Ch 10: My Multiverse Supermarket

Qiao Sinian chose Guiyang Prefecture.

Guiyang Prefecture was not a county—it had originally been established by the Chu Kingdom as a special administrative area for mining lead, tin, and other ores. Later, to facilitate management, it was given the same administrative rank as a county.

When Chu lost the war to Yue, the area fell under Yue’s control.

In terms of population, it was smaller than Yizhang and Linwu Counties.

One of the reasons Qiao Sinian chose it was that, during their journey south, they had passed through Guiyang Prefecture and stayed there for a few days. It was not an unfamiliar place.

Yizhang and Linwu, on the other hand, were south of the ancient Yangshan Pass road—territories she had never reached before.

Not knowing the customs or people there, she thought it would be foolish to choose blindly and risk failure.

The second reason was that Guiyang Prefecture was also responsible for minting coins, which meant many merchants passed through.

Where there were traders, there would be markets—and wider opportunities to sell goods.

Chen Wulang, who also wanted Guiyang, felt a pang of disappointment and began thinking of ways to persuade her later to trade places.

The second-highest bidder was Dou Dailang.

Not only had Xian Sanniang given him all her money, but other members of the Dou clan had also pooled their resources—together totaling over seventy thousand.

He chose Yizhang County, the region he was most familiar with.

With the two of them having made their selections, the remaining territory—Linwu County—naturally fell to Chen Wulang.

After verifying their funds, Zhou Li drew up contracts—specifically converting them into traditional characters before printing.

Since some of them were illiterate, Zhao Changyan read the contents aloud.

Chen Wulang asked to speak privately with Qiao Sinian before signing.

Qiao Sinian refused outright. She said her decision was one agreed upon by several backers, and talking to her alone would change nothing.

Then, without hesitation, she signed first.

Seeing that the matter was settled, Chen Wulang abandoned the idea of switching territories.

As the contracts were signed, the system’s voice suddenly echoed in Zhou Li’s mind:

“Congratulations, salesperson 0311. You have successfully completed your first interplanetary trade contract and fulfilled your initial trade quota. You may now return to your original world for half a month to restock goods.”

Zhou Li’s face remained composed, but excitement surged inside her.

She had been in this world for eight days!

Though most refugees were poor and could not buy much, their sheer numbers and constant demand kept business thriving.

Take grain and oil, for instance—cheap, essential goods. Even if they had to borrow, people were still stocking up.

The supermarket’s inventory was nearly empty.

If she didn’t return soon to restock, she’d have nothing left to supply her new distributors.

She told the three, “Decide quickly what goods you want and how much. Then pay your deposits.”

Afterward, she announced a new purchase limit: each membership card could buy no more than three units of any single item per day.

For example—no more than three jin of rice, three bags or boxes of flour, and three bottles or barrels of oil.

The moment the rule came out, panic spread among the refugees.

Especially those without membership cards—since only cardholders could enter the supermarket, they’d often relied on others to buy for them. But now, with purchase limits, cardholders would naturally prioritize their own families first.

Zhao Changyan said coolly, “You’re not like that fool Chen San—do you really think you can’t get your own membership cards?”

Her words successfully soothed the crowd.

Because she had managed the dealership bidding, many already felt close to her—or at least wanted to curry favor.

Now, reassured, they relaxed at once.

Someone asked boldly, “Chang Qiniang, do you know what kind of items the divine lady favors?”

Most had nothing of great age or fine craftsmanship. Their pots and bowls were ordinary—items far inferior to what the supermarket sold.

They did have coin money (lead and iron currency), but since Zhao Changyan had told them the supermarket didn’t accept “mortal money,” they’d never considered trading with it.

Recalling what Zhou Li had accepted before, Zhao Changyan remembered: Qiao Sinian’s wooden hairpin had been huanghuali wood, Xian Sanniang’s lacquer box was made of agarwood, and Madam Dou’s paperweight was rosewood.

These three timbers—huanghuali, agarwood, and rosewood—were all rare and precious, yet native to Chu-Yue lands.

Zhao Changyan said, “I don’t know for certain, but Xian Sanniang’s reasoning isn’t wrong. The Little Boss seems to prefer old items—or finely crafted ones.”

Indeed, that had been evident in the wooden artifacts she’d accepted before. And Yin Jiao’s brocade belt had won Qiao Sinian the dealership spot—it proved that the more intricate and difficult the craftsmanship, the higher Zhou Li valued it.

Still, most such items were already valuable. Ordinary refugees without background or luck couldn’t produce anything like that.

The man who asked sighed in disappointment.

Zhao Changyan added, “From what I know, this forest holds some rare woods—rosewood, agarwood, huanghuali… You could ask the Little Boss if she buys such timber.”

The man’s eyes lit up, and he thanked her eagerly before running to share the news with his family. But soon he came running back.

“Qiniang, you seem to know so much—do you also know what those trees look like?”

“I do,” said Zhao Changyan, “but what will you give me in exchange for that knowledge?”

He froze, then pulled out a small cloth bundle. Carefully unwrapping it, he revealed a few dozen copper coins.

“I only have this much left. Is it enough?”

Zhao Changyan accepted the coins. “Wait here.”

She returned to the supermarket.

Zhou Li was busy tying up final tasks before leaving.

Zhao Changyan respectfully presented one of the coins and asked, “Little Boss, how much would this coin be worth?”

Zhou Li tried listing it on the auction platform—but unlike before, where an automatic price appeared, both the starting and buyout prices were blank.

“Why’s that?” she asked the system.

“Because that coin isn’t part of the interplane currency network,” the system replied.

The coin bore the reign title of the Chu Kingdom’s founding king—but that era didn’t exist in other worlds’ histories.

Since it wasn’t recognized as a historical coin from those planes, its value was greatly reduced—unless someone from this world’s future happened to buy it.

But because of time-paradox laws, entities from different time points of the same world couldn’t make direct or indirect contact.

That is, someone living in AD 958 couldn’t trade through the auction platform with someone from AD 1000 in the same world.

Zhou Li frowned. “But didn’t Madam Dou’s paperweight have poetry on it that wasn’t from another world either?”

“True—but there are countless anonymous poems throughout history. If the piece had a known author, it wouldn’t have sold for 140,000 yuan.”

Zhou Li began to grasp the auction house’s pricing logic.

When she first arrived, the system had told her this plane was very similar to her own world’s Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms era.

If the civilizations were similar, the cultural artifacts’ values would also align.

And surely, this wasn’t the only plane with such parallels.

The buyers purchasing the refugees’ items were probably people from worlds with civilizations akin to this one.

Still, Zhou Li asked, “So… would newly made items from this world count as antiques in another plane?”

“No,” said the system.

That confused her. “If not antiques, why are they still worth so much?”

“The value,” the system explained, “lies in their production date. For certain buyers, objects from the same historical period of a parallel civilization have research value.”

Qiao Sinian’s hairpin fetched thousands because, age-wise, it was antique—and the precious wood added further worth.

Xian Sanniang’s lacquer box was valuable for its agarwood material and its mother-of-pearl technique from AD 936.

Yin Jiao’s brocade belt came from the AD 950 silk-weaving craft.

Madam Dou’s paperweight, meanwhile, was already a scholar’s antique—its rosewood composition and carved flowers and poems were just bonuses.

As for Zhao Changyan’s bluefish stone—it wasn’t antique nor intricate, but its present-day market value was legitimate.

Zhou Li stopped overthinking it.

Even if these items’ dates couldn’t pass carbon testing, once they were placed behind museum glass, who would really know whether they were from the Shang-Zhou era or last week?

She was about to tell Zhao Changyan the coin wasn’t worth much—

When suddenly, the auction listing updated with a “3.”

The system explained, “Though it’s likely treated as a replica, it isn’t entirely worthless.”

Like the “Five Emperors Coins” in her world—most were mass-produced modern replicas, yet they still had a market.

Zhou Li understood. “Three yuan per coin—minimum ten coins.”

Zhao Changyan exhaled in relief.

Money for money—it worked.

And given how worthless their local currency had become, earning enough for a jin of rice per coin was a miracle.

To the refugees, it was a glimmer of hope.

Zhao Changyan exchanged all the coins for cash, then asked, “Little Boss, I noticed you have books here. Do you happen to sell any that teach how to identify valuable woods?”

Zhou Li thought for a moment. Her little supermarket didn’t sell books—but she did recall the stationery aisle carried practice copybooks and children’s coloring books.

“Not yet,” she said. “But if you want one, I can get it for you.”

Zhao Changyan’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, Little Boss!”

Zhou Li added casually, “By the way, I’ll be leaving for a while. I’m trusting you to keep everyone calm while I’m gone.”

Zhao Changyan stiffened slightly, heart skipping a beat.

[Author’s Note]

[Owl emoji] [Calico cat emoji] [Lop-eared bunny emoji] [Upright bunny emoji] [Panda emoji]

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