The Lighter Frenzy and a Taste of Home

Chapter Seven: The Lighter Frenzy and a Taste of Home

In the corporate world, "efficiency" means doing more work for the same pay. In Sarimanok, efficiency means you get to eat lunch before the sun melts your skin.

People rose outrageously early in Sarimanok.

In Pasig, 6:00 AM is the time you either wake up cursing the traffic or finally go to sleep after a graveyard shift.

Here, 6:00 AM was already mid-morning. The sun was dragging itself up from the horizon, painting the harbor in aggressive shades of tangerine and violet.

The air was cool, but it carried that specific tropical promise of sweltering heat to come, mixed with the smell of woodsmoke, drying nets, and damp earth.

I arrived at our designated spot—Stall 42—feeling surprisingly awake.

The Mana-Wave hummed beneath me, its suspension absorbing the cobblestones like they were clouds.

But when I pulled up to the curb, I realized I was late.
Marikit was already there.

She was a small, determined silhouette against the rising sun, standing guard over our empty patch of woven mats.

She was wearing her best dress—still patched, but clean—and she was holding a piece of chalk like a weapon.

"Good morning, Kuya Pepito!" she chirped, her face lighting up as the bike’s engine purred to a stop.

"Morning, Mari. You're here bright and early," I said, grinning as I kicked the stand down.

"Did you sleep here?"

"No! But people were already waiting when the rooster crowed, so I had to take command!" she said, puffing out her chest.

She pointed a small, calloused finger toward the docks.

"Look! You've got customers! A whole school of them!"
I followed her finger.

My jaw unhinged.
A long, snaking line stretched out from our empty stall, winding deep into the marketplace, past the fishmongers and dangerously close to the grumpy salt-traders.

There must have been fifty people. But they weren't pushing. They weren't shouting.
They were standing in a neat, single-file line. And the people at the front were holding small, jagged pieces of roof slate with numbers written on them in chalk.

I stared at the slate in the hand of a burly dockworker. It read: #1.
I looked at Marikit.

"Did... did you make a ticketing system?"

"Uh-huh!" she nodded, dusting chalk off her hands. "It was getting messy. The big men were pushing the lolas. So I went to the tannery shed, found some broken slate, and numbered them. I told them: 'No slate, no fire.' Now they are behaving like good little crabs in a bucket."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. BEP’s voice was thick with admiration.

[Analysis: User Marikit has independently implemented a primitive but highly effective First-In-First-Out (FIFO) queuing algorithm.]
[Observation: Local crowd control efficiency increased by 65%. Social friction reduced by 90%.]
[Recommendation: Give her a raise. Also, stop gaping; you’re letting flies in.]

"She's born for logistics," I muttered, stunned. "Move over, Amazon. Santos Delivery is taking over."

The Rush
The word had clearly spread overnight. The "Pocket Inferno" wasn't just a curiosity anymore; it was the viral trend of the Amihan Coast.

The rumor mill had done its work: A stranger in a gray cloak is selling portable suns for the price of a fish.

Adrenaline kicked in, flushing out the last of my sleepiness. This was it. The launch.

"Alright. No time for a chill setup," I said, clapping my hands.

"Mari, battle stations!"
We dropped the main mat. I pulled out my phone.

"BEP, initialize Tampipi deployment. Batch One."
I tapped the screen.
Poof. Poof. Poof.
With a series of shimmering, soft explosions that made the nearby fishmongers jump and clutch their pearls, boxes of BIC lighters and stacks of instant noodles appeared out of thin air. The crowd collectively gasped.

"Sorcery," the dockworker whispered, clutching his slate. "Practical sorcery."

"Okay, Mari," I whispered, crouching behind the crates as the first customer stepped forward.

"We need a shorthand. 'S' for the Standard lighters (the mini ones), 'L' for the Large ones, and 'X' for the new rugged ones—the windproof torch lighters I found in the bottom of the bag."
"X for Extreme?" she whispered back, eyes wide.

"Exactly. X for eXtreme. Upsell the X if they look like adventurers. Ready?"

She nodded solemnly, her mismatched eyes sharp and focused. She looked like a tiny general surveying the battlefield.

"I'll call out the orders. You take the coins and bag 'em. Ready?"

"Yes, Kuya! Leave it to me!"

I stood up, raising my voice to meet the mounting chatter. I flashed the smile that had de-escalated a thousand angry American callers.

"Sorry for the delay, everyone! Pepito's Wonders & Wares is now officially OPEN!

Number one, please!"
The morning exploded.
It wasn't just commerce; it was a raid boss battle where the boss was Demand. It was a blur of hands, the heavy clink of bronze and silver, and the rhythmic flic-flick-whoosh of testing flames.

"Number One!" Marikit shouted.
The dockworker slammed his slate down. "I want the fire. The big one."
"One Type-L, Orange!" I called out, handing it over.
"Thirty Tanso!" Marikit chirped, her hand snapping out to catch the coins. Clatter.

[Transaction Complete: +30 Tanso]
"Number Two! Three Type-S, Blue!"
[Transaction Complete: +90 Tanso]

"Number Three! He looks like he fights monsters, Kuya!" Marikit whispered loudly.
I looked at the customer—a scarred woman with a glaive on her back.
"For the discerning warrior," I said smoothly, pulling out a matte-black windproof lighter.

"The Type-X. Wind resistant. Jet flame. Perfect for cauterizing wounds or lighting campfires in a gale."
The warrior’s eyes widened. "How much?"
"Sixty Tanso."
"Done."
[Transaction Complete: +60 Tanso. Upsell Successful.]
Marikit was a whirlwind of precision. She handled the mental math better than I did, converting copper to silver on the fly, bagging items in dried banana leaves she’d pre-folded, and keeping the line moving. She was polite to the elders, firm with the pushy ones, and absolutely ruthless with anyone trying to haggle.

"No discounts, Uncle!" she told a man trying to trade a crab for a lighter.

"Can you put a crab in your pocket to light your pipe? No! It will pinch you! Thirty Tanso!"

I stifled a laugh. We were a machine. An economic storm hitting the coast.

A Taste of Home

Three sweaty, glorious hours later.
"I'm very sorry, everyone, but we are completely sold out for today!" I announced to the remaining five stragglers.
A collective groan rolled through the marketplace.

"Come back tomorrow!" Marikit yelled, standing on a crate.

"Same time! Bring exact change!" As the crowd dispersed, grumbling but already planning their return,

Marikit and I collapsed onto our crates. We were hoarse, drained, and sticky with humidity.

I looked at the wooden cash box between us. It was heavy. Dangerously heavy.
[Sales Report: Day 2]
[Total Units Sold: 400 mixed units (Lighters, Noodles, Sardines)]
[Total Revenue: 14,750 Tanso (approx. 147 Pilak)]
[Net Profit: ~14,250 Tanso]
[Currency Conversion Estimate: ~₱14,250 PHP]

I stared at the holographic numbers.
"Damn," I breathed.
I had just earned more in three hours than I used to make in two weeks at the call center taking abuse about late deliveries. Was this sustainable? Or was the universe just fattening me up for some cosmic punchline?
Growwwwwwl.

My stomach made a dramatic entrance, loud enough to scare away a passing seagull.

Marikit’s head whipped up. A second later, her own belly joined the chorus with a high-pitched, hungry squeak.

She turned beet red, covering her stomach with her hands and looking at her toes.

"Hey, hey," I chuckled, reaching over to pat her head. Her hair was warm from the sun.

"You earned your meal, partner. We don't do 'unpaid overtime' in this company. And we definitely don't skip lunch."

I pulled out my phone. The battery was at 78%—the mana-charging case worked wonders.

"BEP, Tampipi app. Retrieve Lunch Package Alpha."
I tapped the screen.
Shimmer.
Two items appeared on the mat, still warm, suspended in the stasis of the inventory.
First, a foil-wrapped brick. Second, a sealed plastic tub with a condensation-covered lid.

The smell hit the air instantly—sweet, rich dark cocoa, and the savory scent of cured meat.

Marikit sniffed the air, her nose twitching like a bunny. "What is that smell? It smells like... wealth."

"It's better than wealth," I grinned. "It's comfort."
I peeled back the foil to reveal a massive Ham and Cheese Sandwich made with thick, fluffy white 'Tasty' bread (the kind without the crusts, because Ninang Josie spoils me). Beside it, I popped the lid off the tub.

Champorado.
Thick, glutinous chocolate rice porridge, swirled with evaporated milk.

"Marikit," I said, handing her a plastic spoon.

"Have you ever had chocolate for lunch?"

"Chocolate is for the high holidays," she whispered, looking at the tub like it was a holy grail.

"And bread... your bread is so white. Ours is brown and hard. This looks like a cloud."

"It is a cloud," I said. "Try the cloud first."
She took the sandwich with two hands. She took a bite.
Her eyes went wide. She chewed slowly, savoring the salty ham, the processed cheese, and the soft, sugary white bread.

"It dissolves..." she mumbled. "It's so soft."

"Now the soup."
She dipped the spoon into the Champorado. She took a hesitant mouthful.
I watched her face transform. The confusion turned to shock, and then to pure, bliss. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes sparkled.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's warm. And sweet. But not too sweet? It's like... a hug. For my mouth."

I smiled, digging into my own share. The taste of the cheap cocoa powder and the sticky rice grounded me. Amidst the magic, the portals, and the interface, sharing a meal was the only thing that felt real.

"It's called Champorado," I explained. "In my world, we eat this when it rains. Or when we're sad. Or when we just won a victory."

We ate in silence for a while, watching the port traffic.
When the last drop of chocolate was scraped from the tub, I leaned back against the warm stone wall.

"Alright, Mari," I said, wiping my mouth.

"Business time."
I opened the cash box. I counted out two heavy silver coins.
Clink. Clink.
I placed them in her small palm.

"Two Pilak," I said. "For today's work. Especially that ticketing system. That saved us."
Her jaw hit the floor. She stared at the silver.

"Two... Pilak?" she squeaked. "Kuya, that is... yesterday was one. This is double! That is enough to buy a goat! A whole goat! With horns!"

"Completely," I said firmly. "You're not an assistant, Marikit. You're a partner. You handled the cash. You handled the crowd. In my world, we call this a 'Performance Bonus.' And you earned it."
Her hand closed around the coins tight. She looked at me, and her eyes were wet.

"Thank you, Kuya," she whispered. "I will buy the best goat."
I laughed. "Maybe start with shoes, but sure, get the goat."
I leaned back, closing my eyes. The hum of the market faded into something soft and golden. For a moment, it was perfect. I had a friend. I had money. I had Champorado. I had finally done something right.

Then, the temperature seemed to drop five degrees.
The chatter of the nearby stalls died down abruptly.
A shadow fell over us, blocking out the sun. It wasn't a cloud. It was a person.

"Excuse me."
The voice was a woman’s. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the air vibrate. It was polished, smooth, and utterly commanding—the voice of someone who was used to silence following her words.
I opened my eyes and looked up, squinting against the silhouette.
Standing there was a woman in robes of deep indigo silk, embroidered with silver thread that seemed to move like flowing water. She held a staff made of white driftwood. And she was looking down at my empty Ligo sardine cans with an expression of intense, calculated interest.

"Are you the one," she asked, "who is selling the fire of the gods for thirty copper pieces?"

Author's Note:
Champorado (Chocolate Rice Porridge) is the ultimate comfort food. Traditionally served with Tuyo (dried salted fish) to cut the sweetness, but for Marikit, the pure sugar rush is probably mind-blowing enough.
The Economics: 14,000 Tanso is a huge haul. To put it in perspective, a standard laborer in this setting makes about 50-100 Tanso a day. Pepito just made a year's salary in a morning. Inflation is coming.
The Cliffhanger: Who is the Lady in Indigo? A potential ally? Or the regulator coming to ask why Pepito isn't paying the "Magic Tax"?
Next Chapter: We meet the local magical authority, and Pepito has to explain that a lighter is not, in fact, a trapped fire elemental.
- Author