What is information asymtry?
It's simple: wealth.
That day, in Ian Thorpe's law office, Mr. White signed the share transfer agreent.
As he set down the pen, he looked at Pierre and said with restrained formality:
"Mr. Pierre, it's done. The North Borneo Company is yours now.
I hope, under your stewardship, the territory may one day flourish again."
As he said it, a strange and almost mischievous thought flickered through his mind — a hint of schadenfreude.
Why would I feel that way? he thought.
I'm drawing a pension from the man.
Pierre smiled, his voice warm but firm.
"Naturally, Mr. White. When the war ends, you're welco to visit North Borneo as my guest."
He signed the contract without hesitation.
A glowing screen appeared:
[User has leveraged information asymtry to acquire 48% of the North Borneo Company. Experience points: 1000]
That's it?
A company worth millions of pounds — even in its current state, easily several million — and all he got was 1000 experience points?
Then again, the logic was clear.
North Borneo was still under Japanese occupation.
At present, it was a liability, not an asset.
Whether it would beco a kingdom or a coffin remained to be seen.
So, the path to becoming a warlord still has a long way to go...
Opportunities favor the prepared.
And to seize them, one must first accumulate firepower — wealth, influence, capability.
Ambition without the strength to support it is just noise.
If he truly wanted to beco a petit roi — a king of his own patch — he needed capital.
Which ant... he still had to haul goods by hand, one shipnt at a ti.
The warehouse was packed tight.
Car after car had been wedged in like puzzle pieces.
But even now, he spotted a few slivers of space that could still fit more.
And Pierre never wasted space.
No new cars available? Fine. Second-hand ones would do.
In warti Arica, used cars often sold for more than new ones.
What was the biggest change war had brought?
Inflation. Shortages.
People selling off anything they didn't absolutely need.
And among all those surplus goods, nothing had lost value faster than cars.
With petrol rationed to four gallons a month — not even enough to drive a hundred kiloters — most private cars had beco dead weight.
Even taxi companies were downsizing their fleets.
They had no choice but to sell — even at cut-rate prices.
And soone had to buy.
"1938 Cadillac V8 — the finest luxury vehicle in the world. Yours for just £120!"
"Chrysler Airflow — £100 and it's yours! No tricks, no traps!"
The mont Pierre stepped into the second-hand lot, he was greeted by a sea of advertisents — and a forest of vehicles.
There were British cars, German, French...
but most were Arican.
Before the war, the U.S. was the world's largest car manufacturer, after all.
He walked up to a Ford and bent down to examine it.
Before he could get a good look, an elderly salesman with a full head of white hair shuffled over eagerly.
"Sir, that's a 1936 Ford Model 48.
A fine machine, truly."
As he spoke, the man popped the hood.
"See here? V8 engine. Plenty of power, excellent reliability—"
Pierre nodded distractedly.
He was about to go through the motions when—
A system prompt flashed in his vision:
[Specialization skill available. Activate?]
A new skill? Absolutely.
[Skill: Automotive Engineering. Learn now?]
Automotive engineering?
Now that was interesting.
He accepted imdiately — and knowledge surged into his mind like a dam breaking.
[Skill "Automotive Engineering" acquired.]
Suddenly, the Ford Model 48 before him was no longer just tal and rubber.
It was a schematic made real — a gateway into his new field of expertise.
He could see it all: engine dynamics, torque output, tire wear, fuel intake ratios, gearbox layouts.
Every component and subsystem now made intuitive sense.
Where once he had been an amateur, now he felt like a trained automotive engineer — overnight.
Incredible.
I've gone from a liberal arts student to a chanical engineer?
This system really was sothing else.
As he examined the engine, the interface displayed a live 3D model overlay — a full structural readout of the engine block and all its components.
He could visualize the internals in motion, spot weaknesses, optimize design.
This system... was powerful.
Far beyond what he'd imagined.
Still, he didn't linger.
The Ford 48 was a basic mass-market vehicle — barely better than a Model T.
And space was precious. He wasn't about to waste cargo capacity on cheap cars.
By the ti he left the lot, Pierre had secured several Cadillacs and Chryslers — so of the most sought-after Arican luxury models of the day.
The following days passed in relative comfort.
During the day, he strolled around London.
At night, he entertained himself with Stana's long, statuesque legs — and occasionally reviewed the modest profits from the stockings she'd sold during her tea parties.
It wasn't much.
But it was a pleasant diversion.
Not everything was so idyllic, though.
Just before his planned return to the United States, London was bombed again.
This ti, a bomb landed on the very street where he lived.
When he erged from the air raid shelter, the street was in ruins.
A crater had been blasted in the center of the road.
Shards of glass and chunks of masonry lay scattered everywhere.
Looking at the wreckage, Pierre's urge to leave London intensified.
"Too dangerous," he muttered.
Self-preservation is a powerful instinct.
And for a man who planned to beco a power player in the postwar world, he couldn't afford to die under so stray German bomb.
The next morning, Pierre made his way to the Thas-side airstrip.
Just like last ti, the "ticket" cost £500.
But unlike before, the crew now greeted him warmly.
They all rembered him.
No one asked why he was flying to the U.S. again.
They didn't need to.
Everyone understood:
if a man was paying that kind of money twice,
he must be making even more.
Twenty-six hours later, he landed in New York.
This ti, he had a base of operations.
The company had rented a comrcial building in Brooklyn — a red-brick warehouse.
The second floor, built into the rafters at one end, served as his office.
Through the windows, he could see the Brooklyn Bridge.
When he arrived, the office was empty.
Striding to the desk, he spotted a report sitting neatly on the surface — along with a handwritten note.
"Boss,
I've completed the market survey.
This report contains the product information you asked for.
—Zhu Yihai"
Zhu's office was right next door.
Even though the company wasn't fully operational yet, he'd been gathering data nonstop.
Pierre flipped open the report.
Imdiately, he knew he'd made the right choice hiring the man.
The report was detailed and precise — pricing and demand for consur goods across New York and the surrounding states.
So pages even included newspaper clippings as references.
There wasn't a single wasted word.
The executive summary was short but sharp:
"Tires and petrol are in critical shortage — every household wants them.
But the most in-demand consur good is..."
Pierre blinked.
"...Sugar?"
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