The mechanic market was a hotbed of chaos. Traders shouted prices over each other in a discordant chorus, while customers haggled with voices dripping with urgency, some pleading, others outright combative. The occasional burst of laughter or a string of muttered curses added texture to the cacophony.
Located just a few blocks from the prestigious Mechanic College, the market was a hub where innovation met necessity. It drew a diverse crowd—students from the college eager to put their theoretical knowledge to practical use, seasoned professionals seeking rare components, and dreamers hoping to cobble together brilliance from scraps.
In this sprawling bazaar of corrugated metal roofs, narrow pathways, and makeshift booths, anything remotely mechanical or technological that was non illegal could be found—if you were willing to pay the price.
Second-hand engines, rare welding components, state-of-the-art diagnostics kits, and even the occasional experimental prototype were all on display, glinting under the uneven lighting of overhead bulbs. Prices fluctuated wildly, dictated by the seller's mood or the buyer's desperation.
This made it a haven for those who could afford its services. For everyone else, it was a gauntlet of haggling, borrowing, or outright begging. Rion, as he had gotten more comfortable to calling himself, found himself firmly in the latter category.
Standing in front of a cluttered stall, he was locked in an increasingly animated negotiation with a balding trader whose belly strained against a grease-stained shirt. Behind him, shelves and crates brimmed with mechanical odds and ends—gears, wires, and tools so specific that even Rion couldn't identify them. The man's name tag read "Garek," though to Rion, it might as well have said "No Discounts."
"Fifteen hundred kila for this?!" Rion exclaimed, gesturing at a set of second-hand welding equipment that gleamed tantalizingly under the market's overhead lights. "You've got to be joking. That's highway robbery!"
Garek's eyes narrowed. "As I told you before, it's top-of-the-line equipment. You won't find a better deal in the entire market, kid. Take it or leave it."
"Garek, my friend," Rion said, leaning on the counter conspiratorially, "we've known each other for so long. Surely you can cut me a deal for old time's sake?"
The trader snorted. "We just met last week."
"... Exactly! And look how much business I've brought you since then."
"Business?" Garek leaned closer, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You mean the wrench and screwdriver set you bought after arguing over the price for an hour?"
"That was a test purchase," Rion countered smoothly. "I needed to see if your goods were up to snuff before committing to something bigger."
Garek shook his head. "You're exhausting, kid."
Rion's face twisted into a theatrical grimace, as though the man had just insulted his ancestors. "C'mon man, just do me a favor this one time. Besides, I'm not buying this for myself. This set is for charity. I'm making protective gear for orphans working in dangerous conditions!"
Garek raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Welding clothes? For kids?"
"Yes! Tiny gloves, little helmets. Adorable but safe," Rion said earnestly, clasping his hands together as if pleading for divine intervention. "Do you want the poor children to suffer? To go without protection?"
The trader snorted. "You've got some nerve, kid. Last time, you told me you were starting a charity to provide free wheelchairs to senior citizens. Now it's welding clothes for kids? What's next, chew toys for stray dogs?"
Rion's face lit up as if struck by inspiration. "That's... actually a great idea. Do you have parts for that?"
Garek groaned, rubbing his temples. "The price is fifteen hundred. Take it or leave it."
Rion sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples like he was making an enormous sacrifice. "Old man, have a heart. Do I look like I'm made of money? You know what a thousand kila is worth? It's an amount an average family can survive on for three months! And you want me to part with fifteen hundred for a welding kit?"
Garek shrugged, unfazed. "Then maybe welding's not for you, kid. Stick to paper mache."
"You're killing me here," Rion groaned, leaning heavily on the counter as though Garek's words physically hurt him. "Don't you know what that kind of money means to a poor and humble student like me? I'll starve! I'll have to live off instant noodles—no, not even that. Plain boiled water!" Rion gestured dramatically to the heavens, drawing the attention of nearby shoppers.
"Enough with the theatrics," Garek slapped his hand on the counter, silencing him. "How much are you actually willing to pay?"
"1100 kila," Rion said, suddenly serious.
The trader threw up his hands. "1100? Are you trying to put me out of business? I have kids to feed too, you know."
Rion tilted his head, smirking. "Oh? And do your kids wear tiny welding helmets by chance? Because I could use some prototypes."
"YOU—! Fine, 1300 kila, and not a kila less. That's my final offer."
Rion stroked his chin, pretending to mull it over. "1300... hmm... I guess I could make it work. But only if you throw in free delivery to my place."
Garek sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine. Just give me your address and a down payment before I change my mind."
With a triumphant grin, Rion pulled out his battered wallet and handed over a modest stack of bills. The trader scribbled down the address and shook his head as Rion walked off, whistling a jaunty tune.
* * *
As Rion walked away, weaving through the bustling market, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. Thirteen hundred kila—gone, just like that. It wasn't just the expense of the welding equipment that bothered him; it was the gnawing realization that his finances were dwindling fast.
Well... I guess it's a good thing then that I'm a chaebol baby with millions in my name — such wishful thinking was not to be.
His predecessor—the previous Rion—had been frugal to a fault. Before they died, his parents had left him a trust fund, but it was hardly the lavish fortune he'd imagined. The arrangement was surprisingly modest: 100 kila per month until his 17th birthday, followed by the remaining lump sum of 10,000 kila.
It would have comfortably lasted him until graduation, especially since he didn't have to pay rent thanks to the small house his parents had left him in the heart of the city. His tuition fees had also been taken care of, leaving only living expenses to worry about.
But that had been before he arrived.
Now, growing expenses ate away at his funds faster than he could replace them. Food, materials, equipment—everything came with a price tag. Even the occasional under-the-table bribe to grease the wheels of bureaucracy was becoming a regular expense.
His attempts to stem the bleeding felt like patching a sinking ship with duct tape. The mechanic market, with its endless temptations and overpriced treasures, wasn't helping either.
If I keep this up, I'll be broke before the semester ends, he thought grimly, sidestepping a woman hauling a crate of spare parts.
The aisles were a maze of stalls and makeshift shops, each crammed with parts, tools, and gadgets. Sellers shouted over one another to advertise their wares, while customers haggled, argued, and occasionally cheered when a deal was struck.
To his left, a student was testing a small 3d printer, feeding materials into it as the machine slowly churned out the parts he specified. To his right, an old man with a magnifying glass was painstakingly repairing a circuit board, his gnarled fingers moving with surprising precision.
He could also smell the sharp tang of hot metal and the earthy scent of grease as they fought for dominance, occasionally losing to the enticing aroma of grilled street food wafting from a nearby vendor's stall. The ozone-like zing permeating the market added an almost electric charge to the atmosphere, tickling the back of Rion's throat with every breath.
Rion paused at a stall selling Scrip Metal, a prime material that came as a sturdy, yet malleable metal. Its unique properties made it ideal for crafting precision components and lightweight armor, a favorite among artisans and engineers alike.
Prime materials or 'primers' as they were called were the backbone of advanced engineering and innovation in this world, a class of substances with extraordinary properties far beyond conventional metals, minerals, or alloys. These materials, some synthesized from rare naturally occurring elements or refined through cutting-edge processes, possessed unique traits.
Some primers, like Scrip Metal, could adapt to a wide range of applications, while others were highly specialized, like Ionite Crystals which increased the capacity of energy storage mediums or Magnetonium for amplifying magnetic fields.
He briefly considered buying the Scrip Metal on sale but decided against it. Primers were all naturally more expensive than normal materials and his funds were already stretched thin.
As his steps carried him deeper into the market, his thoughts drifted to the future. His current financial situation was unsustainable. If he wanted to survive, let alone thrive, he needed to find alternative avenues for income.
The mechanic market was full of opportunities, but most of them required capital—something he was rapidly running out of. He needed a plan, a way to turn his skills into profit without hemorrhaging what little money he had left.
The good news was that he had already started executing a plan to stem the outflow of cash from his pocket. The bad news was that it involved breaking a conviction he had made upon arriving in this world.
When he laid out his plans, he had bid farewell to the days of rummaging through rubble, imagining himself as a respectable citizen of the state. While his knowledge was geared toward carving out his niche in the criminal underworld, he could at least take pride in leaving the dirty work of scalping behind.
But reality wasn't so accommodating.
If he couldn't afford new parts, he would salvage them—just like in the old days.
"Hello scalping, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again... " he muttered under his breath, adjusting his bag as he made his way toward the junkyard.
Unlike the mechanic market, the junkyard was a desperate place—a vast expanse of rusted, broken machinery and discarded tools. Students who couldn't afford the mechanic market came here to salvage whatever they could.
Rion was no different, but unlike many of the others, he had an edge. Years of experience scalping in his previous life had honed his instincts to a razor-sharp point. He could see value in what others dismissed as useless junk.
To the untrained eye, a corroded electric stove was just a chunk of metal destined to rust away, but Rion could envision its hidden potential. A busted fridge wasn't just an eyesore; it was a treasure trove of rare materials waiting to be harvested with the right tools and patience.
For him and other students in the same financial situation as him, the label of "junk scavenger" was a badge of resourcefulness, not shame. All notions of pride had long since lost its luster. In a world where survival demanded ingenuity and pragmatism, he couldn't afford to care about his reputation. Let others whisper and snicker. Results mattered more than opinions, and he was a young man who got results.
If achieving those results meant plunging his hands into piles of grimy scrap or kneeling in the filth to retrieve a single, valuable component, so be it. He didn't flinch at the prospect of dirt under his nails or grease staining his clothes. As far as he was concerned, he would be doing the same thing if he had stayed back in his previous world.
The entrance to the junkyard was marked by a series of crooked, makeshift signs cobbled together from scraps themselves. They dangled haphazardly, swaying in the breeze, their paint faded and flaking.
Stepping through the threshold, he was greeted by an overwhelming cacophony of sights and smells. Different from the inviting smell of the mechanic market, the junkyard air was thick with the metallic tang of rust, mingling with the acrid scent of oil and decay.
Piles of discarded machinery rose like mountains, casting long shadows that stretched across the uneven ground.
The junkyard was more than a repository of the discarded; it was an ecosystem. Rats scurried between the piles, their beady eyes watching Rion warily as he sauntered inside. Insects buzzed and clicked, adding a strange rhythm to the otherwise oppressive silence.
He could also hear the clatter of scrap being overturned, the occasional muttered curses of other scavengers, and the low hum of wind through the towering piles of debris. Some times, a distant creak or groan would echo through the space, as if the mountains of scrap themselves were alive, shifting under their own weight.
Rion tuned it all out as he rolled up his sleeves, allowing a grim smile to stretch across his face.
"Let's see what treasures you've got for me today, old friend," he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with anticipation as he began to pry the casing off a discarded household appliance.