"Earth Store" is a bit like a Huaxia pawnshop—it offers loans with collateral, and also buys and sells all kinds of luxury goods, buying low and selling high, and is usually backed by a temple.
Yes, in Japan, the moneylending business is basically run by monks, and they have their own armed forces, keeping large numbers of monk soldiers, so if anyone tries to stiff them, they'll just raid your home. Their might is often even stronger than local landowners—sometimes they'll even beat up a daimyo and force him to pay back his debts.
The shop was empty of customers. As Harano and his two companions stepped into the earthen-floored room, the manager's sharp eyes took one look and he immediately got up to welcome them, shoving the attendant who had come to greet them aside and greeting them with excessive enthusiasm: "Sirs, please, come inside, do come inside!"
He then instructed the attendant to take care of Tao Liulang and Jing Qilang and to pour them some water.
He was experienced—someone as fair and well-dressed as Harano likely had something valuable. Best to negotiate in private; otherwise, people feel awkward about pawning family heirlooms in public.
He invited Harano to sit on the floor mat in the earthen room, poured him tea, and then, still all smiles, asked, "Sir, how should I address you? Are you here for a loan—or perhaps to choose a fine object to your liking?"
"Harano. A bit strapped—selling something," Harano said, scanning the elegantly decorated, ink-painting-hung earthen room, deliberately slowing his speech and keeping it simple.
"So it's Sir Harano," the manager repeated, trying to recall if there was a Harano family in the area, but came up empty. No matter—it wasn't a loan, so he needn't pry. His curiosity piqued, he asked, "Then, would you kindly show a poor soul your treasures?"
Harano took out two hard plastic bottles from his hiking backpack—the kind he'd used for purified water and sports drinks. He'd stripped off the labels and scratched away the manufacture date on the cap, prepping them for sale in a way that felt a bit like a scam.
But he had no choice—the meds in his first-aid kit might be life-saving, so he wouldn't sell them unless desperate. The electric stick, signal flare, power bank, phone, flashlight—those couldn't be sold. Biscuits, Snickers, foam pads, quick-dry clothes probably wouldn't fetch a price or would be hard to move. In the end, only these two bottles looked like they might net some money.
This was not unlike how Western colonizers sold glass beads in Africa and America—except in his case, there was simply no better option, and he was at least a bit more ethical. After all, plastic at this time was absolutely rare.
The manager, to be running an "Earth Store" here, had seen a lot—but he really had never seen a plastic bottle. He cradled one carefully, examining it for a long while before asking Harano, "Forgive my ignorance in front of you, sir—may I ask, what is this…?"
"Southern Barbarian Tea Ware," Harano began his pitch, selling the glass bead illusion. "It shouldn't be common in Japan—calling it unique isn't too much of an exaggeration."
"The shape… is awfully plain," the manager said, unmoved by the self-praise. He squinted at the bottle, weighed it in his hand, and asked, "May I ask what price you are hoping for, sir?"
"What is your esteemed establishment willing to pay?"
The manager thought it over and, smiling, took a stab: "How about one kan of wen?"
This was a price from the eighteenth circle of hell—nowhere near Harano's expectations. He patiently countered, "This is a rarity, a true marvel. At least fifty kan."
The other party wasn't shy, and neither was he—he'd ask for the moon.
Japan's most famous Tea Ceremony item, the "Ninety-nine Shots of Eggplant," sold for just ninety-nine kan on its first sale—a true, heirloom antique, beloved by generations of the Ashikaga family, with immense fame and status. Two random plastic bottles, even if novel, would hardly be worth half that. But these were, after all, industrial products from four or five centuries later—food-grade, heat-resistant. Surely they could fetch the price of five or six packhorses?
The manager's expression was a mix of a smile and a sneer. He said nothing more about the counteroffer, simply set the bottles down, stepped through a side door into the back, and quickly returned with a brocade box. He cautiously opened it and lifted out a piece of Ming Country brocade, revealing a pale green, semi-transparent, long-necked glass jug and three matching glass cups. Maintaining his air of warmth, beaming, he said, "If Sir Harano likes this sort of tea ware, this Southern Barbarian item, 'Goose-neck Drink,' is priced at five kan. I can set it aside for you, sir, and once you have the funds, feel free to come retrieve it. How about that?"
Merchants never speak harsh words, but his meaning was clear enough: we're no country bumpkins—transparent bottles are a dime a dozen; your sky-high price is laughable. What, do you take us for idiots? Throwing money at every oddity we see?
These days, Southern Barbarian items are flooding in like crazy. In places like Kaido Town, there's a new, never-before-seen product every few months. If they treated every novelty as a treasure and purchased blindly, they'd have gone broke ages ago.
So: fifty kan, absolutely impossible!
Harano had expected as much, and wasn't the least bit ashamed or angry.
Stained glass windows were common in Europe as early as 1330 CE; by the sixteenth century, transparent glassware was everywhere—even the Ming Dynasty imported a fair bit. That much history, he did remember.
If he'd time-traveled to before 1300 CE, he'd dare ask a thousand taels of gold for the bottles. But it was now around 1550; Magellan had been chopped up in the Philippines decades ago. It was the Age of Exploration—real glass products provided competition. His bottom line was fifteen kan. As long as it was enough to see him and his dumb kid through this penniless, homeless period, he'd call it a win.
He picked up the "Goose-neck Drink," inspected it, and smiled at the manager. "Exquisitely made, really quite nice. But glassware isn't hard to find. Southern Barbarian bottles this light and this clear, though, are a rare sight."
With that, he tucked the plastic bottles away and prepared to leave—a "you folks just don't get it" look on his face. Shaking his head, he said, "If we can't make a deal, so be it. Until next time, manager."
"Sir Harano, what's the hurry—at least stay for some tea."
The manager was no longer calm. The two bottles were badly shaped—right now, Japan was wild for the "light, flashy, eccentric" style; the more twisted and bizarre, the better. Tea ware included, everything needed to clash with Confucian ritual aesthetics—be different, be distinctive, have weird patterns, scream out mystery and madness, be a bit Lovecraftian. Hence, Southern Barbarian goods were all the rage in Japan at this time.
These two bottles were too proper, out of step with current fashion, hard to appreciate. But the material was superb—transparent like glass, virtually weightless in the hand, slightly flexible when squeezed—without question, extremely rare. Even in Kaido Town, the main hub of Southern Barbarian items, he had never seen or heard of anything like them.
Originally, he'd brought out the "Goose-neck Drink" to rattle the other guy. If that punk was thin-skinned or childish, he might be embarrassed enough to let the manager set the price. He'd snatch them up for three or five kan, flaunt them at a tea party in Kaido Town or Kyoto with a celebrity, build hype, and easily sell them for dozens of kan—huge profit.
But the other party was obviously worldly, thick-skinned, and steadfast—not some spoiled rich kid ignorant of life's hardships. Harder to manipulate; this would take a slower, subtler negotiation.
If he could get them for under fifteen kan, he'd earn a bundle—no way he'd let this score go to a rival merchant!