Just as Pierre was basking in the excitement of earning his first gold, he suddenly froze in place.
It wasn't from joy — it was sheer shock. Right in front of him, a translucent screen appeared out of nowhere. Through the screen — visible only to him — he could still see the streets of London perfectly, but everything around him had frozen still.
A double-decker bus had come to a halt in the middle of the road.
The pedestrians looked like wax statues.
Even the smoke he had just exhaled hung suspended in mid-air.
Across the semi-transparent screen, a line of text appeared:
[First transaction completed. Skill 'Business Acumen' unlocked. Would you like to learn it?]
Not fear — delight flooded through him.
So this was his golden finger — the perk granted by fate to every time traveler!
I knew it! No one crosses over empty-handed.
"Business Acumen"... what kind of skill was that exactly?
There was no need to hesitate.
"If not now, then when?"
As soon as he made his choice, a flood of basic business knowledge poured into his mind.
No doubt about it — it was a real system!
Another line flashed across the screen:
[First transaction completed: Sold 12 Camel cigarettes and 1 ZIPPO lighter.
Current black market value: 4.5 pounds.
Surplus value earned: 120 pence.
Reward: 2 experience points.
Current total experience: 7 points.]
It even handed out rewards!
[You exploited the buyer's eagerness to negotiate a higher price. Storage space can now be unlocked. Activate?]
Of course he activated it.
The moment he did, a small house-shaped icon appeared in the top-right corner of the screen.
Experimenting a bit, he tried "using" it on his backpack.
With a flash of light, the heavy pack disappeared from his back, and a red dot appeared on the warehouse icon.
His shoulders were finally free!
Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.
What else could this system do?
Unfortunately, this wasn't the time to explore further.
Exiting the system, Pierre, whose stomach was practically folding in on itself from hunger, headed straight for a nearby restaurant.
Now that I've got money, it's time for a proper steak at least!
Moments later, Pierre found himself standing dumbly at the side of the street, not even a single cow hair to his name.
"Sir, may I see your ration book?"
Merde, are you serious?
"I don't have any ration tickets!"
Looking up at the barrage balloons floating high above, and breathing in the lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, reality slapped him hard:
Nothing was the same here.
Otherwise, how could a few cigarettes have sold for such a high price?
No wonder they were willing to pay so much for them.
No ration coupons — and no matter how much money you had, you still couldn't buy cigarettes!
Even if you did have a coupon, you could forget about buying Camels and ZIPPOs.
Britain had long since burned through its foreign currency reserves.
As for Camels and ZIPPO lighters on the market... Well, most of them had been "traded" by British women who had paid dearly to American soldiers.
Obviously, clueless Pierre had no idea about the real "market situation."
In this Britain, cash meant almost nothing anymore.
Goods were the real currency.
Reeling from the shock of his new reality, Pierre could only clutch his now useless money, stomach rumbling, and trudge forward along the ruined streets.
Along the way, he rifled through his backpack.
It was stuffed full of women's products.
Grimacing, he pulled out a sample bottle of perfume from one of the boxes.
Perfume? In times like these? Who the hell wants perfume?
At that moment, a woman with chestnut-brown hair appeared, walking toward him.
But what caught his eye wasn't her impressive figure — It was the paper bag clutched to her chest. Half a loaf of bread peeked out from the top.
Whether the bread was fresh or tasty didn't matter. To Pierre, it was pure, golden salvation.
His eyes locked onto the bread with undisguised hunger. Saliva practically pooled in his mouth, and it felt like his stomach had grown a hand of its own, desperate to snatch the bread right out of her arms.
After a full day without food or water, he was famished beyond belief.
The woman, dressed in a blue-and-red floral dress, clearly sensed the desperate hunger burning in his gaze.
But she didn't shy away.
She didn't seem offended, either.
Instead, she lifted her chin and boldly met his eyes, giving him a slow once-over.
He was young, after all — undeniably handsome.
The raw longing in his gaze made her lips curve slightly.
Even her elegant eyebrows seemed to flutter faintly.
The two of them stared at each other, step by slow step, closing the distance between them.
The two of them brushed past each other.
Just as they were about to completely miss one another, Pierre, staring longingly at the bread, inhaled deeply — and in the wheat's warm aroma, he caught a faint, unexpected... off-scent.
Suddenly, his gaze sharpened.
He took the initiative.
"Hello, mademoiselle."
The sudden voice behind her made Stana instinctively tense.
Still, she quickly turned her head and responded with her sweetest smile:
"Sir, can I help you?"
Though she tried to remain composed, a trace of nervousness fluttered in her chest.
This wasn't her first time being approached by strange men — but past experiences had been far from pleasant. Most of them... well, they had been balding old men. Such was the tragedy of their times:
The young men were either in uniform — or in the ground.
His eyes and bearing brimmed with vitality and spirit.
More importantly, he wore an utterly charming smile.
For a moment, Stana's heart pounded like a frightened deer.
"Miss, would you be interested in some perfume?"
She blinked, startled — emotions surging like a storm inside her.
What exactly was he saying?
He had called out to her — just for this?
"It's ," he explained, lifting the small bottle in his hand,
"I happen to have some perfume. And I thought... perhaps you might like it."
Stana frowned slightly.
The little sample bottle in his hand clearly wasn't some cheap knockoff.
In these times, perfume was a luxury beyond reach.
Three years ago, Prime Minister Churchill had ordered the cessation of all cosmetics production — since then, perfume had become exceedingly rare, and almost impossibly expensive.
"It's Madame," she corrected stiffly, flashing the ring on her finger.
Apparently just a clumsy mistake, Pierre quickly bowed slightly and corrected himself:
Straightening her posture a little, Stana let the thin wedding ring on her finger catch a sliver of the sunset's light.
"No, I don't need... counterfeits," she said coldly.
"Counterfeits? Impossible."
Even if his tomboyish roommate wasn't exactly a perfume expert, she wouldn't have stocked blatant fakes.
Lifting the bottle, he gave a small spritz into the air.
Instantly, a delicate cloud of floral and fruity fragrance spread around them.
The scent was crisp, vibrant — unmistakably genuine.
For a moment, Stana was completely thrown off.
Breathing deeply, she could vividly pick out the soft notes of fresh fruit and the gentle touch of flowers. This wasn't something that could be faked.
Caught by surprise, she softly repeated the words floating in her mind:
And with that scent lingering between them, her thoughts once again flashed to the hungry, yearning look in the young man's eyes — a look just as warm and vivid as the perfume itself.
"This perfume... it really does smell lovely, but..."
Stana bit her lip, eyes darkening with a mix of struggle and helplessness.
"But I only have a few pounds left..."
She sighed softly, perfume must be terribly expensive. There was no way she could afford it now.
Watching her conflicted expression, Pierre immediately understood.
He smiled — lightly, reassuringly — and said:
"Madame, I'm not asking for money."
Stana blinked, stunned.
In that moment, she noticed the flicker of desire in his gaze.
Ah, she thought bitterly, so that's it...
Men — always the same.
Just as her mind began to cloud with complicated thoughts, the young man's voice reached her again:
"Madame, would you be willing to trade me... some food?"