The three-story building that housed the Honey and Maiden tavern was, by the grim standards of Cinder Town, a veritable palace. It was the undisputed apex of the settlement, serving not only as the administrative heart of Michael's fledgling domain and his personal residence but also, most critically, as the central storehouse for anything of value. The news, delivered by Old Gimpy in a hushed, urgent tone, struck Michael with the force of a physical blow. The word 'food' echoed in his mind, followed by the more ominous one: 'crisis.'
Abandoning his half-finished cup of ersatz grain-coffee, Michael descended into the building's underbelly: the basement. It was a classic feature in the architecture of the old world, a habit of a people who had believed in foundations and root cellars. The space was sizable, perhaps thirty square meters of packed-earth floor and rough-hewn stone walls, cool and smelling of dust, damp earth, and a faint, lingering sweetness from long-gone preserves. On his inaugural tour after claiming his title, Michael had taken a satisfied inventory of this very room. It had been a testament to Andrew's paranoia and his power. Sides of smoked, leathery meat hung from hooks, sacks of knobby, dirt-caked tubers were stacked high, and crates of salvaged goods lined the walls. There had been, by his rough estimate, over half a ton of dried meat and another ton of starchy roots. This seeming abundance had been the bedrock of his confidence, the solid justification for hiring dozens of laborers. He had calculated it would last a fortnight, maybe more—plenty of time for the mythical Hock Caravan to arrive, its wagons groaning with goods he could purchase with his bottle caps.
The reality that greeted him now was starkly different. The hanging meats had dwindled to a few sad, shriveled strips. The sacks of tubers were half-empty, slumped over like deflated balloons. The cavernous room, once comfortably full, now seemed echoingly vacant. The supplies had been halved.
"How?" Michael's voice was flat, cutting through the cellar's chill.
Old Gimpy, wringing his gnarled hands, launched into a nervous explanation. "My Lord, the consumption… it has been far greater than any of us anticipated. You see, under normal circumstances, the townsfolk would supplement their diet. They would hunt—skinks, rad-rats, sand-hares—and forage for edible lichen or prickly-pear fruits. It was a precarious existence, but it meant they were not solely dependent on the town's stores for their survival. Now, however, working for your generous self provides more sustenance than days spent scouring the wastes. Why would they risk the venomous fauna and the sun-sickness when they can earn a full meal and clean water by swinging a pickaxe? The work is centralized. The consumption is… concentrated."
As Gimpy spoke, Michael's mind conjured images of the 'hunting' he'd witnessed: children turning over rocks to snatch up scuttling insects, adults setting crude snares for creatures barely larger than a man's hand. The 'foraging' was a desperate scramble for anything that wasn't actively toxic. This was the baseline he had unwittingly upended. A final, grim tally confirmed his fears. The remaining food, if stretched, might last five days. A week of grim austerity. The math was brutal and undeniable.
"I need to acquire more food. Quickly. What are our options?" Michael asked, his tone leaving no room for prevarication.
Old Gimpy, whose thirty-seven years in the Wasteland constituted a form of advanced scholarly expertise, needed no time to think. The options, such as they were, were a well-rehearsed litany of desperation. "There are paths, Lord, though none are easy. First, and simplest: we halt the well-digging. Immediately. Send the workers back to their hovels. The remaining stores would then sustain the core militia and staff for a much longer period. We wait. We survive."
"No," Michael rejected the idea instantly, the word cracking like a whip. "The work continues. If I stop it now, after promising them water and full bellies, what does that make me? A fair-weather leader. They'll see me as weak, as uncertain. The next time I give an order, they'll hesitate. The doubt will have been sown." He thought of the change he'd already seen—the faint pink returning to gaunt cheeks, the straightening of stooped shoulders, the genuine, unforced cheers that had greeted him that morning. It was more than full stomachs; it was hope. He, Harry Potter Michael, however absurd the title, was the source of that hope. To snuff it out for the sake of mere survival felt like a betrayal of the very order he was trying to build. He would not rule over a town of walking skeletons.
Gimpy nodded, unsurprised. "Very well. Then we must find more. Option two: a journey to Quicksand Town, the nearest settlement of any size. Six days' hard travel, if the routes are clear and the dust-storms hold off. You'd need to take most of the guard, leaving the town vulnerable. And the likelihood of them having a surplus to sell? Low. Very low."
"Option three: we pray the Hock Caravan arrives ahead of schedule. They always carry supplies. But relying on the whims of merchants is a fool's gamble."
"And option four…" Gimpy paused, his eyes flickering towards Michael with a mixture of fear and awe. "Your… Vault, my Lord. If your people could see their way to providing further assistance…?"
The Vault.The lie he'd so conveniently crafted. It was, of course, the only real answer. He was due to return to his world tomorrow. The image of the Wuling Sunshine, packed to the roof with sacks of rice and flour, was a beautiful, tangible solution. He could bring back a ton of food, maybe more. The problem wasn't logistics; it was capital. His bank account was nearly as empty as this cellar.
"The… Vault is a possibility," Michael said, choosing his words with care. "But access is… regulated. There are protocols. Before we explore that avenue, what of the other items I requested? The gold coins? The… colorful papers?" The 'colorful papers' were the key. A few more bundles of those, and his financial problems would be solved.
Old Gimpy's face fell. "The scouts have put the word out to every scavenger they meet, Lord. The promise of a bounty for such items is a powerful lure. But these things take time. The Wasteland does not yield its treasures quickly. We must be patient. The future, however, is undoubtedly bright."
Patience.A luxury he did not have. The future's brightness was cold comfort when the present was a five-day countdown to starvation. A desperate, undignified, and frankly infuriating plan began to crystallize in his mind. It was a scheme that would make every other isekai protagonist hang their head in shame.
He drew himself up, the decision settling on him like a lead weight. "Right. Wake John. Wake anyone who can lift a crowbar. Tell them to get their tools." He strode out of the depressing emptiness of the cellar, back into the main tavern, his voice rising with a forced, gritty energy that belied his utter humiliation.
"Nobody sleeps tonight! We're not hitting the town, we're hitting the junkyard! I want every piece of salvageable metal you can find! Strip the wrecks outside the walls! I want copper wiring, I want aluminum panels, I want iron engine blocks! Tear it all out!"
As the orders echoed in the sudden quiet of the night, a profound sense of despair washed over him. This is it,he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. While other chosen ones are mastering arcane energies or leading epic charges, I've been reduced to scrapping cars for spare change. The King of Cinder Town? More like the King of Scrap.