Ethan had learned many things in his short but highly educational stay in the slums of Lunora.
Lesson one: People are very invested in keeping commoners stupid.
Lesson two: Nothing motivates a man like hunger.
Lesson three: The Inquisition is very bad at taking jokes.
After his brief but highly inspiring conversation with the Holy Church's knight, Ethan had come to a very rational conclusion: he needed to leave before someone decided to burn him at the stake.
But first, he needed to survive the week.
And that meant money.
Now, a logical man would have approached this problem with a structured plan, long-term goals, and careful execution. Unfortunately, Ethan was currently illiterate, broke, and surrounded by people who thought "magic" was Latin for "Church Property."
So instead, he went with Plan B—which was to make things up as he went along and hope for the best.
And that was how, two hours later, he found himself standing in front of The Rusty Mug, one of the many taverns littering the slums, rethinking his life choices.
The inside of the establishment was a masterpiece of poor decisions. A mixture of sweat, alcohol, and something Ethan could only describe as "fermented regret" filled the air. The floor was probably sticky, but he wasn't willing to test that theory.
At a table in the far corner, a group of men were engaged in a highly intellectual discussion involving broken bottles, poor life choices, and who had slept with whose wife.
A classic.
Ethan took a deep breath. He had no connections, no skills, and no formal education. But what he did have was observation, logic, and a deeply concerning ability to bullshit his way through things.
He approached the bar.
The bartender was a large, balding man with the expression of someone who had long ago stopped caring about humanity. He looked Ethan up and down, unimpressed.
"You lost, boy?"
Ethan smiled. "Nope. Looking for work."
The bartender snorted. "And what exactly do you do?"
"I solve problems."
The man raised an eyebrow. "What kind of problems?"
Ethan leaned on the counter. "Tell me, good sir, have you ever considered the mathematical efficiency of your beer distribution?"
The bartender blinked. "...What?"
"See, I couldn't help but notice that your servers are inefficiently distributing ale to your customers. Some tables get faster service than others, resulting in uneven consumption rates, which leads to reduced sales per hour."
The bartender continued blinking.
Ethan pressed on. "Now, if we apply a structured serving route, prioritizing higher consumption areas while reducing travel time—"
"Kid," the bartender interrupted.
"Yes?"
"Are you asking me to hire you to tell my barmaids how to carry beer?"
Ethan considered this. "Yes. And also to balance your stock ledger."
The bartender laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
Ethan waited.
Finally, the man wiped his eyes. "Alright, alright. I like you. You're an idiot, but you got guts." He tossed Ethan a wooden token with the tavern's symbol on it. "That'll get you two meals a day. You clean tables, fetch supplies, and don't get in the way."
Ethan caught the token with a grin. "A fair trade."
The bartender rolled his eyes. "Get to work before I change my mind."
Thus began Ethan's glorious career as a tavern lackey.
He quickly learned that the job mostly consisted of:
Dodging drunks.
Cleaning things that were definitely biohazards.
Avoiding eye contact with women who could snap him in half.
It was, all things considered, a highly educational experience.
But more importantly, it gave him access to conversations.
Ethan listened. He learned. He studied the way people spoke, the words they used, the slang, the accents. He figured out which words repeated the most, what certain phrases meant, and—most critically—how to pretend he was far more educated than he actually was.
And then, one night, opportunity arrived.
Three men sat in a corner booth, deep in discussion. One of them was a well-dressed merchant, his rings gleaming in the candlelight. The other two were scribes, judging by their ink-stained hands.
And they were arguing over numbers.
Ethan's ears perked up.
"I tell you, the calculations are wrong," the first scribe insisted.
"The guild ledger is never wrong," the second protested. "We followed the standard tally system—"
"You used base six instead of base ten, you dolt! Look, the sums don't match—"
Ethan casually strolled by, tray in hand. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but did you just say base six?"
All three men turned to look at him.
The merchant frowned. "And what do you know about base systems, boy?"
Ethan smiled innocently. "Oh, not much. Just that base six is highly inefficient for trade calculations compared to base ten, since it limits carry-over flexibility."
Silence.
The first scribe narrowed his eyes. "Explain."
Ethan set down his tray, grabbed a piece of charcoal from his pocket, and started scribbling numbers on the table.
"If you're calculating profit margins using base six, your maximum digit is five. That means every conversion cycle is off by a factor of four percent when shifted to base ten for guild taxes. You're losing money."
The merchant's eyes widened. "Wait. Wait. If that's true—"
"It is," Ethan confirmed cheerfully. "And if you want me to fix your books, it'll cost you."
The merchant leaned forward. "How much?"
Ethan smiled. "Three silvers."
An hour later, Ethan walked out of the tavern with three shiny silver coins in his pocket.
As he stepped into the cold night air, he couldn't help but feel a deep, profound sense of satisfaction.
He was still illiterate.
He was still technically a street rat.
But he had just conned three grown men out of money using math.
And if that wasn't proof that intelligence was the greatest weapon in the world, he didn't know what was.
Now, with money in his pocket and food secured, he could focus on his real goal.
Learning magic.
Because if the world wanted to keep knowledge out of his hands, then he would take it for himself.
One equation at a time.