CH643 · Rewrite
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Chapter 643: How to Make a Fortune

The first light came sideways through the living room, and Roland was already awake.

The fan had pushed hot air at him all night. Cicadas were running their usual shift outside the window. He lay on the couch and turned over the conclusion he’d reached: sleep inside the Dream World did not return him to reality. That meant he could rest there, recover there — carry a full night’s sleep from one world into the other. Strange in theory. Useful in practice. He’d accept anything that worked.

He was getting off the couch when Zero screamed.

A moment later she appeared in the doorway — face scarlet, pointing at him. “Yesterday I — you —”

“I slept on the couch.” Roland shrugged. “You were sweaty and unwashed. I would not sleep with you.”

Zero grabbed her collar and pulled it toward her nose. Whatever she smelled confirmed something she’d rather not have confirmed. Her face deepened from scarlet toward crimson — vivid against the white hair, the whole effect like a ripe apple dipped in snow. She fled back to the bedroom, rummaged, and ran for the bathroom with clean clothes clutched to her chest. The shower started.

By the time she came out, breakfast was on the table.

It was a different kind of breakfast from anything they’d managed before: fried bacon, a salt-pepper egg, roasted dried fish, a plate of fresh grapes — all of it drawn from the stores he’d brought back through the iron door.

Zero stopped at the table’s edge, wet towel wrapped around her hair, and stared. Her throat moved. “You bought meat?”

“Found a new job.” Roland handed her chopsticks. “I’ll have details soon. These were for celebration.”

The excitement that crossed her face swept away whatever she’d been preparing to say about the bedroom. “Already? What kind?”

“I’ll know more shortly.” He smiled. “There’s no need to worry about money anymore.”

She let out a breath. “I thought you’d finally crossed some line you couldn’t come back from.”

He thought: robbery doesn’t feel like much of a line in the Dream World. He kept that to himself.

“So the heatstroke was from looking for work in the sun too long?”

“Probably.” He tossed a grape into his mouth. “Enjoy the celebration.”

“You’re so weak.” She curled her lip — but ate everything. Every plate. When she finally pushed back her chair and hoisted her bag, she paused at the door. “Leave the dishes. I’ll wash them with dinner.”

“Is there a secondhand bookstore nearby?”

She told him. Then she was gone.


Three days he spent in the Dream World before detaching.

When he woke in Neverwinter, the sun was high. He lay still and did the arithmetic: one night here was roughly two days there. Stay until the third day in the Dream World, and anyone watching would see only a man who’d slept in. The ratio was approximately eight to one.

He found a gold royal on the bedside table — brought back from the fragment — and tried to fold it.

His fingers ached. The coin didn’t bend.

He set it aside. As expected: whatever that warmth was, it lived only inside the Dream World. He put on a coat and sat at his desk.

He wrote until noon. His goal was to capture everything while the memory was clear: the gaps he’d filled in the basic courses, the precise specifications for industrial equipment he’d reviewed and improved. Three days in the Dream World hadn’t been spent only exploring. He’d also worked the other problem — selling the campsite’s goods.

He’d posted the armor on a local secondhand forum, framed as imitation medieval craftwork, priced well below anything comparable. Buyers arrived quickly, attracted by the photographs and the absurdly low price. Armor at 500 yuan per suit. Crossbows and daggers at 100 yuan. The prices were scandalously undervalued by any standard, but since his acquisition cost was nothing, the returns were purely gain.

The gold royals proved less cooperative. Banks wouldn’t accept unidentified gold in any form — bars, coins, jewelry, it made no difference. The gold shop nearby bought back only what it had sold. A sympathetic salesman gave him the address of a pawnbroker who accepted unidentified gold at half the market price, but with a dozen coins of questionable purity, the effort seemed poor use of time. He dropped them in the wardrobe and decided more armor was worth more than the trouble.

The gemstones he simply couldn’t sell. He left them.

With money in hand he’d swept the secondhand bookstore, buying every textbook he’d ever studied. The volumes he’d never opened came back blank inside — just covers — which confirmed what he’d suspected: the Dream World didn’t extend past the boundary of his own knowledge. It couldn’t give him what he’d never learned. But his reading habits had been broad and his memory for anything he’d once encountered was, here, extraordinary. Even a page glimpsed once could be reconstructed in full.

He also bought two sets of clothes for Zero, and a set of winter camping equipment for himself. The money ran out precisely.

He still remembered her face when she received the clothes. The repeated attempts to decline. When he pressed her for the reason, the answer came quietly: it was the first gift she had ever received. Her parents beat her at home. She hadn’t learned to want things that weren’t preceded by pain.

Roland, creator of the Dream World, sat with the weight of that for a long moment.


He was still at the desk when Nightingale appeared in his room without announcing herself — as she always did.

“You didn’t go down for breakfast?”

“I didn’t.” He kept writing. “Bring lunch here. I’ll eat at the desk.”

She picked up the stack of papers and hefted it, visibly startled by the size of it. “You came up with all of this in a single morning?”

“It was always in my head. I’d simply forgotten most of it.” He rotated his wrist to work out a cramp. “Take a look. What do you think?”

Nightingale read the top sheet. The expression that crossed her face was the expression of someone encountering a language that shares its letters with one she knows but no other quality. “‘Describe the electromagnetic field in a certain volume using an integral form mathematical model…’” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Your Majesty, I feel slightly dizzy. I’ll go and get your lunch first.”

He couldn’t hold back a smile. “Go then.”

She was at the door when she turned back. “Barov has business with you. Two letters he says you need to read personally.”

“After lunch.”

A beat. “Also — don’t you have to go to the office today?”

“Not if you bring my lunch.”

She gave him a long look. Then disappeared.

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