“In a market of mirrors, even honesty needs camouflage.”

The cart groaned down the narrow lane, every jolt sending a shiver through the stacked trays. Dad muttered at the wheel again, leaning on the handle as if force alone might fix it.

“Don’t curse it,” I said, bracing one side. “Try wedging the axle. Here—” I slid two thin tray slats into the wobbling gap, crossing them like a lattice. “Plants brace each other when they’re weak. Why not wood?” The wheel steadied. Dad stared, then chuckled.

“Half farmer, half engineer, you are.” I smiled despite myself. Sometimes a hack felt more solid than any guild solution.

The market spread like a noisy hive: smoke from fried bread, spices sharp in the air, baskets thumping on tables. Mom set out trays with practiced efficiency, basil and mint lined like soldiers.

“Same roots as last spring?” a woman asked, already reaching.

“Reliable as the sunrise,” Mom answered smoothly. She always said it that way—never bragging, just steady. I told her she needed to copyright it. A company motto I’d exclaimed. Mom just laughed. Sighing, I passed a tray across, coin clinked in return. The familiar weight should have comforted me, but my mind kept drifting to the pouch hidden back in my SPACE. My coin. Earned from trays my parents had not seen but only heard vague discussions about.

---

Market Day

From a spice-seller’s stall across the lane, Old Maru squinted at us through a haze of cumin smoke. “Hana’s herbs again,” he muttered to his apprentice. “Never flashy, but never sickly either.” His apprentice shrugged.

“Reliable stock. But see that one—” He nodded toward Mei’s stall. “They’re lining up already. All for a bracelet.” Old Maru spat into the dust. “Guild crest blinds fools faster than bad seasoning. Her family’s seedlings rot in the root half the time. But today? That silver trinket makes them nobles in the eyes of the crowd.” From behind him, his wife, Keiko, leaned in with a tray of coriander.

“Don’t be bitter, Maru. The guild has a midas touch. A family is golden after. They are the envy of all in the market. Buyers pay for the promise of a potential guild-backed protege, not the fragile roots they are over paying for.”

“Promise doesn’t fill a pot,” Maru grumbled. “Coin does. And coin’s heavier than credit, harder to skim off.” Keiko adjusted her scarf, eyes following Mei’s stall.

“Heavier, yes. But the Bureau can still count it. That’s why folk chase credits—they spend smooth, vanish fast. Like good wine, it disappears much too fast, much too easily.” Maru shook his head.

“Folk forget: credits are logged, traced, taxed. Coins stay where you put them. That’s why Hana’s trays still move—steady coin for sturdy and robust roots.” His apprentice shifted uneasily.

“So… the guild’s blessing is worth more than good product?” Keiko sighed, watching Mei tilt her wrist for the crowd.

“For now, they will bask in the glory as the coins pour in. But when those roots fail, and those buyers start talking… karma will have her piece back.”

---

I was laying out another tray when the voice cut through.

“Still riding your mother’s stall?” I looked up. Mei stood there, classmate and thorn, braid neat, chin high. Her parents sold seedlings two stalls down, not half as sturdy and robust as ours.

“Balcony SPACE girl,” she said, tilting her head. “Guess you’ll never sell on your own.” Two of her friends laughed. A sharp sound, meant to slice. Then Mei pushed her sleeve back, slow and deliberate. A bracelet caught the sun, silver glinting with an etched guild crest. Official source: betwix.co/litenovel — © JL Chee

[ Official source: http://www.betwix.co — © JL Chee ]

“Not that it matters,” she added, twisting her wrist so the light flashed. “The guild’s already marked me for apprenticeship. Some of us are meant for more than balcony plots.” Her friends oohed like she’d revealed a crown. I swallowed hard. The bracelet wasn’t just metal—it was proof. Guild scouts didn’t waste their time. Once you wore one, the whole market knew you were destined for more. I wanted to snap back, ‘I’ve already made more coin this month than your family will all season.’ But the words stuck. Secrecy mattered more than pride. Instead, I said evenly,

“Good luck today, Mei,” and stacked another tray. Her smirk followed her down the aisle, glittering as much as her bracelet.

---

That night, back in my SPACE, the hidden pouch spilled across the floor. Coins rolled loose, scattering like tiny suns across the soil. My heart thumped as I gathered them into stacks. More than I’d ever touched in my life.

“If I hand this to Mom, she’ll ask where it came from. If I give it to Dad, he’ll spend it fixing half the neighborhood’s rigs. If I hide it…” My voice cracked into a laugh. “Then I’m just another hoarder in the dark.” Ink poked its nose from the shadows, whiskers twitching. One coin tipped under its paw, and it squeaked as though making an argument.

“Oh really?” I said, folding my arms. “You’d just spend it? Easy for you. No Bureau taxes, no guild audits, no neighbors gossiping that our coin doesn’t match our harvest.” The mouse flicked its tail, batting another coin toward me. Sprout rustled in its pot, leaves trembling as if it wanted to join in.

“You,” I said, pointing at the little plant, “would trade coin for sunlight, wouldn’t you? Not helpful.” I sighed, leaning back on my palms. “Still… what if I used it quiet-like? Buy parts for Dad’s rigs and claim they came cheap. Or pay off a quarter’s lease in credits, say I earned it running errands. Would they believe me?” Ink squeaked again, darting into a shelf. A moment later, a slim book slid free, thumping to the ground. Its cover was scuffed, the title barely legible: Markets & Margins: Notes from Street Traders. The book’s pages fell open to a chapter: Barter & Shadow Markets. Lara skimmed, eyes catching fragments—“barter swaps,” “credit chits,” “coded notes.” None of it explained how, only that these practices existed: informal networks trading value hand-to-hand, small promises tucked into bigger deals, tokens that outsiders would dismiss as trinkets but locals treated like coin.

She read the lines aloud, more to taste the foreign phrases than to learn exact methods. “Maybe,” she said to Ink, “you don’t turn coin into miracles. You turn it into parts, into a week’s rent, into something that looks ordinary at the market.” Ink twitched its whiskers, smug. Sprout leaned against her wrist, stubborn and alive. The coins glinted in the dim light, waiting. Not just money. Possibility. My slate pinged. New messages. I scrolled as I waited for the next client to make their way over to the cashier. The forum’s DM feature showed, glowing responses to some trades I had made:

“Healthiest roots I’ve bought.”
“Better than guild-certified stock.”
“Let me know when the next batch is ready. I want to double my order!”
“Never seen seedlings this strong. Who’s your supplier? Do you take bulk orders?”

The last comment made made me pause. If they thought I had a supplier, they’d press harder. If I admitted it was just me…. Ink scrambled across the slate, smearing the word supplier into a black blot.

“Hey!” I scolded, but my hand stilled. Maybe… maybe that was the point. Sprout shifted in its soil, leaves brushing my wrist again, firmer this time. The sensation wasn’t just touch—it was meaning. Stay small. Stay quiet. Shadows feed better than spotlights. And the word “supplier” pulled up another memory—one I didn’t dare share with my parents.

I remembered the night I had asked strangers on the web for advice. It had been late, the house asleep, the glow from my slate a small island in the dark. I’d posted in a corner forum — an anonymous thread with a dozen avatars that looked like doodles and old logos — under a throwaway name. Sold small craft. How to cash out without the Bureau seeing? My heart had thumped with fear and hope for possible answers to the question.

[ Official source: http://www.betwix.co — © JL Chee ]

Answers came back in waves: sympathetic, speculative, wary. One person said, “Try a peer swap — folks trade credits for coin in chat hubs.” Another suggested using a “third-party broker” that acted like a marketplace middleman. Someone else warned that the least-scrupulous paths usually left the biggest scars. A moderator caution: “Anything that looks like hiding will draw attention. Keep volumes small. Keep it human.”

None of them posted in usable details. That had been the point. The forum spoke in hints and analogies, much like how Nona tells you the ingredients to her eggplant parmesan but forgets to include the amounts and detailed how-to instructions. The forum participants taught me the language of discretion: which words to avoid scrutiny, which places to trust with only a sliver of coin, how to split a payment into several small transfers so it looked like ordinary trade. They spoke in metaphors — river stones and loaves of bread — and I picked up this new language fast.

I hadn’t used the forum’s wisdom for bragging rights. I’d used it because my parents’ rent and the Agri-Bureau’s lease deadlines were fast coming due. Someone on the thread had messaged me privately with a contact — a hesitant, human voice who asked for small, honest trades first. I’d done one swap, then another, each time feeling more like I was balancing on a thin plank. Each successful conversion added coins to my pouch; each successful conversion made my breath come easier adding to my experience. With each spin, it also felt like a game of Russian Roulette. How long will your luck hold was the question ringing like a warning bell in the back of my mind. The hissing sound of a plant mister brought me back to the present. I exhaled slowly, typing back a response:

“Just a student experimenting. Small batches. Can’t promise bulk—conditions have been lucky this season.”

Ink squeaked as if approving. Sprout leaned toward me, steady and sure. Not a lie, not the full truth. Just enough.

---

Market day wore one. A customer pressed two coins into my palm, cool and heavy.

“Change in Coin, please,” she added quickly. “Credits vanish too easily these days.” I passed the tray along, then glanced sideways just in time to see another buyer slip something stranger into Mom’s hand. Not a coin. Not a slate transfer either. At first it looked like nothing — a carved trinket, worn smooth, small enough to tuck in a pocket. I’d seen things like it before, dangling from cords or gathering dust on counters, and never thought twice.

Mom, though, weighed it in her hand and nodded, tucking it into her pouch as if it were payment. My brow furrowed. That tray should have cost a hundred. Yet the buyer laid down two pieces — one large, one half its size. Together, they seemed to add up neatly, as if their worth was already understood. The book Ink had knocked free whispered again: Credit chits. Semi-physical tokens, passed hand-to-hand like toys, stones, or mementos. To outsiders, meaningless. To those who know their weight, value. Hard to trace. Impossible to tax.

Until last night I would have walked past such tokens without a thought. Now, watching them vanish into my mother’s pouch, I finally understood: the market ran on more than coin and credits. Shadows had their own currency. Every clink of coin at our stall, every whispered barter slipping past Bureau eyes, reminded me of the heavier pouch waiting in my SPACE. Thoughts of the book Ink had shoved into my lap wouldn’t leave me alone. It made me think of choices I will need to make, piling up as fast as the coins I couldn’t explain. Mei had her bracelet, her crown of silver light. The guild had marked her. The market was willing to be deceived by it. But I couldn’t make use of the system before my eyes.

I had to look elsewhere. ‘I feel like an old time mobster trying to wash my ill gotten gains clean,’ I mutter to the trays of saplings in front of me. I had coins that no one can trace. Maybe I could make use of the chits I now recognized. My Space had familiars who nudged me toward schemes my parents would never dare. Tenant plot or not, I had to make it work. I tucked the thought into the same hidden place as my pouch, the same place as every secret that might one day save us. Shadows had currency to work with too.

==end of chapter 5==

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