NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 3: !Cash Flow
Amias shut the door behind him, the cold metal click echoing through the small flat. He kicked off his trainers, the worn soles thudding against the wall, and slung his jacket over the back of the sofa.
He sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there. His mind was still reeling from the morning, from the impossibility of the system and the overwhelming flood of information.
A rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoed through the room as he juggled a football, his feet moving on instinct. The ball danced between his toes, gliding in fluid arcs before bouncing back to his chest. He caught it deftly, cradling it against his ribcage as he walked toward the kitchen.
The scent of curry floated through the flat, warm and familiar. His stomach rumbled in response.
His mother stood by the stove, stirring a pot. Her light brown skin glowed under the fluorescent kitchen light, her black hair pulled back into a low bun. She was young—only in her early thirties. She'd had him at eighteen, a girl barely out of secondary school with a baby on her hip, yet, she'd never let it break her. If anything, the struggle had only sharpened her, carving resilience into her bones.
She turned, a wooden spoon poised mid-air as she caught sight of him. "You're late."
"Yeah, just got held up." He leaned against the doorframe, the ball balanced under his foot. "Didn't get in trouble, though."
She snorted, one eyebrow arching. "You seen Pepper outside?" she asked, referring to their perpetually wandering cat. "That demon's been gone since morning."
"Nah, probably terrorizing the pigeons again." He leaned against the counter, snagging a piece of plantain from a nearby plate. "She'll come back when she's hungry."
"Mm." His mother stirred the pot, then paused. "You heard about your cousin's track? It's going mad on YouTube."
"Yeah, should hit hundred mil by December." Amias popped another piece of plantain in his mouth. "He's dropping that project too—Wild West."
"That boy..." Adrianna's smile widened, pride evident in her voice. "Putting in that work, making something of himself." The wooden spoon in her hand stilled, and Amias felt the shift in the air before it came. "Unlike some people still moving weight around the neighborhood."
"Mum—"
"No, you know how I feel about it." She turned to face him fully now, her dark eyes sharp. "It's the same road your father walked, and look where that got him."
Just as he was about to respond the holographic interface flickered to life in Amias's peripheral vision, its blue glow casting strange shadows on the kitchen walls. "Huh," he muttered, more to himself than in response to his mother.
"Oakley's doing it right," she continued, oblivious to the ethereal display. "Boy sent me five grand this morning, just because he could. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to get back that fifteen K those scammers took—"
"About that." Amias interrupted. Recently, a group of Indian scammers, disguised as Microsoft employees had convinced her into wiring them 15k. He was still clueless as to what had possessed his mother to believe a multi-billion dollar company would require a customer to reimburse them with such a substantial fee.
Unfortunately, time couldn't be rewind.
Fortunately, the nine thousand he'd gotten from the system coupled with Oakley's five G's, would easily help his mother recuperate the bulk of her losses .
"I actually have good news for you," His mother spun, now intrigued. "I have—"
His words were cut short in his throat at the sound of a distant chime. Before his very eyes the ethereal glow of the holographic interface materialized, his mother's expectant face masked by the translucent screen.
[FIRST TASK: INVEST IN YOUR CRAFT]
Use the system-provided funds to purchase music equipment.
Reward: 1 CP
Amias hesitated.
What a coincidence
His first task couldn't have came at a worse time couldn't it? Still, didn't it state that these were only guidelines? That 9k was going nowhere besides his mother's bank account.
"I've got some cash for you," he said, watching his mother's expression shift from surprise to suspicion. "Nine thousand."
She set the spoon down, turning off the stove. "Amias Cassian Nazir Mars, where did you get that kind of money?"
He almost laughed at the irony—how could he explain that a supernatural system had deposited it into his account? "It's clean, Mum. Promise."
"Clean like your father's money was clean?" Her voice cracked slightly, and Amias felt his chest tighten.
"It's different." He stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "But... with this and Oakley's money you'd be up fourteen thousand, that's one thousand shy of what you lost."
Her eyes narrowed. "So what."
His eyebrows raised ."What do you mean 'so what'?" He asked bewilderedly. "I promise, this is all clean, the same as Oakley's."
The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, hope flickering across her face. "You mean that?"
"Yeah." He smiled, genuinely. "I tried something new."
The interface pulsed again, casting its ethereal light across the kitchen, invisible to all but him. His mother pulled him into a tight hug, her familiar scent of coconut oil and kitchen spices enveloping him.
"That's amazing but…" she whispered against his shoulder. "Use that nine thousand for yourself."
"But-" His protest was cut short by the firm finger his mother planted on his lips.
"Just promise me you'll use it wisely," She stared into his eyes. "
Amias closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling in his chest. The system's task glowed steadily in his vision. "I'll try."
She pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Good. Now help me with these dishes before the food gets cold."
<>
Amias stood outside the apartment complex, breath fogging in the cold air as he stared at his phone. The system's interface hovered at the edge of his vision, a constant reminder of its presence. His thumb hovered over the search bar.
"Guidelines," he muttered, remembering the system's words. "Only guidelines..."
He could spin again instead with the 1CP—His fingers brushed against the smooth plastic of his bank card, the weight of it heavy in his pocket. Nine thousand. He could also lose everything. He cursed under his breath, shoving the thought away.
The uber pulled up, a black Toyota Prius with a cracked headlight. Amias tugged his coat tighter, sliding into the backseat. The driver, an older man with grey peppered through his beard, barely glanced at him.
London rolled past the windows, a blur of red brick and steel, old worlds colliding with new. The streets were slick with recent rain, reflecting the glow of shop signs and street lamps like scattered stars. Groups of teenagers huddled in doorways, hands shoved deep in pockets, hoods pulled low against the evening chill. Some wore the telltale Signs—designer tracksuits, fresh white trainers, sharp eyes that followed movement like predators.
The car turned down Denmark Street, music shops lined up like teeth in a crooked smile. Each window displayed gleaming instruments, promising dreams for those who dared to reach.
"Here's fine," Amias said, spotting the store he'd picked. The driver grunted, pulling up to the curb.
Outside, three roadmen lounged against a wall, smoke curling from their lips into the cold air. Their eyes tracked Amias as he approached the shop, that familiar predatory assessment. He kept his gaze forward, shoulders relaxed but ready. Sometimes the best defense was acting like you had nothing to prove.
Inside, the air was tinged with the faint scent of polished wood and metal. Rows of guitars hung like trophies along one wall, their lacquered bodies gleaming under the lights. In another corner, synthesizers and drum machines sat atop sleek black stands, their keys and pads waiting to be touched, to bring sound to life.
He wandered through the aisles, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. As he passed by a row of audio interfaces, his eyes drifted over the knobs and dials, the delicate lines of circuitry visible through tinted panels. He could almost feel the flow of sound, the invisible current that would run through those wires, transforming raw noise into music.
He approached a setup that caught his eye, drawn by the way the screens pulsed with life. Something about the arrangement of controls felt... familiar. His fingers hovered over the interface, and understanding bloomed in his mind like a flower opening to the sun. The knowledge felt borrowed, like reading someone else's diary and recognizing the handwriting.
Music Theory: 75/100.
Maybe that was why? The numbers weren't just statistics—they definitely affected him in some way.
"Need any help?"
Amias jerked back, his heart skipping a beat. A woman stood a few feet away, her arms crossed casually. She was light-skinned, her curls pulled back into a messy bun. Gold hoop earrings gleamed against her brown skin, and her lips were painted a deep shade of burgundy. She wore a cropped hoodie under a denim jacket, black cargo pants hanging low on her hips.
Her name tag read 'Maya.' She moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew their domain, fingers dancing across equipment as she spoke.
Amias cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how close she was standing. "Yeah… uh… I'm looking to get started with… music stuff."
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "First time?"
"Yeah… yeah, something like that."
Maya's eyes lit up. She spun toward a different setup, her hands moving like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. "Okay, so basics first. You're gonna need something to actually make the music with." Her fingers danced across a keyboard, drawing out a quick melody. "And something to capture it." She gestured to a small interface, then twirled—actually twirled—to point at a pair of monitors. "And something to hear it properly."
Amias found himself smiling despite his nerves. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
"What's your budget looking like?" she asked, adjusting her beanie.
His gut reaction was to blurt out that he had nine grand, but he swallowed the words. He wasn't stupid. Flashing that kind of cash in London was like painting a target on your back. "Just need the essentials, good stuff of course," he said instead. "Whatever you'd recommend for someone serious about starting."
Maya nodded, reading between the lines. "Smart. No point going all out before you know what you need." She moved down the aisle, gesturing for him to follow. "Let's build you something proper."
For the next hour, she guided him through a maze of equipment, her knowledge flowing like water. She didn't just list specs—she painted pictures with her hands, demonstrated how different pieces worked together, created little beats on the spot to show what was possible.
"See how this knob affects the sound?" She twisted a dial, and the bass rumbled deeper. "It's like... you know when you're in the car and you can feel the music in your chest? That's what you're after."
Amias watched her hands move across the equipment, understanding clicking into place with each demonstration. The borrowed knowledge in his head filled in gaps, turning abstract concepts into concrete understanding.
By the end, they'd assembled a list that made sense: an audio interface, studio monitors, a MIDI keyboard, a microphone that Maya swore by "Proper clean sound, trust", and a laptop that could handle the workload. All quality gear, but nothing flashy enough to raise eyebrows.
"You're gonna need a desk," Maya added, scribbling on her notepad. "And acoustic treatment for the room. Can't make proper tunes if the sound's bouncing all over the place."
Amias nodded, already picturing the setup in his room. The system's interface pulsed approvingly in his peripheral vision.
"I can ring it all up whenever you're ready," Maya said, tucking her pen behind her ear. "We've got most of it in stock."
He glanced at the total she'd written down. Less than half what he had available, but still enough to make his pulse quicken. This was real money—real commitment. He could invest this elsewhere, get a large load to trap, maybe even buy a bit of bitcoin. But no. He was here, words away from squandering 4 grand.
The system's words echoed in his mind: "The path you choose to walk is entirely your own."
"Yeah," he said finally, meeting Maya's expectant gaze. "Let's do it."
She grinned, and for a moment, the fluorescent shop lights caught her face just right, turning her smile into something almost luminous. "Sick. You're gonna make some proper waves with this setup."
{Task Complete!}