fantasy novels Chapter 110 Babel Coins
Chapter 110 Babel Coins
Chapter 109 Babel Coins (Bonus Chapter of 10,000 Words)
The old man's name was Gris.
He farmed in the lower city of Frostwolf for forty years, his hair turning from blond in his youth to gray now, his back bent into a rusty scythe.
Over the course of forty years, he had witnessed blizzards ripping off the roofs of half the outer city, seen the Countess's tax collectors appearing like vultures on the ridges of the fields every autumn harvest, and seen old Joseph next door starve to death in his empty granary in the third month of the snowy season.
But he had never seen barley ripen in twelve days.
Gris squatted by the edge of the field, clutching a heavy handful of wheat, examining it over and over again.
The grains were incredibly plump, each ear of wheat nearly twice the size of any variety he had ever seen before, golden and gleaming warmly against the hazy sky.
He pinched off a seed, put it in his mouth, and chewed it.
Sweet.
It's not that cloying sweetness, but a full, rich sweetness, as if sunshine and rain have been kneaded into the wheat grains.
Gris had farmed all his life and had never eaten such good raw wheat.
He stood up and looked at the acre of land in front of him.
It was called farmland, but it was completely different from the farmland he had previously known.
The soil in this acre is dark brown, several shades darker than ordinary farmland, and its surface has a faint sheen that is almost invisible to the naked eye.
If you stick your hand in, the soil is as soft as freshly sifted flour, and it's warm. The cold wind of the snowy season chills you to the bone, but your feet feel warm when you step into this field.
This is the Magic Farm.
Twelve days ago, the lord's men took him to the meeting point in the North District. A mechanical puppet dressed in work clothes buzzed around his small plot of land for the time it takes to burn half an incense stick, and then the soil changed color.
The mechanical puppet handed him a bag of wheat seeds, said "Just plant them normally," and then creaked away.
Griss scattered the wheat seeds with some skepticism.
The next day, the wheat seedlings sprouted.
By the third day, it was already a hand's breadth tall.
On the fifth day, it began to grow taller.
On the eighth day, the ears of grain began to emerge.
On the tenth day, grouting began.
On the twelfth day, the fields were golden.
Gris squatted by the edge of the field, gazing at the golden waves of wheat, so engrossed in his pipe that he forgot to light it.
He has been farming for forty years, planting in spring and harvesting in autumn. It takes at least four or five months from sowing to harvesting a crop of wheat.
In bad years, it's not uncommon for the harvest to be barely completed after six months.
Twelve days.
Twelve days, damn it.
Gris tucked his pipe back into his waistband, picked up his sickle, and went down to the field.
He cut very carefully, cutting handful by handful, tying them into bundles, and then carrying them to the edge of the field to stack them neatly.
His wife died young, and his son was killed by a frost wolf three years ago while gathering firewood during the snow season. He was all alone, with no one to help him, so he had to do all the work himself.
Fortunately, it was only one acre of land. After dawdling for most of the day, we finally finished harvesting it all.
Gris found the old scale in his house and weighed the threshed wheat bag by bag.
The first bag weighed 45.2 pounds.
The second bag weighed 41.9 pounds.
The third bag, 49.6 pounds.
He squatted beside the haystack, using a twig to draw horizontal bars on the ground to count.
After the last bag was weighed, Gris stared at the pile of haphazardly placed barbells on the ground, his lips trembling slightly.
239.6 pounds.
One acre, twelve days, 239.6 pounds of barley.
His previous small plot of land yielded less than 220 pounds in half a year.
Gris threw the branch away, sat on the ground, and didn't move for a long time.
239.6 pounds, one crop every twelve days.
Two and a half harvests can be made in a month.
One year—he counted on his fingers, not quite sure, but roughly estimated that he could harvest nearly thirty crops.
Thirty harvests.
239.6 multiplied by thirty.
Gris wasn't very good at calculating large numbers, but he knew it was a number he'd never even dreamed of in his life.
More than seven thousand pounds.
One acre of land yields more than 7,000 pounds of grain per year.
"Thirty times—" Gris muttered, remembering the number written on the announcement, "Damn it, it really is thirty times."
He looked up at the silhouette of the massive steel structure outside the city in the distance.
The Tower of Babel stands silently against the gray-white horizon, its four mechanical legs deeply embedded in the snowfield.
From this angle, it looks like an inverted iron tower, with its dense structural lines gleaming with a cold metallic luster under the gloomy skylight.
The young lord was sitting inside.
Gris lowered his head again and looked at the pile of golden barley in front of him.
He suddenly remembered old Joseph.
The old man who had been his neighbor for over twenty years was found dead in his empty cellar on a clear morning in the third month of the snow season.
He was still holding half a moldy black bread in his hand.
That year, the Countess collected 70% of the taxes.
Gris rubbed his eyes, tied the last bag of wheat tightly, and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
He was preparing to carry the wheat home when he heard footsteps coming from the end of the field.
Gris looked back.
The newcomer was wearing a dark gray uniform with a bronze badge pinned to his chest, engraved with the image of the Tower of Babel.
He had a leather briefcase hanging from his waist and a slender charcoal pencil in his hand.
He was a young man, thin and tall, wearing round-framed glasses with wire rims. He looked very refined, which seemed out of place with the muddy smell of the fields.
"Mr. Gris?" The young man flipped through the file folder, looked up and smiled at him. "Lower City, North Field Section 7, No. 139?"
Gris nodded and put the sack of wheat off his shoulder.
"I am the tax collector from the lord's manor," the young man introduced himself. "According to the lord's laws, thirty percent of the crop yield from the magic-powered farms must be handed over to the lord's manor—"
""
"The announcement says 20%," Griss immediately corrected, his eyes narrowing.
The young man paused for a moment, then quickly flipped through his document folder, a slightly embarrassed smile appearing on his face.
"Sorry, sorry, a slip of the tongue, it should be thirty percent, no, twenty percent, twenty percent!" He scribbled on the paper with a charcoal pencil, cleared his throat, and said again, "Mr. Griss, the total weight of your barley harvest this time is," he paused, his gaze falling on the document folder.
"239.6 pounds."
Gris's expression changed.
He suddenly turned his head and stared at the young man for a long time.
"How much did you say?"
"239.6 pounds." The young man repeated it again, his expression calm, as if this number, accurate to one decimal place, was a matter of course.
Gris was stunned.
He just weighed it with his old scale, and it added up to exactly 239.6 pounds.
"How did you know?" Gris instinctively took a half step back, lowering his voice. "You...you were watching me weigh myself here?"
The young man shook his head and adjusted his glasses.
"No, this figure was given to me directly from the lord's manor. The output data for each household is on my roster."
He turned the folder over and waved it at Gris.
Gris leaned closer for a look—a densely packed table, each row containing a name, a number, a plot of land location, followed by a string of precise numbers.
He found his name.
Gris, 139, Northfield Block 7, this period's yield: barley, 239.6 lbs.
Payable: 47.92 pounds.
Not a single point off.
It was even more accurate than his own calculations.
"This—" Gris opened his mouth, but for a moment he didn't know what to say.
He wanted to know how the lord's manor knew the exact yield of his acre of land.
He was all alone in the field, planting, harvesting, threshing, and weighing the grain. There wasn't a soul around him. How could anyone possibly know how much grain he had harvested?
"Don't ask me." The young man seemed to see through his thoughts, and spread his hands with a wry smile. "I don't know how the lord's mansion found out. I'm just a data courier."
He scratched the back of his head and lowered his voice, saying, "I guess it's some kind of magic. I heard there's a witch of a thousand machines in the Tower of Babel who can calculate anything. Anyway, I don't understand it. They give me the numbers, and I just charge them. I won't charge you a single copper coin, no, not a single grain of wheat more."
Gris was silent for a moment.
Accurate to the decimal point.
It's not accurate to the whole pound.
This means that the lord's manor knew the weight of every single grain of wheat in his acre of land.
If he wanted to underreport production and deliver less grain—
Gris shivered.
He didn't have that thought, but just thinking about it completely blocked his way, sending chills down his spine.
This new lord manages things even more meticulously than the Countess.
But then I thought, I'll only take 20%.
The countess takes 60-70% of the tax, and she frequently raises taxes.
This lord takes 20% and will even convert your magic farmland into magic energy for free.
Even if he knows you have a few sesame seeds in your pocket, so what? As long as he doesn't take more, let him know if he knows.
Once Gris understood this, the chill in his heart quickly dissipated.
"Okay, how much should I pay?"
"47.92 pounds," the young man read, taking a small folding scale from his waist. "You can weigh it yourself, I'll check it."
Gris silently untied the grain sack, scooped out the grain with a wooden bowl, and put it into the sack brought by the tax collector, bowl by bowl.
Old scales, wooden bowls, burlap sacks—these old tools are slow to use, but Gris has done this kind of work his whole life, so his feel for it is very accurate.
The final weight was 47.9 pounds.
It was a little short.
Griss pinched a few more grains of wheat and threw them in, then weighed them again, and they were just right.
The young man ticked a box on the document folder and then took something out of his briefcase.
A stack of papers.
It's thin and has the slightly astringent smell unique to ink.
Each one is about the size of a palm, with a sharp profile of a young man on the front, his jaw taut, and his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Below the outline is the character "壹" and a line of extremely fine patterns. The reverse side features the emblem of the Tower of Babel, with an anti-counterfeiting mark in each of the four corners.
The paper is much thicker than ordinary paper, and it has a slightly rough feel to the touch, unlike something that can be easily crumpled.
The young man counted them out one by one, reciting the numbers aloud.
"—Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three. These are forty-three Babel Tower coins, corresponding to the 47.9 pounds of barley you handed over. The remaining amount will be converted proportionally, plus any odd amount compensation—"
He then pulled out another banknote with the denomination "One".
"Forty-four in total." The young man handed the stack of banknotes to Gris. "Mr. Gris, please keep this safe. The lord's manor distributes them at a rate of one Babel coin for every 1.1 pounds of grain, rounded up to the nearest whole number, so you won't be shortchanged."
Gris took the stack of banknotes, held them in his hand, and flipped through them.
Light and airy.
Forty-four pieces of paper.
He clutched them in his hand; they weighed less than the sole of one of his shoes.
"Sign here." The young man handed over the document folder, pointed to the blank space at the bottom, and said, "If you can't write, a fingerprint will do."
Gris pressed his handprint. The crooked, rough red clay imprint stood out next to the precise numbers.
The young man put away the document folder and nodded to him.
"Mr. Gris, I'll be back for the next harvest. Good luck with your harvest."
After saying that, he walked away along the ridge of the field and went to the next household.
Gris stood there, looking down at the stack of banknotes in his hand.
Forty-four sheets.
He held up the top bill and examined it in the dim light. The profile of the young man on the banknote was exceptionally clear in the light, with strong lines and a sharp chin, making him look like someone who wouldn't be easy to talk to.
Gris folded the banknotes and stuffed them into his inner pocket.
"Paper scraps—" he muttered, bending down to pick up the remaining sacks of wheat.
He didn't quite believe that this thing could be used as money.
Having lived for nearly sixty years, he had only ever seen two kinds of money: silver coins and copper coins.
That's real money—it's heavy, and you can see the teeth marks when you bite into it.
This thin piece of paper could be blown away by a strong wind. You're telling him it's money?
But it doesn't matter.
They handed over forty-eight pounds of grain in exchange for forty-four pieces of paper.
Consider it a tax paid to the lord.
Compared to the Countess's time when she took 60-70%, 20% is already a blessing from heaven.
Even if he couldn't spend the money on that piece of paper, he still had 190 pounds of barley left.
190 pounds.
He's all alone; if he eats sparingly, it'll be enough to last him a long time.
Moreover, another crop can be harvested from the ground twelve days later.
As he carried the sack of wheat home, Gris's steps were much lighter than when he had come.
After putting the wheat away, he left home and went to the market.
He wanted to see if anyone was selling salt today.
The salt shaker at home has been empty for two days, and barley cakes are really hard to swallow without salt.
Although he had no silver or copper coins in his pocket, he had 190 pounds of barley, which he could always exchange for some salt.
However, before he even reached the salt stall, he was blocked by a long, crooked queue.
The procession stretched from the center of the market all the way to the northern street corner, numbering at least a hundred people, buzzing with conversation like a swarm of bees disturbed by a disturbance.
Gris frowned and tried to go around the queue, but the line was so dense that it blocked the entire passage.
He could only pat the person at the end of the line on the shoulder.
"Young man, what are you queuing for?"
The person who turned around was a young man in his early twenties, tanned dark, clearly a farmer like him, with mud still stuck to his trousers.
The young man looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on his calloused hands and worn-out coarse cloth clothes.
"Sir, judging from your attire, you must be a farmer too?"
"Hmm." Gris nodded. "Seventh district, Kitada section."
The young man grinned and pointed ahead.
"Those lined up in this circle are basically all farmers like us."
"What are we queuing for?"
"To exchange things," the young man said matter-of-factly. "To trade with the lord's mansion using Babel coins."
Gris paused for a moment.
He subconsciously touched the wad of banknotes in his inner pocket.
"Can this piece of paper be spent?"
The young man's expression became somewhat subtle, as if he were looking at someone who had just crawled out from under a rock.
"Sir, is this your first harvest?"
"Um."
No wonder.
The young man nodded knowingly. "I only found out after the first batch was harvested. When I first got the banknotes, I also thought this stuff was unreliable, but then—"
He paused for a moment, his smile carrying a hint of lingering relief.
"The things sold at the lord's manor were simply amazing."
"7
What are you selling?
The young man took a deep breath, as if organizing his thoughts.
"Take this magical energy farm right here, for example," he lowered his voice, but his eyes shone brightly. "Old man, do you know how much it normally costs to have the Alchemist's Association convert an acre of magical energy farmland?"
Gris shook his head.
He had never even dared to dream of magic farms before; they were something only noble lords could afford.
"One thousand magic crystals." The young man held up one finger. "One thousand. One magic crystal can sell for thirty silver coins on the black market, so one thousand is thirty thousand silver coins. Old man, could you save up thirty thousand silver coins a lifetime farming?"
Gris's lips twitched.
Thirty thousand silver coins.
He farmed his whole life and couldn't even save up three hundred silver coins.
"But here at the lord's manor—" the young man lowered his voice, but spoke faster, "converting one acre of magical farmland only costs two hundred Babel Tower coins."
"How many?"
"Two hundred yuan."
Gris didn't say anything.
He lowered his head and touched the wad of banknotes in his pocket.
Forty-four sheets.
If he were to exchange all the remaining 190.7 pounds of barley for Babel coins, plus these forty-four —
Two hundred and seventeen images.
It's over two hundred.
He could use these scraps of paper—the scraps of paper he had just thought he "couldn't spend"—to exchange for another acre of magical farmland.
Gris's breathing suddenly became heavy.
One mu becomes two mu.
Two acres of land, one crop every twelve days, each crop yields over 470 pounds.
Thirty harvests a year, yielding over 14,000 pounds of grain.
His lips trembled slightly, and his fingers unconsciously clenched the banknotes in his pocket.
"Uncle? Uncle, are you alright?" The young man looked at him with some concern.
Gris suddenly snapped out of his daze.
"Young man, where is that exchange place you mentioned?"
"At the very front of the line," the young man pointed, "is the lord's exclusive shop, under that big shed in the center of the market. But if you have grain that you want to exchange for Babel coins, you have to go to the window over there first." Gris didn't finish his sentence.
He turned and left, striding quickly home.
190 pounds of barley, carried it all over.
Not a single grain was left.
No—leave no food at all.
Another harvest can be done in twelve days. Keep about ten pounds, enough to last twelve days.
He walked faster and faster until he was almost jogging.
His sixty-year-old legs were aching from running, but he couldn't care less.
Two hundred Babel Tower coins, one acre of Magic Energy Farmland.
Something that costs 30,000 silver coins on the market can be had for only 200 pieces of paper here.
Gris is not a smart man.
But he had farmed all his life, and he had a scale in his mind.
Anyone with eyes can figure this out.
He rushed home, panting, and dug out the 190.7 pounds of barley.
They kept 16.5 pounds of food, and packed the remaining 174.2 pounds into three large sacks, carrying them to the market in trip after trip.
After three trips, Gris was panting heavily, his back aching, but he was holding the newly exchanged 158 Babel coins in his hand, plus the previous 44, for a total of 202.
enough.
Clutching the stack of banknotes, he squeezed into the back of the long line.
The queue was long, but it wasn't moving too slowly. Under the large tent in front, there were several long tables, and behind the tables sat several staff members in dark gray uniforms, efficiently registering customers, collecting money, and issuing receipts.
Gris waited in line for almost half an hour before it was finally his turn.
"One acre of magical farmland conversion rights, two hundred Babel Tower coins." The staff member said without looking up, "The location of the plots is uniformly planned and allocated by the Lord's Mansion, and the conversion will be completed within three days. Please show your farmer number plate."
Gris handed over the wooden sign along with two hundred banknotes.
The staff counted the banknotes, checked the serial numbers, wrote a few lines on a registration form, and then handed him a voucher stamped with the emblem of the Tower of Babel.
"Mr. Gris, you have purchased the conversion rights to one acre of magical farmland, plot number 140, North Field Section 7. An engineering golem will go to your plot to carry out the conversion in three days. Please be present at that time to confirm."
Gris took the voucher, his fingers trembling slightly.
He looked at the voucher, then at the two remaining Babel Tower coins in his hand—two hundred and two minus two hundred.
Two acres of land.
Hegris, an old farmer who has spent his whole life farming, now owns two acres of magical farmland.
He carefully tucked the receipt and the two banknotes close to his chest, then turned and walked out.
I had only taken two steps when a commotion suddenly broke out behind me.
The sound of horses' hooves.
It wasn't just one horse, but several, accompanied by the rumble of wheels rolling over the stone pavement.
Gris looked back.
A four-horse carriage was coming from the east end of the market street.
The carriage was made of fine oak planks and painted dark brown. A gilded merchant guild emblem hung on the side, clearly indicating that it was not an ordinary household item.
Before the car had even come to a complete stop, the curtain was lifted.
A fat man in a fur coat leaned out of the carriage and shouted at the servants following beside it, "Quick! Unload them! Unload them all!"
The servants deftly lifted two large metal crates from the bottom of the carriage, the crates making a dull metallic clang as they hit the ground.
bang.
bang.
Gris knew that voice all too well.
It's money.
It's a gold coin.
The sound of a large number of gold coins clashing together.
The crowd fell silent immediately.
All eyes were on the two boxes.
The fat man jumped off the carriage, his bulky body bouncing on the ground, sending up a cloud of snowflakes from the hem of his fur coat.
He completely ignored the stares from those around him, waving his hand to urge the servants to carry the boxes toward the lord's exclusive shop.
"Make way! Make way!" The fat man's servant shouted gruffly as he cleared the way.
Gris was pushed aside and watched as the servants carried the two boxes into the shed and placed them heavily on the counter.
The moment the lid was opened, a flash of golden light made Griss squint.
Two boxes full of gold coins.
Each coin is a standard universal gold coin, with the kingdom's coat of arms engraved on the obverse and the face value "One Gold" engraved on the reverse.
Gris had never seen so many gold coins piled up together in his entire life.
He subconsciously glanced at the fat man again.
A gilded merchant guild emblem, a fur coat, and four fine horses—this is a prominent merchant in the upper district of Frostwolf City.
This kind of person has more gold coins in their pocket than all the farmers in the lower city combined.
But what is he doing here?
Why is he also exchanging Babel coins?
Filled with confusion, Gris squeezed a couple of steps out and approached a young man who was also watching.
It was the same dark-skinned young man from the same group earlier.
"Who is that fat guy?" Gris asked.
"The Glend Merchant Guild in the Upper City." There was a hint of sourness in the young man's tone. "They deal in timber and ore, and are one of the most prominent merchants in Frostwolf City."
"What did he do with so many Babel coins?"
The young man curled his lip.
"Old man, the Lord's Mansion's specialty shops sell more than just magical farmland."
He started counting on his fingers: "Magic lamps, the kind that cost fifty silver coins a lamp on the market, sell for five Babel coins here. Alchemy farm tools, like hoes, sickles, etc., cost at least twenty silver coins each on the market, but two Babel coins here. And then there are alchemy harvesters, automatic threshing machines, those mechanical gadgets I've never even heard of," he paused, lowering his voice.
"The prices are all one-tenth of the market price, or even lower."
Gris gasped.
"One-tenth?"
"One-tenth." The young man nodded heavily. "And we only accept Babel coins; we don't accept gold or silver coins at all."
So you see that fat businessman—”
He gestured with his chin toward the greenhouse.
"He has to exchange his gold coins for Babel coins first before he can buy anything here. There's a window at the lord's mansion that specializes in exchanging gold coins for Babel coins."
Gris fell silent.
Watching the portly merchant gesturing and selecting goods at the counter, he suddenly understood something.
Those scraps of paper—those scraps of paper he had just thought he "couldn't spend"—were actually not unspendable.
It's such a beautiful flower.
The money was so good that even big merchants in the upper city would bring a cartload of gold coins to queue up and exchange them.
The young man seemed to read his mind and chuckled twice.
"Sir, to be honest with you, I suspect that merchant isn't just using it himself. Think about it, he's stockpiling large quantities of something that costs a tenth of the market price, intending to sell it in other cities after the snow season."
The young man rubbed his fingers together.
"Isn't this like picking up free money?"
Gris did not answer.
He turned around, clutched the two remaining Babel coins in his inner pocket, and slowly walked home.
The pace was slow.
But their minds work much faster than their feet.
He was thinking about the next crop of barley, which would be ready to harvest in twelve days. Two acres, over 470 pounds. After paying 20%, that would leave over 380 pounds. Should he convert it all into Babel Tower coins and buy the conversion rights to another acre of Magic Energy Farmland? The barley from two acres of Magic Energy Farmland would be more than enough to buy just one acre. If the yield was sufficient—
Gris's lips slowly parted into a smile.
He suddenly felt that this piece of paper was more real than gold coins.
Tower of Babel, Lord's Hall.
Lorraine sat behind his desk, his fingers interlaced on the surface, listening to Pym report on the latest progress of the paper money rollout.
Pym stood across the table, holding a thick stack of reports, reading them until his throat was dry, but he was in high spirits, his eyes shining.
"—As of today, 98 percent of the population of Frostwolf City is using Babel currency, and the currency promotion plan has been almost successfully completed."
He turned a page.
"Regarding the Lord's Mansion's exclusive stores, in the seven days since their opening, a total of 3,112 acres of magical energy farmland conversion rights, 1,400 magical energy lamps, more than 2,700 pieces of alchemical alloy farm tools, eight automatic threshing machines, and various daily necessities have been sold."
"A total of more than 206,000 Babel coins were recovered."
He closed the report and looked up.
"Purchasing demand continues to grow rapidly. In addition, representatives from seventeen chambers of commerce have submitted large-scale purchase applications, totaling..."
Pym took a deep breath.
"The total amount is expected to exceed one million Babel dollars."
He placed the report on the table, paused for two seconds, and then cautiously asked the question that had been nagging at him for several days.
"My lord, please forgive my boldness—"
Lorraine raised her eyelids slightly.
"explain."
Pym swallowed hard.
"Are you able to sustain the costs of selling these machines and magical farmland conversion services at such low prices?"
His wording was cautious, but his meaning was very clear—we won't lose everything, will we?
Pym has spent most of his life in business.
He knew all too well what the phrase "good quality and low price" meant: either it meant losing money to make a profit, or the cost was so low that it defied common sense.
The former is suicide, the latter is a miracle.
Lorraine looked at Pym, a slight smile playing on her lips.
The smile was faint, but Pym read a chilling composure in it.
"Pym, do you think I would do a losing deal?"
"This subordinate dares not—"
"Don't worry, you won't lose out." Lorraine leaned back in his chair and raised his hand to make a gesture that seemed meaningless to Pym, but Lorraine's self-glow seemed to sweep over something that only he could see.
"I can still make a profit."
Pym opened his mouth, then swallowed back the words that were about to come out.
He knew he shouldn't ask anymore.
"As for why I can achieve such a low cost," Lorraine's gaze shifted from the thing in the void to Pym's face.
"You don't need to know this."
His tone was not threatening, but his calmness itself was the greatest deterrent.
Pym immediately bent down.
"Understood."
"You only need to know one thing," Lorraine said, holding up a finger, "the goods I offer can only be purchased with Babel coins. You won't find anything of the same value anywhere else in the world."
He paused for a second.
"This is the credit anchor of the Babel Tower Coin. It's not gold, it's not magic crystals, it's the unique supply capacity that I, Lorraine, possess."
Pym paused for a moment.
Then he suddenly looked up, his eyes lighting up.
He is a businessman.
He instantly understood the logic behind that statement—
Gold coins are valuable because gold is scarce, has a recognized value, and people can exchange it for things from others.
The reason why Babel coins are valuable is that there is only one place in the world where you can buy these things for one-tenth of the price.
If you take the gold coins elsewhere, you can buy them for ten times the price.
You can buy it here with Babel coins for double the price.
So tell me, which is more valuable, gold coins or Babel coins?
Babel coins are definitely more valuable.
Because the same Babel coin can buy ten times more things here than a gold coin of the same denomination can buy elsewhere.
This isn't some economic theory; it's the simplest truth—whoever's products are both good and cheap, their money is more valuable.
Lorraine monopolized the source of "good and cheap" supply.
As long as this source doesn't dry up, Babel coins will never become worthless.
Furthermore, as the variety of goods increases and the coverage expands, the value of Babel coins will only continue to rise.
Pym's breathing became rapid involuntarily.
He suddenly realized that the position of "central bank governor" he had taken over was far more important than he had initially thought.
This is not a small business of managing a few money shops and making a few loans.
This is the foundation of a complete market system.
And the anchor point of that foundation is the young man in front of me and the incredibly cheap products in his hands.
"Understood." Pym bowed again, but this time, he bowed more deeply than ever before. "I understand completely."
Lorraine glanced at him but said nothing more.
"Go and get to work."
Pym turned and walked out.
As he reached the door, he suddenly stopped and turned around.
"My lord, I have another question."
"explain."
"Those large merchant guilds purchase large quantities of goods from the lord's manor and then transport them to other cities for sale—don't you plan to restrict that? If other cities can also buy these low-priced goods, the unique advantage of the Babel Tower currency will be..." "No restrictions," Lorraine interrupted him.
Pym was taken aback.
"Let them sell it." Lorraine's lips curled into a smile again. "The wider the better."
"I will impose some restrictions only on critical strategic materials."
He stood up from his chair, walked to the window, and looked towards the downtown area.
Outside the window, the massive shadow cast by the Tower of Babel covered most of the outer city, its steel silhouette resembling a silent temple against the gray sky.
"When everyone in the surrounding cities knows that Frostwolf City sells these good things and only accepts Babel coins..."
Lorraine turned around and looked at Pym.
"What do you think they'll do?"
Pym's pupils contracted slightly.
They will do everything they can to get their hands on Babel coins.
They traded gold coins, magic crystals, and goods—they traded everything they had.
By then, Babel coins will no longer be just the currency of Frostwolf City.
It will become a hard currency that all cities are vying for.
"Go ahead," Lorraine said. "Set up the bank's framework, and implement the plan for interest rates, deposits and loans, and foreign exchange."
After the snow season ends, I want to see Babel coins circulate freely throughout the entire North.
Pym bent down deeply.
"Yes, my lord."
The moment he turned and stepped out of the hall, the cold wind from outside rushed in again.
But this time, he didn't tremble.
His mind was full of numbers—exchange rates, circulation, loan-to-deposit ratios, reserves—these things meshed together like gears, spinning rapidly in his mind.
Pym clutched the report in his arms tightly, his steps almost jogging.
He has work to do.
There's so much work to do.