The Rusty Tankard — sorry, Casa della Pizza — opened for business at exactly the time I decided, which was "when I felt like it."
That turned out to be eleven in the morning.
The first fifteen minutes were a masterclass in humiliation. People walked past. They glanced at the sign. They kept walking. A few stopped to stare at the new facade — the system had given us a beautiful storefront with a painted wooden sign and actual herbs growing in window boxes — but nobody came in.
"I don't think they know what pizza is," Al said.
"They don't. Nobody in this world has ever heard of pizza."
"So... we're selling food nobody has a name for?"
"Correct."
Al sighed. "Brilliant strategy, sir."
"I have a plan."
I stepped outside with a tray of sample slices. Small ones — just a bite-sized Margherita slice. I'd made the dough that morning, stretched it thin, topped it with my glowing mozzarella and the Sun-ripened Tomatoes.
The smell alone should have drawn a crowd. Freshly baked dough, melted cheese, basil. It was intoxicating.
"Free sample!" I called out. "Try the finest food you've ever eaten!"
A few people glanced my way. Nobody approached.
Then a laborer walked past. Big guy, covered in dust, looked like he'd been hauling stone since dawn. He stopped, sniffed the air, and walked over.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Pizza. Flatbread with cheese and tomato."
"Free?"
"Yes."
He took a bite.
His eyes went wide.
"Fuck me," he said, mouth full. "What's in this?"
"Flour. Cheese. Tomatoes. A little magic."
He finished the slice in two bites and grabbed another. "How much?"
"One silver for a whole pizza. Two for the large."
"I'll take two."
"Two what?"
"Two large. Both. Now."
The system chimed. **First sale: 2x Margherita. +50 XP.**
I rang the bell. Al jumped into action — he'd been drilling on the bell system all morning and looked like a man possessed.
I stretched the dough. Launched it. The oven roared. Ninety seconds later, Al pulled it out with the peel — perfect leopard spotting, a slight rise on the cornicione, cheese bubbling in golden pools. The bottom was crisp without being burnt. The cheese had that molten give that tells you the moisture content was exactly right. It was the kind of pizza that would've made my old chef back home swear in Italian.
I dressed one pizza with fresh basil and handed it to the laborer.
He bit into it standing there, in the street. Steam curled around his face. He made a sound I'd only ever heard in adult films.
"Oh gods," he said. "That's... that's incredible."
A crowd started forming. People jostled for a look at the flatbreads coming out of the oven. One woman grabbed her husband's arm and pointed at a pizza I'd just dressed with basil.
By noon, I had a line stretching down the street. By twelve-thirty, I was working faster than I'd ever worked in my life. Stretch, sauce, cheese, launch. Wait. Pull, dress, cut, serve. Stretch, sauce, cheese, launch. My forearms ached. Flour caked the hair on my arms. The heat from the oven hit my face in waves that would've been unbearable anywhere else, but here it was just part of the rhythm.
Al moved like a machine. He'd fire the oven, pull finished pizzas, slice them, and hand them out. The bell sat on the shelf above the oven, and he never missed a single ring. I caught him grinning once, just a flash, before he wiped it off and got back to work. The man was actually enjoying himself.
I sold forty-seven pizzas in the lunch rush. Forty-seven. In three hours.
The customers were... weird, though. They seemed perkier. More energetic. The laborer who'd bought the first two pizzas came back for a third and told me his back pain was gone. A woman who looked half-dead from exhaustion perked up after one slice and left humming.
"Placebo effect," I muttered. "Good food makes you happy."
But I knew it wasn't just that. The system ingredients were doing something. Dawn Wheat, Sun-ripened Tomatoes — and Aether Yeast, which had come bundled with them after the First Test — they all had real magical properties. Nothing dramatic, nothing that would draw attention. Just... better. Cleaner. More alive.
By closing time, I'd sold seventy-three pizzas. The cash box was overflowing. Silver, copper, and even a few gold from richer customers who'd ordered multiple large ones to take home.
Al collapsed onto a chair. "I never want to hear another bell in my life."
"We did it."
"We did it, sir."
I was wiping down the counter when the door opened. A man stood in the doorway — well-dressed, clean-shaven, with the kind of smile that costs extra.
"Mr. Paul?" he asked.
"Who's asking?"
"Varn. Merchant's Guild representative for Dalton. I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood."
His eyes scanned the pizzeria — the oven, the ingredients, the cash box. Calculating. Weighing.
"Thank you," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Not tonight. But soon." He smiled wider. "New businesses always need friends in the Guild. I'll be in touch."
He left. The door swung shut. I watched him through the window as he crossed the street, nodded at the scar-faced loiterer who'd been there all afternoon, and disappeared around a corner.
Al looked at me. "What was that?"
"That," I said, frowning, "was a problem."
I looked at the oven, still warm. The counter was still dusted with flour. The cash box, full of the first honest money I'd made in this world.
Tomorrow I'd deal with Varn. Tonight, I was going to eat a pizza and figure out where the hell I was going to hide my profits.