Morning came with bad news — and worse timing.
Ashburn's phone buzzed nonstop as soon as he opened the store. Customers asking about missing items, shopkeepers wondering when the next batch would come. His supplier's "indefinite delay" message had spread faster than he expected.
He stared at the inbox, jaw tight. So this is how one message can ruin a week.
Sami, munching a biscuit behind the counter, said, "Bro, you look like someone cancelled Eid."
Ashburn didn't look up. "Forty percent of our inventory just evaporated, and you're eating?"
"Well," Sami said, chewing thoughtfully, "stress burns calories. I'm just staying balanced."
Ashburn gave him a flat look. "You'll be balanced alright — on your head."
Their mother appeared from the kitchen with a tray of tea. "Don't take out your anger on your brother, beta. Drink something."
He sighed and took the cup. "Thanks, Ma. Sorry… just a rough start."
She smiled gently. "It always is before things get better."
That line stuck with him longer than the tea's warmth.
---
The day rolled by like a test he hadn't studied for.
Customers came and went, asking for brands he didn't have, comparing prices, making that polite-but-disappointed face that stabbed him more than any insult.
By evening, half the shelves looked like they'd gone on a diet — thin, empty, and miserable.
Ashburn rubbed his temple. "If this keeps up, we'll lose our regulars."
Sami shrugged. "We can just explain it's temporary."
He shot back, "You think they care? When someone needs cooking oil, they don't wait for sympathy — they walk next door."
Sami leaned back. "So what now, business genius?"
Ashburn exhaled slowly. "We find another supplier."
---
That night, he sat by his desk, the notebook open like a battlefield map.
Names, numbers, cities — he went through every contact, every old note, every faint lead he could remember.
There were small local distributors, but they all depended on the same factory.
One or two bigger suppliers existed in the regional city, but they charged more — and required minimum bulk orders. Orders that could wipe out most of his remaining capital.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. If I risk the investment money, it might hit the evaluation. If I don't, I lose customers. Either way, I'm cornered.
The Fortune Ledger flickered faintly in his mind — not showing new messages, only the silent, persistent timer.
> [Evaluation: 34 days remaining.]
He smirked tiredly. "Feels like it's counting my stress too."
---
The next morning, he made a decision.
"I'm going to Bahawal Market," he told Sami, adjusting his backpack.
Sami blinked. "That's two hours away! You sure it's worth it?"
"I won't know unless I try," he said, grabbing his helmet. "If I don't find a new supplier, we'll be selling dust by next week."
"Then take me too," Sami said quickly. "You'll need someone to argue for discounts."
Ashburn raised a brow. "You mean flirt for them."
Sami grinned. "Same thing."
Their mother called out as they left, "Don't forget to eat something!"
"We'll eat when we find hope!" Ashburn replied, starting the bike.
---
The ride to Bahawal Market was long and dusty, the road stretching between half-built warehouses and patchy green fields. Trucks honked, children waved, and Ashburn's thoughts ran faster than his bike.
He needed a miracle — or at least a good deal.
Bahawal Market wasn't huge, but it had everything — from wholesale grains to electronics, from soap to spices. Every corner buzzed with the sound of deals being made and dreams being tested.
Ashburn parked near a row of warehouses, pulling out his notebook.
"Alright," he said. "We start with Rafi Traders. They handle mixed goods."
Sami groaned. "You actually have a list? I thought we'd wing it."
"I don't wing survival."
---
Three rejections later, he was reconsidering that statement.
"Sorry, brother," one supplier said, shaking his head. "We already committed our stock to city vendors."
"Same here," said another. "No new accounts until next quarter."
By noon, sweat had soaked through his shirt and patience was running thin.
Sami leaned against a wall, sipping a cold drink. "Maybe we should just open a juice stall. Less drama."
Ashburn didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on a faded sign at the corner:
Hussain Distribution & Sons – Supply Direct from Factory.
It looked small, old-fashioned — but there was a line of customers outside. That meant business.
"Come on," he said, walking toward it.
Inside, a middle-aged man sat behind a wooden counter, reading invoices.
Ashburn introduced himself quickly, explained the situation, and made his case.
The man listened patiently, then asked, "You run Khan General Store, right? I've heard of you. Decent reputation for a small-town outlet."
Ashburn nodded. "We've been expanding. But one of my main suppliers just delayed all deliveries indefinitely. I need a new link."
The man scribbled something on a notepad. "We can supply you, but our minimum order is 1.5 lakh."
Sami choked on his drink. "One point five?!"
Ashburn's heart sank. That was double what he'd planned.
The man noticed his hesitation. "Quality is guaranteed. We deliver weekly, no hidden charges. You'll make it back."
Ashburn exhaled slowly. "I'll need a day to decide."
"Take your time," the man said with a smile. "But good slots don't stay open long."
---
On the ride home, the evening wind was cool — but Ashburn barely felt it.
Sami finally broke the silence. "You're thinking of taking it, aren't you?"
"I don't have much choice," Ashburn said quietly. "If we want to keep growing, we need consistency. But if I use too much of the investment money…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Sami looked at him for a moment, then said, "You've always managed somehow. You'll figure it out again."
Ashburn smiled faintly. "Let's hope my luck hasn't expired."
---
That night, he sat on the roof, the city lights flickering in the distance like tired fireflies.
The world below was sleeping, but his mind wasn't.
He opened his ledger again, writing down possible calculations — expected returns, new profit margins, potential risks.
If everything went right, they'd recover within two months.
If not… he'd lose half the investment fund before the next evaluation.
He closed the book and looked up at the stars.
"Alright," he whispered. "No system advice, no shortcuts. Just me."
The night air carried a soft gust across his face, cool and steady — almost like an answer.
He smiled tiredly, packed up his things, and went downstairs.
Tomorrow, he would decide.
Whether to risk big — or play safe.
But either way, he knew this much: the store was no longer just a business.
It was his test. His teacher. His story in motion.