped into the mud. The shepherd called after him:

  “Hey! Where’s your sword? Staff?”

  Greg stopped. “Why? It’s just wolves.”

  The shepherd grabbed his head. “Oh gods… I sent him to die. How does the guild even allow idiots like this?”

  In the forest Greg realized tracking in this sludge was pointless.

  “Alright,” he closed his eyes. “Mana scan.”

  A map flashed in his head. Three bright points pulsed by the stream.

  “Yep. Got you. Teleport.”

  The world blinked—and he stood right in front of them. The wolves jumped back, fur bristling.

  “Hold up…” Greg squinted. These weren’t normal wolves. Huge—calf-sized. Long, shining fangs jutted from their mouths.

  “Iron teeth?” he blinked. “That’s not E. That’s D… maybe B.”

  The wolves snarled, ready to pounce.

  “Fine.”

  Greg stomped his foot. Spears of stone shot from the ground under the monsters’ bellies.

  CRUNCH.

  Three bodies hung lifeless on stone. The fight took a second and a half.

  “Proof…” Greg muttered. He walked up to one wolf and ripped its head clean off. “Big bastard. Carrying the whole thing is effort. Teleport.”

  He reappeared near the city. People flinched aside. Fair—some guy in clean clothes (thank you, teleport) holding a giant monster head by the scruff.

  “Hey, kid!” a fat merchant hustled over. “Sell me that head! Fifty silver!”

  “Fifty?” Greg considered. “What if I bring you three full carcasses—how much then?”

  The merchant laughed. “Three Ironfang carcasses? I’ll pay one gold! But where would you get them?”

  “Wait here. I’ll drop the head at the guild and bring you the bodies.”

  Greg dashed into the guild and slammed the head onto the counter. The crash silenced the whole hall.

  The registrar stood up, pale. “No way… an Ironfang? You killed it? Alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a B-rank monster,” she breathed. “Then… we’re required to promote you straight to D. Against the rules, but—”

  A murmur ran through the hall.

  “D-rank?!” someone snapped. “He just got lucky!”

  “That’s not fair!”

  Greg took his reward and walked toward the exit—until a huge man with a two-handed axe on his back blocked him.

  “You a fraud?” he rumbled, looming. “Where’d you buy that head? The cut’s perfect—like a razor. Real combat doesn’t look like that. And where’s your sword?”

  Greg sighed. He was bored.

  “Move.”

  “What?!”

  The air around them suddenly went heavy as lead. Greg just looked him in the eyes and let a tiny grain of his real power slip out. The giant went white, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. His legs folded and he crashed onto his back, gulping air like a fish on land.

  Greg stepped over him and walked outside.

  “So much hassle…” he muttered. “Teleport. Teleport.”

  A minute later, three massive wolf carcasses lay in front of the stunned merchant.

  “Pay up,” Greg said, holding out his hand.