After leaving the pub, Pierre walked with a quiet intensity, mentally turning over the information he'd just received.
That kind of extreme price gap — it only existed in a wartime economy, a short-term market distortion.
But if he could seize the right moment, this might just be the way to build up his first pool of capital.
The question was:
How to break into that market?
Back at his lodging, lying flat on the bed, Pierre stared at the ceiling, thinking hard.
"The key is getting the goods in."
Supply and demand — wherever there's hunger, a black market naturally forms.
He knew exactly how lucrative that could be. Anyone who'd ever bought a ten-shilling "vegetable bag" off the back of a truck knew it too.
And he also knew this wouldn't last forever — maybe two years, tops.
"Cigarettes… sugar…"
That night, Pierre couldn't sleep.
All he could think about was the black market —
this wild, dangerous business that might just be his golden ticket.
When he woke the next morning, what stunned him was the stack of pound notes laid out neatly on the table.
"Five pairs of stockings — sold at 200 pounds a pair.
That's… one thousand pounds total."
One thousand pounds.
For just five pairs of stockings.
So this is black market profit…
Even before he could digest it fully, the system screen flashed again:
[Employee successfully sold five pairs of stockings.
Huge profit acquired.
Entered high-end market.
+500 EXP.]
500 experience points?!
Right off the bat?
Now that was a pleasant surprise.
"If this keeps up," he thought, a smile creeping in,
"I won't have to worry about leveling up at all."
He could hardly contain his excitement.
After all, that big old cargo bag of Stanna's still had hundreds of dozens of stockings inside:
vintage, seamless, pantyhose, even crotchless ones — practically anything a woman might desire.
To him, they weren't stockings — they were bundles of cash.
As soon as he closed the interface, Stanna's voice came drifting in again.
"Mr. Li," she said, her tone bright and enthusiastic,
"You probably don't know — I haven't been to a ladies' salon in ages.
Yesterday I just dropped in on a book club — only a few women could actually afford anything there.
But now, I've been invited to an actual salon.
Real society women will be there.
They'll definitely want to buy more stockings — and pay more for them too."
She was visibly excited, almost glowing.
It had been a long time since she'd felt the warmth of admiration, the thrill of walking into a room and having all eyes on her.
And she still remembered vividly how, the day before, at the book club, the women who had once turned their backs on her — simply because she'd had to take up work — stared wide-eyed at her legs the moment they saw her stockings.
They knew, instantly, that what she wore wasn't some painted-on illusion.
They were the real thing.
When she even hinted that she might have more, they had swarmed around her, all smiles, all eager.
Because in wartime, even money couldn't buy you stockings.
And compared to money — women wanted nylon more.
"Li… can you believe it?" she said, almost laughing,
"Even Madame Charlène — that snobbish cow who once told me working women had no place at tea — she kept flattering me nonstop yesterday…"
She wore a dazzling smile as she said it, and the way she looked at him had shifted too — filled now with admiration and a trace of… something more.
After all, he was the one who'd helped her regain her dignity.
She preened like a proud peacock, basking in the glow of reclaimed status.
And as if moved by something deeper, she casually crossed her long legs, letting him catch a full view of her shapely limbs.
But Pierre? He barely glanced at her.
He knew he'd chosen the right person.
A woman like her — one who once moved in high society — longed more than anything to win back her place among the elite.
He gave her the chance to do that.
And she, in return, was now doing exactly what he needed.
But to her disappointment, his eyes never even lingered.
This man…
Just as those bittersweet feelings were rising inside her, he picked up the stack of cash, pulled out a few notes, and said:
"One hundred pounds. That's your commission."
"What?"
Stanna looked at the money in surprise.
"I thought… the stockings were my reward. Why are you giving me this too?"
"Madam, your work deserves compensation," Pierre replied.
Then, glancing at her legs, he added with a small smile:
"And those… are your bonus."
In the next second, Stanna let out a delighted squeal and, acting entirely on impulse, rushed over and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you! Thank you — this is the best gift I've had since the war began!"
She was nearly bursting with excitement.
So much so, in fact, that she seemed to forget she was a married woman.
Caught up in the moment, she kissed him again — this time, full on the lips.
It was… a very thorough kiss.
Strong.
Tempting.
Her arms slipped around his neck.
Her breath was warm.
Her red lips parted slightly.
"Darling," she whispered, eyes dreamy and voice sultry,
"Don't hold back…"
And with that, she kissed him again — deeper, this time.
Restraint.
At a moment like this?
What man could show restraint?
By the time he woke up again, the room was quiet.
She was asleep, peaceful and still.
Pierre smiled faintly, rolled out of bed, and dressed.
In the living room, her dress and high heels were scattered haphazardly across the floor.
"Mm… that was quite the battle…"
As he bent down to pick up her clothes, a knock came at the door.
"Ha! You must've been dying for this, little brother!"
Who else but Louis?
He stepped inside with a wide grin, but the moment he caught the lingering scent of perfume in the room, he paused.
His eyes swept around the space once — and then, with a knowing smirk, he said nothing.
Instead, he held up a thin document.
"Here. Your ID.
Took a bit of work to get it done — sorry for the delay."
That was all he needed to say.
No need to explain further.
A favor was a favor — and he knew Pierre understood that.
As he took the slender paper, Pierre's heart surged with gratitude.
Legal identity — finally.
No more worrying about ending up on the gallows.
"Thank you, brother. Words can't express it. I'll never forget what you've done for me."
"We're family — no need for such formality."
Even so, Pierre added,
"Still… please wait a moment."
He opened a book folder.
Louis's eyes narrowed immediately.
It was full of cash.
Where did he get all this?
Didn't he leave the police station with only five pounds?
Before he could ask, Pierre pressed several crisp five-pound notes into his hand.
"Brother, please — take it.
You've helped me immensely. And even though family helps without expecting anything, there's no reason you should pay out of pocket to help me."
As he pushed the money into his hand again, Pierre explained with a calm smile:
"To tell you the truth, I've managed to reconnect with some old family contacts here in London.
Let's just say…" — he raised the stack slightly —
"I'm not exactly starving now."
Old money.
Real old money.
Staring at the clean-cut young man before him, Louis was hit with emotion.
He hadn't been wrong about this kid.
A true aristocrat — all it took was one contact, and out came the cash.
Easily eight hundred… maybe even a full thousand pounds!
No wonder the room smelled like perfume…
With a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Pierre watched the older man process it all.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
The money served two purposes:
First, it ensured Louis would continue to help him, and with care.
Second, it sent a clear message: My background isn't ordinary.
Put together, those were powerful incentives.
Still looking dazed, Louis blinked, and Pierre seized the moment:
"By the way, brother — there's something else I was hoping to ask of you."
"What is it?
If it's within my power, just say the word."
"I've just arrived in Britain, and there's still so much I don't understand…
I wanted to ask…"
He paused, then added with meaning:
"Do you know of any way — right now — to get to the United States?"
He asked because he had to.
The ambassador, his wife, and several important contacts were all in the U.S. at the moment.
If anyone had leads, it would be Louis.
"To the U.S.…?"
Louis frowned slightly.
"With all shipping cut off, it's going to be very difficult."
Exactly the answer I was hoping for.
"Difficult," in his ears, didn't mean impossible — it meant there's a way, but it'll cost you.
Pierre smiled and said softly:
"If it were easy, I wouldn't be troubling you with it, would I?"