A quick call to the photography store revealed that they held a three-day workshop on film developnt and photo printing—both black-and-white and color. Excited, I signed up for the earliest available session and continued my preparations.
A quick online search yielded five pawnshops, two gaming stores, and a flea market. Over the next five days, I made it my mission to visit every single one, starting with a pawnshop that finally lived up to the image I had in my head.
It was small, dimly lit, and cluttered. The air carried a musty blend of dust, aged leather, a trace of mildew, and sothing less tangible—the scent of ti itself. Yes, ti had a sll, it slled old. Narrow aisles wound between shelves packed with an unrelated collection of things—from battered attaches to old amplifiers, from small appliances like blenders and food processors to scuffed musical instrunts that had seen better days.
Behind the counter, an older man with a thick white beard smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hello, treasure seeker. Are you here for sothing special?”
“Gold jewelry.”
He nodded, ducked behind the counter, and reappeared with a tray full of small pieces —earrings, pendants, and, oddly enough, dozens of wedding rings. The sight of all those rings gave pause. Each one probably had a story, but now they lay there, offered for cash.
"I’ll take the lot," I said, waving at the tray. The shopkeeper’s bushy eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting between amusent and suspicion.
“That’s a lot of rings,” he said, eyeing .
“I lt them down,” I lied. He didn’t push it.
As I scooped the rings into a bag, one caught my eye—a simple gold band, slightly dented, with tiny engraved initials: M K, 1987. A pang of sadness washed over , and before I realized it, my fingers had found my own wedding ring, turning it absently. Noticing the motion, I stopped.
Minutes later, I left with a bag of mismatched gold—earrings, pendants, and an unreasonable number of wedding rings. And this was just the first stop. The next few days were going to be interesting.
The next stop on my list was the gaming store, packed with glass display cases showcasing characters in all shapes and sizes. So were instantly recognizable—Star Wars, Pixar—but most were a mystery.
A young red-haired guy with glasses sat behind the counter reading a comic book.
“Excuse ,” I said to catch his attention. “Do you have copper coins in stock?”
His eyes lit up with interest. “Why do you need copper coins?” he asked, excited.
I smiled, trying to co up with a plausible explanation. “It’s a present for a kid that collects coins.”
His shoulders slumped, and his smile vanished. What the hell? Why would a kid’s present disappoint him?
He showed a pouch with copper coins. Judging by its look, I suspected it was the sa kind of pouch the Traveler wrote about. I bought the entire stock in the store and did the sa in the other gaming store. There, at least the salesperson didn’t ask questions and didn’t get disappointed.
My next stop was the flea market, an all-out assault on my senses and worldview. Shops and stalls overflowed with things I couldn’t imagine anyone buying—or why anyone would bother selling. Old, battered furniture sat in disarray—chairs missing seats or legs, torn mattresses, and wardrobes with half their shelves gone.
A taxidermied squirrel in a top hat stood next to a pile of porcelain dolls. A VHS copy of Titanic sat on top of a stack of ‘90s sitcom box sets, and beside it, a bowl of marbles reflected the light like tiny Christmas lights. And then there were the used shoes—row after row of them, laces knotted together in pairs. I did a double-take. Yes, soone was selling used shoes.
Who buys used shoes?
But there were also many more interesting items. There were stalls with glassware and talware, so used and so new. The glassware included beautiful pieces that must have co from heirlooms—the craftsmanship was exquisite. Others were selling cutlery sets, and I found a stand offering brand-new linens from the factory in a huge mixed pile. The seller explained they were new but lacked packaging, so they ended up at the flea market.
Stalls overflowed with used and new toys, figurines, second-hand books, vinyl records, and everything in between. Food stalls filled the market, most selling beer and German sausages, filling the air with delicious slls. The various stores blasted loud music, each trying to outdo the other. It was chaotic, loud, and overwhelming, yet sohow charming.
By the end of my shopping spree, my haul included cookware, lots of glassware, linens and blankets, carpets, toys, baskets and chests, giant rolls of cloth, figurines, and a myriad of other items I could buy for cheap and sell where they didn’t have those things.
Each purchase lifted a little. At first, it wasn’t quite excitent—more like surfacing from a deep well of gloom. I still grieved and missed Sophie like crazy, but getting ready for my journey pushed back the clouds of pain, letting hope in like sun rays. Maybe it didn’t shine directly on , but at least its warmth reached . I was doing it. Actually doing it. And that gave hope, sothing to latch onto, and a sense of pride in myself.
When I returned to the hotel and checked my Storage after all the shopping, it was a chaotic ss. Looking inside was a strange experience—I didn’t move my head, but my vision shifted, like staring past everything to a distant horizon with an unfocused gaze. I saw the entire space as a general mass, the individual items blurring together. It wasn’t sight with my physical eyes but my ntal eyes.
Despite the disorientation, I knew exactly what was inside and where each item was. The duality of seeing and knowing was unsettling at first, but gradually, I adjusted. It wasn’t natural, but it was manageable. The outside world vanished while I looked into my Storage. I could focus on one or the other—never both.
The space was a massive 8x8x8 ter cube, with everything piled at the bottom. I figured things would stack up as I added more. The whole setup clashed with my Earthly sensibilities—the ssy piles felt off, and the high ceiling seed unnatural. The ability description ntioned nothing about reshaping the space, but I tried it anyway.
I tried willing it to change shape—nothing. So I reached out with my mind, tracing the edges of the space until I fully grasped it as a space or object. Then I “pulled” one end while “pressing” on the top. The shift happened entirely through ntal intent, not physical force. Slowly, the space stretched and lengthened as its height shrank. It took an incredible amount of concentration. My ntal faculties trembled from the strain, and my head pounded, but I didn’t give up until I had a long hall with a 2.5-3 ter high ceiling.
Much better and worth the headache
I went to Ikea to buy so cheap shelving units. When I entered the store, there were so many families and couples that it was hard to navigate, and harder to deal with the noise. I found the shelves in the storage area, all flat-packed and ready to assemble. I also found a barrel—the idea of a barrel full of coins was too cool to pass up. The barrel was massive and sturdy, held together by tal bands, and had a cool rustic vibe that I thought would fit perfectly in a fantasy world.
I organized all my purchases on the shelves, placing the jewelry in a nice pirate chest I found at the flea market. The barrel, nearly overflowing, was perfect for storing the copper coins. So unexpected finds made it into the collection, like a manual coffee grinder and an old-school ice cream churn, things that wouldn't have even crossed my mind.
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The first day of the workshop arrived, and I went to attend. As soon as I walked into the store, the sll of photographic chemicals hit . I saw a few shelves with vintage caras and couldn’t help but admire them. A blond clerk with big blue eyes said sothing in German.
“I don’t speak German,” I said. “I’m here for the workshop.”
She waved toward the back, where the workshop was being held. I joined a small group gathered around a long table covered with equipnt whose purpose I couldn’t guess.
Ansel, a stocky man in his sixties—maybe pushing seventy—with a neatly trimd gray beard, led the workshop. Despite his age, he radiated energy, his passion for photography evident in every gesture. Before even touching on film developnt, he launched into an enthusiastic discussion about the art, his thick German accent making so words tricky to follow, but the topic was captivating enough that it hardly mattered.
"Ah, ja, now ve talk about sosing fundantal—ze Law of Thirds," he said. "Never place ze subject in ze middle, nein! Too boring. Imagine a grid—dree parts vertically und horizontally. Your subject should fall along zese lines or intersections. See?" He gestured. "If ze horizon is at ze top dird, it creates balance und draws ze eye to ze most important part."
He explained how composition shaped the photo, including the Golden Ratio, Leading Lines, and other techniques to guide the eye.
"Each type of shot," he said, "tells a different story, ja? You must choose vhat fits ze mood und ze ssage you vant to convey."
Next, he gave us a general explanation of film developnt, emphasizing the importance of patience and precision. The theory was fascinating, and then we moved on to the practical stage. He showed us how to load film into the cara in total darkness—it’s much harder than it sounds! At first, I couldn’t do it, but Ansel was patient and guided until I got it right.
In another section of the space stood a table with a plate of fruits and so pitchers and vases on it. Around the table were so other items.
He gestured toward it. "Zis table—ja, you see? You vill photograph zis exactly as I haf explained. Follow ze rules, ja? Precision is everything!"
When I finished the roll, my red light started blinking. I turned my back to the group and checked it.
You have learned the Skill [Photography]
For a mont, a pang of sadness hit . If I had discovered this art form earlier, I could have taken so many pictures of Sophie. Her laughter, the way the sun caught her hair, how she looked at —I could have saved all of it, kept it with . Now, all I had were mories slipping through my fingers. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes to stop the rears, and returned my attention to the class.
Next, he took us to the darkroom to develop our images. The process was nerve-wracking but fascinating—watching the images appear on the negatives was its own kind of magic.
We moved on to printing, where Ansel explained how the enlarger projected the image onto photographic paper. He had us experint with exposure tis, contrast, and techniques like dodging and burning to add depth. My first prints were rough, but I got the hang of it with practice—and even enjoyed it.
Color film was trickier, requiring precise temperature control, but the results were worth it. By day three, I wasn’t a pro but no longer intimidated. We tested different papers and toning techniques, and Ansel pushed us to think beyond just capturing images—using photography to tell stories.
By the end of the workshop, I felt like I’d learned a lot about the technical side of photography and developed a deeper appreciation for the art form. And the best part?
You have learned the Skill [Develop Negative]
You have learned the Skill [Print Photograph]
After the workshop, I went on a bit of a shopping spree, clearing out their entire stock—chemicals, photography paper, film, and everything needed for wet printing. The staff tried to talk out of it, warning about expiration dates, but I wasn’t worried. My Storage would keep everything fresh for years. Hanna (according to her na tag), a young woman with a pixie cut, looked especially concerned, her brows knitting as she rang up the total. Beside her, an older man with a ponytail and glasses watched but didn’t comnt.
“Are you sure you need all this? These chemicals won’t last forever,” she said.
I just smiled. “I’m sure.”
She didn’t look convinced but didn’t push it.
I also searched for more caras like mine, which turned out to be more challenging than expected. Most vintage caras I found could work without a battery but had the option for one, which I wasn’t too sure about. My phone had died in the first Gate, and I didn’t want the caras to fail, too. But I found five that worked. The caras were beautiful, each one with its quirks and features. I hit up other photography stores and bought all their chemicals, paper, and film, plus another three sets of equipnt. At one store, I even found a portable darkroom tent—a compact, lightweight setup perfect for developing photos outside.
The tent got thinking about camping gear. Practicalities had to be considered—where would I sleep? How would I cook? What kind of clothes would I need? Thinking through these details made my future journey feel more solid, more real.
The first outdoor store I visited was an adventurer’s dream—a massive warehouse packed with gear. They had tents in all sizes for any weather, with or without canopies. I bought several—a small, lightweight tent for quick setup, a larger one for extended stays, and a massive glamping tent. At first, I wasn’t sure about that one. Why would I need this monstrosity? But then I told myself, You have the space and money. Live a little. The thought was almost foreign. For so long, I’d been drowning in pain, from Sophie’s illness to her death. The idea of living again felt inconceivable. Still, I made myself do it. I had to.
I picked up fire starter kits with flint and steel, waterproof matches, and a compact, folding stove that used coals. Next up were hammocks and mattresses. I found a double-sized hammock made of durable, weather-resistant fabric and a self-inflating mattress that promised a good night’s sleep even on rocky ground. Lightweight pots, pans, and various utensils entered my Storage. The store also had all kinds of gadgets for showering in the wild. Folding chairs and tables were another great find, making it easy to set up a comfortable campsite. Buying all those everyday necessities kept grounded and pulled back whenever my thoughts started drifting to places I didn’t want to go
Backpacks were a must. I found a rugged leather one with an Indiana Jones vibe—sothing that wouldn’t look out of place in a fantasy world or on Earth. I bought five, figuring I’d still want to carry a backpack even with my Storage. Every adventurer needed one, and it would look less suspicious.
I also checked out touring bikes, picked a model, and bought five with plenty of spare parts to keep them in good shape. The bikes were sleek and sturdy, built for long-distance travel over rough terrain. I picked up spare tires, chains, and a comprehensive toolkit to make sure I could keep them running smoothly on the road.
The seller insisted I needed a bike trailer to carry all the gear. At first, I dismissed it—Storage made it unnecessary. After so thought, I did buy one. Sotis, a secluded spot to store things wouldn’t be an option, and a trailer might solve that problem.
The store carried a wide variety of clothing—shoes, hats, vests, jackets, socks, and more. I picked up a few pairs of durable hiking boots, so moisture-wicking shirts and pants, a weather-resistant coat, and a wide-brimd hat for sun protection. I also stocked up on warm socks and thermal underwear for colder climates.
After the insurance cleared, I had over $350K in my account. Knowing I wasn’t coming back, I went all out and bought multiples of almost everything. My account balance took a hit, and my Storage was almost full.
I need more Storage space and more ability points.
Two days before my flight ho, I checked the other Gate to see where it led. I drove there and stopped at three more pawn shops and a gaming store on the way. The pawn shops yielded more jewelry, and the gaming store more copper coins. Almost all the pawn shops had musical instrunts, so I bought a guitar—or three—and extra strings, just in case. The guitars were a mix of styles: two different classical acoustic guitars and a steel-string acoustic. I noticed skills for playing instrunts—again, I needed more ability points.
For a brief mont, the thought of actually learning to play the guitar crossed my mind instead of just buying the skill. But then I rembered the frustrating piano lessons a foster parent once forced on . That was enough to shut the idea down.
When I got to the Gate, I checked the destination:
Travelers Gate #468217258
Destination: Shimoor
Status: Integrated
Mana level: 17
Threat level: Very low.
That was unexpected. I’d assud it would lead sowhere else, but even the Gate number was consecutive. Raising the binoculars, I scanned the area—no houses, no smoke, no signs of people. Just mountains, dense trees, and a river snaking through the valley below. I paced the mountaintop, searching for a way down. The slope wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was steep, littered with jagged boulders and loose rock. Climbing gear might be necessary, just in case, though my plan was still to cross over near Frankfurt. Or maybe one of the other Gates I planned to visit for leveling would also lead to Shimoor.
A few test shots with the cara confird it worked, and I hoped the pictures would co out. Satisfied, I drove to the rental agency, returned the car, and headed to the airport. It was ti to go ho and handle my affairs.
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