The market was louder than Seo-joon expected.
Men shouted over one another.
Women argued with vendors until their voices cracked.
Children ran between legs, stealing scraps when no one looked. Chickens screamed from bamboo cages. A butcher slammed his cleaver into a wooden block, sending a sharp crack through the morning air.
To most people, it was chaos.
To Seo-joon, it was information.
He stood at the edge of the poor sellers' row with Mak-bong beside him, watching.
There were two markets here.
The first was the one everyone saw.
Rice, vegetables, salt, dried fish, cloth, firewood, clay jars.
The second market was hidden underneath.
Fear. Hunger. Bribes. Debt. Protection.
That second market mattered more.
Seo-joon adjusted the dirty bundle on his back. Inside it, wrapped in the foul straw mat, was the pot.
His entire future.
His entire danger.
Mak-bong glanced at him. "Are you going to sell those roots or just stare until someone beats you?"
Seo-joon looked down at the boy.
"You talk too much for someone who owes me."
Mak-bong clicked his tongue but looked away.
Seo-joon crouched near an empty patch of dirt beside an old woman selling wild mushrooms. She gave him one quick look, saw his clothes, and ignored him.
Good.
Being ignored was useful.
He spread a torn piece of cloth on the ground and placed eight roots on top.
Not all of them.
Never all.
The first rule was to hide the source.
The second rule was to test the market before flooding it.
In his old life, he had seen idiots lose money because they thought supply was everything. They had products, but no pricing. No positioning. No control.
If you dumped too much product at once, you destroyed your own value.
Even with a magic pot, scarcity mattered.
Seo-joon picked up one root and held it out.
"Wild roots. Cheap. Good for porridge."
A woman passing by slowed down.
Her clothes were patched, but cleaner than his. Her eyes moved from the roots to his face.
"How much?"
Seo-joon almost answered too quickly.
He needed money badly.
Any coin would feel like victory.
But desperation made sellers weak.
He looked at the mushrooms beside him. He looked at the dried vegetables across the path. He listened to the bargaining nearby.
Then he said, "Two roots for one mun."
The woman's face twisted.
"One mun? For roots? Are you crazy?"
Mak-bong whispered, "Too high."
Seo-joon ignored him.
The woman snorted and walked away.
Mak-bong smirked. "Told you."
Seo-joon watched her disappear into the crowd.
"No," he said softly. "She told me something."
"What?"
"That poor people still compare prices. Hunger doesn't erase math."
Mak-bong blinked.
Seo-joon picked up the root again.
"Wild roots. Four for one mun."
This time, an old man stopped.
"Can they be eaten?"
Seo-joon broke one in half and chewed a piece without flinching.
"They kept me alive."
That was not exactly a sales pitch, but it was honest enough.
The old man looked at him for a long moment, then handed over one small coin.
Seo-joon placed four roots in his palm.
The coin landed in Seo-joon's hand.
His first money in Joseon.
One mun.
Tiny. Almost worthless.
But his fingers closed around it like it was gold.
For a second, he just stared.
In his old life, money had always disappeared before he could hold it. Rent. Food. Bills. Debt. Transport. A phone plan he hated but needed.
Here, this one coin felt different.
It was not earned from a boss.
Not from hourly wages.
Not from standing in a uniform, invisible, while people walked past him.
This coin came from leverage.
From a product he could reproduce.
From his decision.
His price.
His risk.
A slow heat moved through his chest.
Then someone kicked his cloth.
The remaining roots scattered into the dirt.
Seo-joon looked up.
Three men stood over him.
The middle one had a thick neck, greasy hair, and a scar running from his cheek to his jaw. His clothes were better than a beggar's but worse than a merchant's.
That told Seo-joon exactly what he was.
A man who survived by standing between the weak and the powerful.
Mak-bong went stiff beside him.
Seo-joon noticed.
So this was someone important.
The man with the scar looked down at him.
"You new?"
Seo-joon did not answer immediately.
The man smiled without warmth.
"I asked if you're new."
Seo-joon lowered his head slightly, not enough to look weak, but enough to avoid seeming arrogant.
"Yes."
The man stepped on one root, crushing it into the mud.
"You pay sitting fee."
Seo-joon's eyes moved to the crushed root.
A small loss.
But losses taught things.
"How much?"
"Five mun."
Mak-bong sucked in a breath.
Seo-joon almost laughed.
Five mun.
He had made one.
This was not a fee.
This was a message.
The man wanted to see if Seo-joon could be squeezed.
"I don't have five," Seo-joon said.
The scarred man crouched until they were face to face.
"Then you don't sell."
One of the men behind him grabbed another root and sniffed it.
"What is this trash?"
"Food," Seo-joon said.
The man laughed and tossed it aside.
Seo-joon's fingers tightened slightly.
He wanted to stand. He wanted to strike first.
But that was stupid.
His body was weak. There were three of them. He had no weapon, no allies, and the pot on his back.
A fight here would risk everything.
Modern strategy was not about winning every fight.
It was about choosing which fights were worth paying for.
Seo-joon reached into his clothes and pulled out the single mun.
He held it out.
"I made one. Take it. If I earn more, I pay more later."
The scarred man stared at the coin.
Then at Seo-joon.
For a moment, Seo-joon thought the man would hit him anyway.
Instead, the man took the coin.
"Tomorrow, five."
Seo-joon nodded.
The man stood and pointed at Mak-bong.
"And you. Still stealing with those little hands?"
Mak-bong lowered his head.
"No, Hyung-nim."
Hyung-nim.
Older brother.
Not real respect. Survival respect.
The scarred man smiled.
"Tell Jang Deok-su if this corpse makes trouble."
Mak-bong nodded quickly.
The three men walked away.
Seo-joon watched them disappear into the crowd.
So.
Jang Deok-su's men controlled even the poor sellers' row.
That meant every small vendor was taxed. Every coin passed through someone else's hand.
A local monopoly on violence.
Annoying.
Useful.
Dangerous.
Mak-bong exhaled. "You're lucky. That was Gu Chil."
"Debt collector?"
"Enforcer. Small one."
"Small?"
Mak-bong looked at him like he was insane.
"If Gu Chil is small, Deok-su is a mountain."
Seo-joon picked up the dirty roots and placed them back onto the cloth.
His first sale had been erased.
Revenue: one mun.
Net profit: zero.
Market access: temporarily allowed.
Information gained: valuable.
He smiled faintly.
Mak-bong frowned. "Why are you smiling? You lost everything."
"No," Seo-joon said. "I bought data."
"Data?"
"Information."
"That cost your only coin."
"It was cheap."
Mak-bong looked confused, but Seo-joon did not explain.
A beginner would see this as failure.
Seo-joon saw the map forming.
There were market fees, official taxes, thug fees, supply limits, customer distrust, and no protection.
So selling directly as a poor nobody was weak.
He needed a better model.
Not just "make product, sell product."
That was childish.
He needed distribution.
Branding.
Protection.
A reason customers trusted him.
A way to sell without looking like the source.
He gathered the remaining roots.
"Market is bad," Mak-bong muttered. "I told you."
"No. The market is perfect."
Mak-bong stared at him. "You got robbed."
"I got introduced to the cost of entry."
"That sounds like being robbed."
"It is."
Seo-joon stood.
"But every business has costs."
He looked back toward the poor sellers.
The old woman beside him was still selling mushrooms. No one had bothered her.
Why?
Age? Familiarity? Maybe she had already paid. Maybe she had family ties. Maybe Gu Chil didn't see her as worth squeezing.
Seo-joon crouched beside her.
The woman glanced at him. "What?"
"How long have you sold here?"
"Longer than you've been alive."
"Do you pay sitting fee?"
Her eyes sharpened.
"Who asks?"
"Someone trying not to die stupid."
The woman stared at him, then let out a dry laugh.
"At least you know you're stupid."
Seo-joon smiled slightly.
"What's your name, grandmother?"
"People call me Old Lady Wol."
"Old Lady Wol, how much do they take from you?"
She looked away.
"Depends on the day. Depends on their mood. Depends on whether Deok-su's men lost at gambling."
"So there's no fixed rate."
"There's never a fixed anything for people like us."
That one sentence told him more than she realized.
No fixed rate meant no stability.
No stability meant fear.
Fear meant opportunity.
Seo-joon lowered his voice.
"If someone could provide steady goods and help sellers earn more, would they listen?"
Old Lady Wol studied him carefully now.
"You have goods?"
"Maybe."
"What kind?"
"Food first."
She snorted.
"Food brings eyes. Eyes bring knives."
Seo-joon nodded.
Smart woman.
That was why she had survived.
"Then small food," he said. "Enough to help. Not enough to attract nobles."
Old Lady Wol looked at the roots.
"These are poor people's food. Bitter. Ugly. But better than starving."
"What if I gave them to you to sell?"
Mak-bong's head snapped toward him.
Seo-joon ignored him.
Old Lady Wol narrowed her eyes.
"Why would you do that?"
"You're known here. I'm not."
"And what do you take?"
"Half of what sells."
She barked a laugh.
"Half? For dirty roots?"
"For steady supply."
Her laugh faded.
Seo-joon leaned in slightly.
"Not today. Not just once. Every morning."
Old Lady Wol went quiet.
There it was.
The hook.
A poor seller did not need a miracle.
She needed consistency.
Consistent goods meant consistent customers. Consistent customers meant bargaining power. Bargaining power meant survival.
Old Lady Wol looked at him for a long moment.
"How many?"
Seo-joon placed twelve roots on her mat.
"Sell these. Keep half the money. Give me half."
"And if Gu Chil asks?"
"Say you found them."
"He won't believe that forever."
"He doesn't need to believe it forever. Just today."
Old Lady Wol's mouth twitched.
"You have dangerous eyes for a beggar."
Seo-joon stood.
"I'm trying to stop being one."
As he walked away with Mak-bong, the boy hurried after him.
"You're giving her the roots?"
"I'm testing a distributor."
"She could steal everything."
"Then I learn she's a thief."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then I have my first sales channel."
Mak-bong frowned.
"You talk like merchants."
Seo-joon looked toward the cave path in the distance.
"No."
His voice became colder.
"I talk like someone who knows merchants can be beaten."
Behind him, Old Lady Wol called out to a passing woman.
"Wild roots! Cheap! Good for porridge!"
This time, people stopped.
Seo-joon did not turn around.
But he listened.
One sale.
Then another.
Then another.
For the first time since arriving in Joseon, he felt the shape of a business.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Easy to destroy.
But real.
Then Mak-bong whispered, "Gu Chil is watching."
Seo-joon's steps slowed.
Across the market, near a rice stall, the scarred man stood with his arms crossed.
His eyes were not on Old Lady Wol.
They were on Seo-joon.
Seo-joon felt the weight of the pot on his back.
His first business had begun.
And already, someone wanted to know where the supply came from.
He smiled faintly.
"Good."
Mak-bong looked horrified.
"Good?"
Seo-joon's eyes stayed on Gu Chil.
"Yes."
His voice lowered.
"Now I know who needs to be handled first."