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After leaving the teacher's apartments, Ryden headed toward Vulcan Street.
This was the slums.
A place crawling with thieves and muggers.
Filthy water pooled across the ground, filling potholes. The air carried a sour, rotting stench that clung to the throat.
Normal people didn't live here.
Only the bankrupt and the desperate came to Vulcan Street, either throwing themselves into the chaos or silently enduring the filth and decay.
Bodies turned up in the sewers every day.
No mystery there. Gang work.
The Brooklyn precinct barely managed the main districts. This place was ignored.
As long as no riots broke out, they showed up the next day, cleaned the streets, and called it done.
The moment Ryden stepped in, several hostile gazes locked onto him.
Like wolves eyeing a lamb.
It was deeply uncomfortable.
A scrawny man suddenly lowered his head and bumped into him.
At the same time, a hand slipped behind him, reaching for Ryden's pocket.
Bang!
"Agh!!!"
The gunshot echoed, followed by a scream.
Ryden raised his smoking pistol and casually blew on the barrel.
He holstered it with an unhurried, arrogant motion and swept his gaze across the onlookers.
He didn't even glance at the pickpocket writhing on the ground, clutching his leg.
Ryden hated thieves.
If you had the guts, rob a bank. At least that was "heroic" in a twisted way.
Sneaking around and stealing?
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
For people like that, you used their own language.
For thugs, you pulled the trigger.
No warnings. No speeches.
On Vulcan Street, the rule was simple.
Whoever had the biggest fist was the boss.
Sensing he wasn't someone to provoke, no one stepped forward for the thief.
If you didn't understand the law of the jungle, you might as well crawl to a relief house and beg for black bread.
The Old Sailor Pub sat at the corner of the street.
It was a relatively new bar.
It had been biker territory before, but yesterday, Marlos and his crew had taken it over.
They changed the name and reopened.
No one found that strange.
On Vulcan Street, turf changed hands every day.
Small gangs popped up constantly. Some had dozens of members.
Some were just two guys calling themselves a gang.
The real giant was the Dasco Gang.
They controlled seventy percent of the street.
The scraps with no profit were left to the smaller, disorganized groups.
Bones thrown out to keep them quiet.
To be fair, the Dasco boss, Cesar, was a smart man.
Inside the bar, Ryden saw gang members scattered at several tables.
The place was small. Five or six tables at most.
The air was a thick mix of tobacco, sour rot, and sweat.
A smell strong enough to kill a rat.
Yet these men sat there smoking like nothing was wrong.
Humans really were at the top of the food chain.
"Yo, Master, you're here! This way!"
A Black man named Todd greeted him eagerly.
With Todd's welcome, the hostile stares in the bar vanished.
With looks like that, no normal customer would ever dare walk in.
The bar had a small booth upstairs.
The room was cramped, probably once used for sleeping, now converted into a private space.
Marlos sat inside, smoking, staring at a torn map while muttering to himself.
When he saw Ryden, he immediately crushed out the cigarette, rubbed his hands together, and forced a smile.
If not for his teeth, it would've been hard to tell.
"Master Ryden, good evening! Welcome, welcome! It's great you could come!"
Ryden ignored the environment.
Stench or perfume, it wouldn't kill him.
"Well?" he asked. "What's the next move?"
"I plan to gather the men and clear out the edges of Vulcan Street first," Marlos said quickly. "We'll break up the smaller gangs and take everything except Dasco territory. What do you think?"
He looked at Ryden expectantly.
"Not bad," Ryden said. "I assume that'll take a lot of ammo and guns."
"Actually," Ryden continued, studying the map, "there's no rush."
Soon, he'd be heading to Massachusetts for MIT.
He couldn't micromanage Brooklyn forever.
"Take the remaining territory first. Then lie low for a while. Wait until I'm back before touching the Dasco. Don't rush it."
Marlos frowned.
"But if we don't touch their turf, how do we survive? All the good strip clubs and bars are on their side."
He genuinely didn't understand.
He could fight.
But leadership?
He'd get himself killed within a day.
"Listen," Ryden said calmly. "Do you think you need strip clubs to do business?"
He pointed to the area near the busy commercial district on the map.
"Take the territory. Then find people who can cook. Americans, foreigners-it doesn't matter. As long as they can make specialty food on the spot. Sell it on our turf or nearby streets. You really think that won't make money?"
Marlos scratched his bald head.
"Master Ryden... I'm slow. You gotta be more specific. Fighting, I understand. But business? You're killing me here."
He wasn't educated.
His vision was narrow.
And this business model barely existed in America yet.
Why did I pick this guy? Ryden thought.
Then he remembered.
He was a vagrant.
Right.
A vagrant.
What was I expecting? A PhD?
He had fantasies sometimes.
One flex, Magneto kneels.
One step, Iron Man, Cap, and Thor line up as sidekicks.
Punch a planet. Step on Darkseid. Crush Thanos.
Yeah.
Only in dreams.
Reality check.
He was broke. Time to make money.
Ryden pushed the thoughts aside.
Time to teach.
"Listen, idiot. This is called street vending. If the food is good and cheap, people will line up. High volume, low margin. The more you sell, the more you make."
"What sells best?" He tapped the table. "Food."
"With your men watching, who's going to cause trouble? As long as it's small-scale, the big gangs won't care. Does an elephant bother with a rabbit?"
"Absolutely no drugs. No pimping either. Stick to small business."
"Don't look down on the profit. One stall makes a hundred dollars a day. That's three thousand a month. What about ten stalls? Twenty?"
He leaned forward.
"Low cost. Fast returns. It pays for itself. Understand?"
His throat was dry.
Ryden grabbed an unopened beer and took a long drink.
Marlos's eyes lit up.
"Master... when you put it like that, it really does sound profitable! But who does the cooking? Please, be clear. I'm dumb. Todd! Get the Master a crate of ice-cold beer! Keep going, Master-we're uneducated. We need you!"
Ryden continued.
"It's simple. Find poor chefs. Food is universal. From fancy court cuisine to street snacks."
"No bullying. Invite them properly. Negotiate pay. Don't cheat them. Don't harass them."
"It's hard enough as it is."
"French chefs. Asian chefs. Good choices. Natural cooks."
He took another swig.
"Once the territory is taken, don't strike first. If other gangs come, hit back hard. Make it look like you'll fight to the death over every inch."
"They'll hesitate."
"In the meantime, focus on food. Act like you're not interested in gang wars. Just business."
"When you've got enough people and guns..."
He smiled.
"Then you take everything."
He tapped the table once.
"Understand? There's a saying from Asia-'Accumulate grain, fortify walls, and play the long game for the crown.'"
"Learn it."
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