“Who’s that?”
In another corner, seven or eight teenagers surrounded a young man in his early twenties, wearing a baseball cap. It was clear that he was the center of this small group.
A younger boy whispered, “I heard his name is Lance, an illegal immigrant from Balman State.”
“He claimed he just finished a job that paid him 200 bucks. That’s why Rob got into a fight with him earlier—so annoying.”
Balman State wasn’t exactly a prosperous region in the Empire. Its economy was primarily agricultural, and although there were developed cities, they couldn’t compare to the bustling imperial capital.
Here in the Empire, most permanent residents who had obtained citizenship came from affluent areas like the capital. Only these individuals could smoothly secure permanent residency and citizenship.
So when Lance’s hometown was mentioned, the youngest boy didn’t seem very impressed.
“Doesn’t matter where he’s from. As long as he’s at odds with Rob, we can be friends.”
“And about that 200-buck job? We can go hear what he has to say.”
“Maybe get to know him, too.”
Rob wasn’t particularly popular around here. He had inherited Mr. Bolton’s shrewdness and snobbishness, but lacked the tact to conceal those traits.
He often mocked or ridiculed the poor, people he looked down upon, giving off an air of superiority. Yet, when it came to children from wealthy or socially prominent families, he acted like a lapdog, wagging his tail and saying flattering things.
This behavior only made people dislike him more, whether they were the ones he looked down on or the ones he tried to ingratiate himself with.
Of course, while people didn’t like Rob, it wasn’t to the extent of outright hatred. They just found him unpleasant, which explained why he was still tolerated here.
As the group approached Lance, they overheard him speaking. “I’ve got a job that needs doing, and I’d rather not let anyone else take this opportunity. Naturally, I thought of us first.”
The young man in the baseball cap interrupted, “Can I ask what kind of job it is?”
“And how much you’re offering for it?”
Lance turned to face him—a clean-cut young man, about 1.73 to 1.75 meters tall. In this era, that was considered quite tall.
He had a lean build and wore a white shirt, dark trousers, and suspenders. His shoes, though slightly worn, were polished to a shine, and he had a gray baseball cap.
Lance often wondered why people wore hats in such hot weather. It wasn’t just him; many adults and pedestrians wore hats. Didn’t they feel the heat?
Meeting Lance’s gaze, the man in the cap extended his hand. “Ennio, from Dokkan.”
Lance shook his hand, smiling. “Lance, from Balman State.”
They quickly let go, and Ennio asked, “I heard you have a good job for us?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell us more about it, and how much it pays?”
The surrounding teenagers were all curious, otherwise, they wouldn’t have gathered around.
Even though most of them had permanent residency and citizenship, that didn’t mean they were wealthy or middle class.
People like Mr. Bolton, living in cramped apartments in the slums, represented the majority of these immigrants. Bankers like Mr. Jobav were exceptions—perhaps two or three out of tens of thousands. ɽÂꞐȫ₿ƐŜ
Most people still longed to earn more money.
“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the kind of work I do. Basically, I solve problems for people, and they pay me for it.”
“I can guarantee it’s not illegal, though there might be minor complications.”
“This job only takes a day—from 10 a.m. to around 8 p.m. No physical labor involved. You’ll just sit in one place without leaving midway.”
“I’m offering…”
He could feel everyone holding their breath. He raised one hand, spreading his fingers. “Five bucks!”
A muffled gasp escaped from someone. Earning five bucks in one day? That’s 150 bucks a month!
Even Ennio’s breathing grew heavy. He needed money, and there weren’t many people here who didn’t.
“How many days can we do this job? And when will we get paid?”
Seeing more people gathering around, Lance patiently explained, “It’s a one-day gig, but there might be more opportunities in the future.”
“You’ll get paid right after the job—no delays.”
“Like I said, this money could go to anyone. Why wouldn’t I offer it to my own brothers first?” He glanced at the girls nearby and added with a grin, “And sisters.”
The girls giggled, finding Lance amusing. It wasn’t common to meet someone who spoke so candidly and cheerfully.
Ennio pressed further, “What exactly does the job involve?”
“Enjoying some food…”
Initially, Lance had considered hiring a few homeless people. But he quickly realized they wouldn’t even get past the restaurant’s manager.
Providing them with appropriate clothing would not only increase costs but also fail to achieve the intended goal of annoying Mr. Anderson. It was simpler to hire ordinary people.
Giving this job to second-generation immigrants seemed like a better idea. They had legal status, and the task wasn’t illegal—at most, they’d get a scolding.
It also helped Lance build a reputation among immigrants as someone resourceful, achieving multiple goals at once.
Soon, enough young people were eager to participate. While earning money was one motivation, most were intrigued by Lance’s plans.
—
The next morning, Mr. Anderson was very satisfied with the ingredients he’d prepared.
The purpose of recruiting apprentices was simple—to get the most work done for the least pay.
Unlike the fat boss Johnny, who not only refused to pay apprentices but made them pay him, Mr. Anderson offered each apprentice a salary of 15 bucks. However, they practically lived in the restaurant, with no days off.
Starting at 6 a.m. and working until 10 p.m., they spent nearly every moment working unless the restaurant had no customers.
Despite the harsh conditions, many scrambled for the chance to become apprentices. Mr. Anderson himself was a testament to starting as an apprentice and rising to become a restaurant owner.
Both the apprentices and their families believed they could learn real skills here and eventually achieve middle-class status like Mr. Anderson.
After inspecting the ingredients, it was almost 10 a.m. Weekend lunch hours started a bit later, around noon, and lasted until 2 or 3 p.m. Dinner preparations would then begin at 5 p.m.
Every weekend was the restaurant’s most profitable time, and Mr. Anderson hoped to earn even more today for his future expansion plans.
At precisely 10 a.m., the manager greeted customers at the door. Mr. Anderson thought it was a bit early, but who cared about the time as long as customers were paying?
Soon, a waiter brought in an order. The kitchen staff were ready for a busy day, but when they saw the menu, they were dumbfounded. The total was just 1.99 bucks.
A 99-cent breadbasket and a one-dollar mixed salad.
The breadbasket contained a pound of bread, enough to fill two or three people. The mixed salad, a best-seller, featured crunchy vegetables and tender shredded meat, tossed in a tangy, sweet sauce—a refreshing appetizer. However, it was rare for someone to order it alone.
Upon inquiry, they learned the customer was alone. While it was enough food for one, Mr. Anderson had seen this type before—people wanting to experience a high-end restaurant but too broke to afford it.
He didn’t comment, simply instructing the staff to maintain the quality of the dishes. No slacking just because the customer spent less.
After an early start and a busy peak period, Mr. Anderson felt drowsy. He informed the manager and retreated to the lounge for a quick nap.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when loud knocking startled him awake. Sitting up abruptly, he stared blankly for a moment before heading to the door.
“Are we short-staffed?” he asked, grabbing an apron from the wall.
“I’ll help out right away.”
The manager, however, looked frantic. “There’s trouble out front!”