"I'm starving. Food first."
Of the few things in life that one should never pick a fight with, the stomach was unquestionably at the top of the list. Ryan picked up his pace without a second thought and pushed everything else aside for now.
As for what to eat — easy: whatever was cheapest. The big idiot had no steady income. The formula and ingredients had been funded almost entirely by the 300 pounds his mother had given him and the interest it accrued in the bank. Everything else — daily living expenses — had been scraped together through odd jobs that leveraged his size. Which meant the 7 sous and 3 pence in his pocket was essentially his entire net worth.
Honestly, the big idiot had gotten lucky. Under normal circumstances, 300 pounds would barely cover two primary Sequence 9 ingredients. The bargain he'd stumbled into was no small one.
Given the morning's unsettling start, Ryan had no hesitation — he'd be economical. Like the big idiot, he'd keep breakfast to a single pence.
Kid was stubborn, I'll give him that.
He'd come from a genuinely comfortable family, but managed to live like someone near the poverty line for three years straight — all for the chance at supernatural power. Going from luxury to austerity and holding there was admirable, for a gambler especially.
Another ten or so minutes of walking, and the city's buildings came into view along with scattered clusters of people.
I never expected to see a color photograph of early modern Britain in this lifetime.
What stretched before him called to mind the photographs from history textbooks — the overall style and impression were remarkably close. The details, though, he couldn't say. He only had a vague memory of those images.
As for architectural styles, he only had two categories in his head: familiar and foreign. Anything he didn't recognize fell into the latter.
What he could say with certainty was that the people on the street were nothing like anyone in those old photographs — put any of them in his world and they'd be mistaken for beggars on sight. Though he was in no position to judge; he looked the same, in worn, heavily mended old clothes. His only edge over the people around him was being slightly cleaner — the big idiot had washed up just the previous midday.
This world had its own version of the belief that a clean body was more likely to attract the favor of the divine — or of fate.
And even so, these weren't the worst-off in the city. This stretch sat at the transition between the northwest and southwest districts, where law and order were reasonably maintained. Most people here had some modest savings, at least enough that going hungry was unlikely.
The route to the breakfast stall was one of the big idiot's clearer memories. So despite the fragmented state of things, Ryan found the familiar shop without a single wrong turn.
"Hey, big fella! Early today — the usual?"
The greeting came before he'd even reached the counter.
Ryan took in the slightly stooped but cheerful middle-aged owner and shook his head.
"Not today. Stomach's off — just one rye loaf."
He handed over a pence and didn't linger.
The big idiot had never been a talker here either. A year of daily breakfasts at this stall, and neither of them knew the other's name. Ryan saw no reason to suddenly be different.
Rye bread was the staple of the poor in this part of the world. Each loaf was about half a pound. Two for a pence — cheap, filling, and it kept well. Left dry, it could double as a blunt weapon in a pinch. Its only real drawback was taste.
But Ryan had underestimated the owner's warmth. The man paused mid-reach for the bread when he heard the order.
"Stomach troubles? Will it affect your work? Big fella, you've got to watch yourself. This isn't the south — winter doesn't bring as many jobs. If you're laid up now, winter's going to be rough. We lose a few people to cold out here every year…"
Ryan could see the speech wasn't stopping anytime soon. He accepted the bread and cut in gently:
"I'm alright, I'm alright. Just not much appetite. Starting with one to see how it goes."
"Oh — right, right. Good to hear. Didn't mean anything bad by it." The owner let out a relieved breath and hurried to add the reassurance.
Do I look that intimidating? Ryan suddenly found himself genuinely curious what this face looked like.
"I know. You were just looking out for me." He smiled, settled the exchange, took a seat with his loaf.
The owner retreated to the back to fetch hot water, privately wondering if the big fella had come into some money — he seemed oddly pleasant today.
Ryan hefted the "club" in his hand. Half a pound sounded about right. The big idiot had eaten at least two of these per breakfast, and on hungrier days, four went down without a fight.
He took a bite. Yep. A serviceable weapon. He resigned himself to waiting for the hot water.
Hot water was part of the stall's appeal: a free bowl came with every bread purchase, and refills cost a quarter-pence each. Since the buildings in his part of the city had no way to boil water without improvising, storing bread and eating it cold was out of the question. Whatever income this policy generated for the owner, it had certainly built him a reputation.
"Here's your water, big fella."
Ryan nodded and began his first meal in this new world.
The texture wasn't as bad as he'd expected — not good, but not miserable either. He wasn't a picky eater. Comfort was nice when available; when it wasn't, he didn't dwell on it.
He chewed and thought: What do I do with the morning?
Figure out how to make money? Or learn more about this world?
The morning's episode had been unpleasant, but it hadn't felt like something that would kill him without warning — so seeking out an Extraordinary immediately didn't seem urgent enough to justify the risk of a wasted trip. And money-making wasn't a puzzle he needed to crack right this moment. The big idiot's only real assets were his body and his new supernatural abilities, and with the need for discretion, there wasn't much margin to maneuver. Doing it now versus later made little practical difference.
So: go read something.
The big idiot had attended university, but had clearly been a terrible student — whatever he'd learned had been returned to his professors long ago, and only fragments remained now. Even things that should have been second nature were unreliable. He couldn't even pull up with confidence something as basic as how many days were in a year. And yet the sharpest thing in the big idiot's remaining memories was a collection of Rosselle the Great's romantic escapades.
Truly remarkable priorities.
But for someone who'd arrived from another world entirely, understanding this one as well as possible could only help. Things that this world's people took for granted might carry entirely different meanings to him. Even without supernatural powers and without the divine war, he could say with some confidence that gods existed in this world — nations here had remained stable and continuous for over 1,300 years. What else could account for that? Furthermore, the churches actively encouraged broad learning — not just religious study. They'd even established free schools for children who couldn't afford tuition, where the religious content was minimal and the focus was on basic literacy.
That tradition had been sustained through an entire industrial revolution — nearly two centuries. The confidence that came from having divine backing was clear.
Looking at it that way, a world with gods wasn't entirely a bad arrangement. Faith didn't have to be a cage for the mind, and religion didn't have to obstruct science. If he'd been born a few centuries earlier, without the context of something better, he suspected he might genuinely have envied it.
His mind wandered a little further:
A thousand years of peace and livable conditions. That's not nothing.
Author's Note (this chapter):Do I look that intimidating? Ryan suddenly found himself genuinely curious what this face looked like.
寒枫落雪 · Hunan Does the protagonist's appearance have a reference?