The First Bargain
His first win was quiet.
A morning of gathering discarded fish scales from the filthy stones of the market's southern edge.
Pearl essence.
The shimmer that once coated artificial pearls, cosmetic powders, and decorated trinkets back in his time.
A century before mass production, this shimmer might still have value, if he found the right eyes.
The problem now was turning the scales into powder.
He didn't know the exact process, but something about it tugged at a distant memory. A flash of a documentary, maybe. A forgotten article.
He had to try to figure out the method himself, straining to remember the process. The knowledge came not with clarity, but instinct, as he pieced together fragments of forgotten memories.
First, he took the fish scales from the stash and placed them on the stone ground.
Then, he scraped the remaining bits of flesh or bone from the scales with bits of broken pottery and stone
He rinsed them, again and again, in rainwater pooled in broken barrels and gutter dips.
He laid them out to dry on sun-warmed stones near the bakery's back wall, hiding them under old cloth scraps to avoid theft.
He waited for a few for the fish scales to dry.
Once dry and brittle, he ground them.
Two bricks. One flat stone. A slow, painful process.
Press. Scrape. Press. Scrape.
His small hands ached from it. But he worked like a jeweler with a fortune in dust.
Hours of grinding gave him the shimmer.
A powder that, even in the filth, looked like crushed moonlight.
It wasn't perfect. But it didn't need to be.
..
..
The paintmaker's shop was tucked beneath a crooked wooden sign with a faded brush etched on it.
The inside smelled of oil, linseed, and metal, familiar, almost comforting.
Johann had remembered watching the shop for two days during his first week in this world.
It had a back entrance where deliveries came through.
Most who entered were craftsmen or students. Not nobles.
Perfect.
He walked in barefoot, the grime of the streets stamped onto every inch of him. The shopkeeper, a gray-bearded man with ink-stained sleeves, looked up, frowning.
"We don't give to beggars," he grunted in rough Berliner dialect.
"I'm not begging," Johann said in perfect German, sharp and clear. "I've got something to sell."
The man laughed. "What could a street rat have that I'd want?"
Johann didn't flinch.
He held out the pouch, untied the string, and pinched a bit of the powder.
It shimmered, soft, pale rainbow hues dancing in the shaft of light from the window.
The shopkeeper's smirk faded a little.
"What's that?"
"Pearl essence," Johann said. "You add it to lacquer or paint. Makes the finish catch light like water."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Never heard of it."
"You will." Johann met his eyes. "Try it. Free sample."
The old man took it, suspicious but intrigued.
He rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it, dabbed it onto a drying palette.
When he added a drop of oil, it caught light like frost on glass.
He narrowed his eyes. "Where did you get this?"
"I can get more."
The man crossed his arms. "You're what, five? Who taught you this?"
Johann didn't miss a beat. "My father was a painter. He died. I remember things. I don't forget things."
The man scoffed. "You expect me to believe a five-year-old beggar is some kind of paint genius?"
"I expect you to believe in money," Johann said flatly.
"You can test it. Or you can laugh. But in five years when someone else is selling this, you'll regret not being first."
The shopkeeper eyed him long and hard. "You're awfully cocky for a child."
"I'm hungry. Hunger breeds honesty."
The old man grunted, motioned to the jar. "And if I find this to be useless?"
"Then don't pay me," Johann said. "But if it works, I'll come back. You'll get it cheap, before the others catch on."
The shopkeeper tapped the counter. "And what if I take it now and don't pay you at all?"
Johann didn't hesitate. "Then you'll never see me again. And you'll miss out on something bigger. One pouch means nothing. But ten? A hundred? I can bring more. Or I can vanish."
The shopkeeper's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem afraid."
"I've already died once," Johann answered. "You're not scarier than that."
The man stared. Then, slowly, he smirked. "You're clever. Dangerous. Too clever for your age."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Silence stretched. Then the man dropped a few pfennigs onto the counter. "One pouch. Bring me more. And if you cheat me-"
"I won't," Johann said, grabbing the coins.
The man didn't smile. But he didn't stop him either.
As Johann pocketed the coins, he looked back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and by the way, mister... what's the exact date today?"
The man blinked. "Why?"
"Just curious."
"September 21st. Year of our Lord 1715."
"Oh, and by the way, mister... what city are we in right now?" Johann asked, trying to sound casual. "And what kingdom?"
The man clearly confused by the strange questions. "What kind of nonsense is that? You're in Berlin, of course. Part of Prussia."
Johann nodded slowly. He'd suspected. But hearing it confirmed still felt like a punch.
Berlin. Prussia. 1715.
He hadn't dared to ask anyone else before.
Most street vendors and passersby wouldn't know or care about such details, and more importantly, they wouldn't have been worth trusting.
But this shopkeeper, despite his gruffness, had just made a fair deal.
He seemed like a man who kept track of things, especially dates, for his business. And what possible benefit would he gain from lying about their current city or kingdom?
He thanked the shopkeeper again and stepped out into the morning sun.
..
..
That afternoon, Johann found a quiet corner near the square and sat against the stone.
He emptied his pouch and counted the pfennigs. Eleven.
He began doing math.
In his time, 2025, a single pfennig wouldn't buy a breath of air.
But back here, pre-industrial, pre-unification Prussia, each coin could mean a night's survival.
He didn't know the precise exchange system, he wasn't German, and 1700s Prussian currency wasn't something they taught in schools.
But he'd listened.
Watched.
Heard merchants mention terms like "groschen" and "thaler."
Based on context, he guessed a groschen might be worth somewhere between ten and fifteen pfennigs, and a thaler maybe a few groschen. It wasn't exact. It didn't need to be.
What mattered was that the eleven coins in his hand had buying power.
Maybe it was the equivalent of a dollar in his time. Maybe less. Maybe more.
It didn't matter.
Because in this world, it was more than zero.
His first stop was a small, bustling bakery, its aroma of yeast and warm flour a stark contrast to the gritty streets.
He pointed to a small, dark loaf, the kind that looked like it would stick to his ribs.
The baker, a burly man with flour dusted on his mustache, named his price: three pfennigs.
Johann didn't hesitate. He pulled out the coins, the smooth metal cool against his skin, and handed them over.
The warmth of the bread in his hands was immediate, a tangible victory.
He tore off a piece, the crust surprisingly crisp, and chewed slowly, savoring the simple, profound taste of sustenance.
It was the first solid food he'd truly bought in this alien world.
"Yes! Finally, good food," he said with a bright, genuine smile.
With eight pfennigs in his pouch, a new plan began to solidify.
Clothes were still a distant dream; this meager sum wouldn't even buy him a decent rag.
His focus wouldn't be on gathering food anymore, at least not directly. He now had a source of income.
From now on, three pfennigs a day would be his budget for bread, leaving the rest of his time and energy to gather more fish scales and transform them into glittering powder.
He had a trade, a purpose. And in this harsh, new world, that was more valuable than any tattered cloak.
He would still be the only one who knew the secret of turning raw scales into the shimmering powder.
That was his unique value. But gathering the scales themselves was a tedious, time-consuming chore that anyone could do.
He could hire help.
..
..
Johann's gaze drifted over another part of the bustling market, past the busy vendors and the crowd of customers.
His eyes scanned for the same kind of desperate hunger he knew so well, the kind that would make a child work for a few scraps, a few pfennigs.
A boy, perhaps, like he'd been just days ago, scavenging at the market's fringes.
Johann had a plan to expand.
He spotted a boy near a discarded vegetable stall: a boy who looked to be around ten years old, his frame lanky and agile, already hinting at the height he'd reach as a man.
His clothes, though patched, seemed less tattered than Johann's own, suggesting a marginally better, though still precarious, existence.
The boy's face was sharp, almost foxy, with eyes that darted constantly, assessing, calculating, the look of a survivor.
A mess of dark brown hair hung in his eyes but he seemed used to shaking it away.
His skin, a practical shade of sun-baked brown from days spent under the open sky.
A smudge of dirt smeared across one cheekbone, and his lips were chapped and pale, suggesting a constant thirst.
He was older, perhaps twice Johann's physical age, yet the hollows beneath his cheekbones spoke of a shared struggle.
Johann watched him for a few more moments, observing his subtle shifts, the way his eyes lingered on dropped crumbs or unattended baskets.
The boy seemed observant, quick, and, most importantly, hungry.
Just like Johann had been.
A pang of something akin to pity twisted in Johann's gut, a memory of cold nights and aching emptiness.
He had an opportunity now, a way to lift himself, and maybe, just maybe, he could extend a hand.
This wasn't just about expanding his enterprise, it was about survival, and in a way, sharing a sliver of the meager chance he'd stumbled upon.
He took a deep breath, the smell of fresh food filling his lungs.
This was it.
His first step into building his empire.
He began to walk towards the boy, his small, bare feet making no sound on the packed stone.
As he got closer, the older boy finally noticed him.
His darting eyes fixed on Johann, narrowed slightly, assessing the small, grimy figure approaching him.
A flicker of suspicion, then a hint of boredom, crossed his face.
He didn't move, just waited, like a stray dog deciding whether to snarl or ignore a smaller pup.
"Hey," Johann said, his voice surprisingly clear, despite his youth and the noise of the market.
He stopped a few feet away, making sure to meet the older boy's wary gaze.
"You look like you know how to find things."
The older boy's eyes, previously bored, now sharpened.
He didn't answer, just kept staring, his expression unreadable.
He seemed to be waiting for Johann to elaborate, or perhaps to reveal some trick.
"I've got a job," Johann continued, holding the older boy's gaze.
"For someone who knows how to pick through trash."
He let the word "trash" hang, knowing it was a common, harsh reality for both of them.
"Fish scales. You collect them. I pay."
A flicker of something, surprise, interest – crossed the older boy's face, quickly masked.
"Fish scales?" he finally croaked, his voice raspy from disuse or dehydration.
He sounded skeptical, as if Johann were asking him to collect dust motes.
"Yes. A lot of them,"
Johann confirmed, trying to project an air of business.
"Clean ones. The ones the fish vendors throw away. Near the docks, or the market here. You find them, bring them to me. Every day."
The boy's gaze dropped to Johann's bare feet, then flicked up to his face again, as if trying to gauge if this small, strange child was playing a game.
"And what for?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone. "What do you do with the fish scales?"
Johann shook his head.
"That's my business. Your business is collecting. And getting paid. 3 pfennigs a day. For a full sack."
The boy's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the mention of three pfennigs.
Potentially a full piece of bread.
But then his street-hardened skepticism returned.
"Why don't you collect them yourself, little one?" he challenged, a sneer forming on his chapped lips.
Johann met his gaze, his own unnervingly direct, but free of malice.
"Because it's a lot of work, and I have other things to do. Are you interested, or not?"
The boy's sneer faded.
He looked Johann up and down, then around the busy market, then back at the small boy offering him what sounded like a ridiculous, yet potentially real, opportunity.
His stomach likely provided the stronger argument.
"Don't worry," Johann added, sensing the boy's lingering doubt, though he kept his tone flat.
"I have the pfennigs with me. I'll pay you once you collect a sack of fish scales each day."
The older boy's eyes narrowed.
"And what if I do all that work," he challenged, his voice raspy, "and you don't pay me?"
Johann held his gaze without flinching.
"I said I'd pay. And I need the scales more than I need to save three pfennigs once. If I cheat you, I get nothing after today. That's a bad deal for me."
"Alright" the boy finally grunted, the single word a grudging agreement.
"I'll do it. For three pfennigs a day."
"What's your name by the way?" Johann then asked, sensing a shift.
The older boy hesitated for a beat, as if the question itself was unusual.
"It's Klaus," he finally mumbled, looking a little surprised that Johann had asked.
"Klaus" Johann repeated, a slight nod of acknowledgment.
"My name is Johann. Let's work together from now on, Klaus." Johann said with a smile
Klaus stared at him, his brow furrowed.
"Johann," he said slowly, testing the name.
"You're... you're awful young to be talking like that. Like a grown man. And you look way younger than me... Why are you like this?"
The question hung in the air, a raw, genuine curiosity from a boy who had likely seen little but harsh realities.
Johann's small shoulders seemed to square.
"Because if I wasn't, I wouldn't be here talking to you right now," he stated, his voice flat.
"This world doesn't care if you're a child. You learn quick, or you don't last."
Klaus's expression didn't change, but his eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on Johann's face for a prolonged moment.
There was no verbal response, just a silent, understanding nod as he processed the blunt truth.
Johann nodded, a silent acknowledgment of Klaus's understanding.
"Fish vendors. Docks. Find clean scales. A full sack. Every day.
Bring them here, right before the market closes. Three pfennigs."
Klaus listened, his sharp eyes fixed on Johann, absorbing every word without a sound.
His gaze shifted between Johann's face and the imagined piles of scales, processing the concise instructions, calculating the effort.
His expression remained unreadable.
Klaus didn't speak, didn't ask another question.
He simply turned, his lanky frame already moving, melting into the crowd.
Johann watched him go, a sense of cautious optimism stirring in his own chest.
His first employee.
The bustling market, with its clamor of sounds and smells, suddenly felt less overwhelming, less alien. He had found a foothold.
"The man who understands value can create it from nothing. The man who understands power can take it from anyone."
The words, etched deep in Johann's memory from a life long past, echoed in his mind. He was reminded of that very quote again, a quiet, knowing smirk touching his lips.
In this grimy corner of the world, he was proving its truth, one tiny scrap at a time.