Seo-joon stared into the pot.
The cave was silent except for his breathing and the faint drip of water somewhere deeper inside. His hands trembled, but not from fear anymore.
From hunger.
From excitement.
From possibility.
Two dry roots sat in his palm. They were ugly things, thin and rough like twisted fingers, but to him they looked like treasure.
Food.
Not good food. Not even safe food, maybe.
But food.
He lifted one to his nose and sniffed it. Earthy. Bitter. Old.
His stomach growled like an animal.
"Fine," he muttered. "If I die from eating a root, then this life was cursed from the start."
He bit into it.
The taste was horrible.
Dry. Bitter. Almost like chewing bark.
Seo-joon forced himself to swallow.
His throat fought him, but the moment it hit his stomach, his body reacted like it had been given gold. The pain in his belly softened a little. Not gone, but quieter.
He ate the second root faster.
Then he looked at the pot again.
"One becomes two."
His eyes narrowed.
"But what about two?"
He dropped both roots into the pot.
Thunk.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Seo-joon leaned closer, eyes fixed on the dark opening.
Then—
Clink.
He reached inside.
His hand froze.
Four.
Four roots.
A slow smile formed on his face.
"…So that's how it works."
His mind sharpened quickly. The hunger was still there, but his thoughts were becoming clearer.
One became two.
Two became four.
Four could become eight.
Eight could become sixteen.
If there was no limit, then this pot was not just a tool.
It was a weapon.
A weapon against hunger. Against poverty. Against every man who thought power belonged only to the rich and noble.
Seo-joon swallowed hard, then dropped the four roots back into the pot.
Again.
Clink.
Eight.
Again.
Sixteen.
Again.
Thirty-two.
By the time he stopped, the cave floor in front of him was covered with dry roots. Not a mountain, but enough to survive.
Enough to think.
Enough to plan.
He leaned back against the cave wall, breathing hard. His body was still weak, but something inside him had changed.
In his old life, he had always been waiting.
Waiting for a better job.
Waiting for a lucky investment.
Waiting for someone to choose him.
Waiting for life to finally give him a chance.
It never did.
Now, staring at the pile of roots, Seo-joon understood something simple.
Life did not reward people who waited.
It rewarded people who took.
He picked up another root and chewed slowly.
"This world is worse than mine," he whispered. "No police. No labor laws. No bank loans. No safety net."
His gaze darkened.
"But that also means fewer rules."
And fewer rules meant more room to climb.
He looked at the pot.
The first rule of leverage was simple: never reveal the source.
If people knew what this pot could do, he would lose it.
A beggar with a miracle would not become rich.
He would be robbed.
Or killed.
Or dragged before some official who would claim the pot belonged to the king.
Seo-joon's fingers tightened.
"No one can know."
Not now.
Not ever.
He needed food. Better clothes. Shelter. Information. Connections.
And money.
The pot could not duplicate money, according to whatever strange rule controlled it. But that didn't matter. Money was only the end result.
Goods created money.
Scarcity created money.
Need created money.
And Joseon was full of need.
Seo-joon forced himself to stand. His legs shook, but he did not collapse this time.
He gathered the roots and hid most of them behind a pile of stones near the back of the cave. Then he took a handful and tucked them into his ragged clothes.
He lifted the pot carefully.
It was heavier than it looked, but not impossible to carry. Still, walking around with it would draw attention.
He looked around the cave and found an old straw mat half-buried beneath dirt and leaves. It smelled terrible, but it was useful.
Seo-joon wrapped the pot inside it, tying the corners together with strips torn from his sleeve.
To anyone else, it looked like a bundle of garbage.
Perfect.
He stepped toward the cave entrance.
Morning light spilled through the opening.
For the first time since waking in Joseon, Seo-joon walked outside with something close to confidence.
The slums were worse under daylight.
At night, poverty hid in shadows.
In the morning, it showed its full face.
Children with hollow cheeks sat near broken walls. Old women carried water with bent backs. Men in dirty clothes squatted near alleys, gambling with tiny coins they probably could not afford to lose.
The smell of smoke, sweat, mud, and sickness filled the air.
Seo-joon watched everything.
In his old life, he had been coins they probably could invisible because he was poor.
Here, poverty was not just invisibility.
It was a death sentence.
A thin boy bumped into him.
Seo-joon moved fast, grabbing the boy's wrist.
The boy froze.
His hand had been halfway inside Seo-joon's clothes.
A pickpocket.
The boy looked around ten or eleven. His face was dirty, his hair tied messily, and his eyes were sharp with fear.
"Let go," the boy hissed.
Seo-joon looked down at him.
"What were you trying to take?"
"Nothing."
Seo-joon tightened his grip slightly.
The boy winced.
"I said nothing!"
Seo-joon stared at him for a moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
"You're bad at lying."
The boy's face twisted.
"And you're bad at looking rich. I thought you had food."
Seo-joon almost laughed.
Even beggars stole from beggars here.
That told him everything he needed to know.
He pulled one dry root from his clothes and held it up.
The boy's eyes instantly locked onto it.
Hunger.
Pure and desperate.
Seo-joon saw it clearly.
In the old world, people hid their desires behind manners.
Here, desire sat openly on the face.
"You want this?" Seo-joon asked.
The boy swallowed.
"…Yes."
"Then answer questions."
The boy hesitated.
Seo-joon lifted the root slightly, teasing him with it.
"What's your name?"
The boy glared.
"Mak-bong."
"Good. Mak-bong, where can someone sell food around here without getting robbed immediately?"
Mak-bong's eyes narrowed.
"You got food?"
"I asked first."
"There's a morning market near the south road," Mak-bong said. "But guards take fees. Merchants take space. Thugs take whatever they want."
Seo-joon nodded slowly.
"Who controls this slum?"
Mak-bong looked nervous now.
"You don't ask that."
Seo-joon lowered the root.
"Then you don't eat."
Mak-bong clenched his jaw.
After a second, he muttered, "Jang Deok-su."
"Official?"
"No. Worse. He works under merchants. Collects debts. Breaks hands. Takes girls if families can't pay."
Seo-joon's expression did not change, but his eyes cooled.
A local thug with merchant backing.
Good.
Every system had rats near the bottom. Rats knew where the food was hidden.
Seo-joon tossed the root.
Mak-bong caught it fast and bit into it like a starving dog.
Seo-joon watched him eat.
Then he said, "You tried to steal from me."
Mak-bong froze.
Seo-joon stepped closer.
"So now you owe me."
The boy looked up, fear flashing across his face.
"I answered!"
"That was payment for the root. The debt is for touching what belongs to me."
Mak-bong's face went pale.
Seo-joon hated how easily the words came out.
But he did not take them back.
This world respected force, debt, hunger, and fear. Kindness alone would get him buried.
He crouched in front of the boy.
"Relax. I don't need your money. I need your eyes."
"My… eyes?"
"You know the slums. You hear things. You see things. From today, when I ask questions, you answer. When you hear useful information, you bring it to me."
Mak-bong stared at him like he was crazy.
"And if I don't?"
Seo-joon smiled softly.
"Then next time I catch your hand, I break a finger."
The boy flinched.
Seo-joon held his gaze.
A small part of him whispered that this was wrong.
Threatening a hungry child.
Using food as control.
But another part of him, colder and much louder, answered back.
And being weak was better? Being broke was better? Being the man people leave behind?
No.
He would not go back to that.
Never again.
Seo-joon stood.
"South road market," he said. "You'll take me there."
Mak-bong rubbed his wrist, still glaring.
"You're strange."
"I know."
"You talk like a noble, but dress like a corpse."
Seo-joon looked down at his filthy clothes.
"Then let's fix that eventually."
Mak-bong hesitated, then pointed down the muddy road.
"This way."
As they walked, Seo-joon kept one hand on the wrapped pot.
The road grew busier near the market. Vendors shouted. Chickens cried from cages. Women argued over vegetable prices. Men carried sacks of grain under the watchful eyes of guards.
Seo-joon studied everything.
Prices.
Goods.
Power.
A bowl of rice was not just food.
It was data.
A bundle of firewood was not just wood.
It was margin.
A hungry crowd was not just suffering.
It was demand.
And demand could be controlled.
Mak-bong stopped near the edge of the market.
"There," he said. "That's where poor people sell scraps."
Seo-joon followed his gaze.
A row of desperate sellers sat on mats, offering mushrooms, herbs, roots, broken tools, old sandals, anything they could find.
No one looked twice at them.
Perfect.
Seo-joon's lips curled slightly.
He could start small.
So small no one would notice.
A few roots today.
More tomorrow.
Then rice.
Then cloth.
Then tools.
Then medicine.
And once he understood who controlled supply in this town…
He would decide who deserved to be ruined first.
Mak-bong glanced at him.
"You're smiling."
Seo-joon looked at the market, eyes calm and dangerous.
"Because I just realized something."
"What?"
Seo-joon adjusted the bundle on his back.
"In a starving town, the man who controls food doesn't need a sword."
He stepped toward the market.
"He already owns everyone."