Investing In My Four Crippled Yandere Wives Get 1000x Returns

The little girl found Allen sitting alone near the half-finished schoolhouse construction site, watching the day’s crew pack up their tools as evening settled comfortably over Hegeville’s continued, considerable transformation, and approached with the particular, fearless curiosity that only children seemed to retain once the world had properly taught adults to be more cautious.

"Are you really the Investment guy?" she asked, planting herself directly in front of him with her arms crossed, unbothered by his considerable reputation in a way that made Allen’s tired, grief-worn mouth curve into something close to a genuine smile for the first time in days.

"Depends who’s asking," Allen said.

"Rosalind," she said, as though the name itself settled the matter entirely. "My mom says you’re the reason we’ve got a real house now, instead of the leaky one. And my brother says you’ve got a magic system that just gives you stuff, but that seems fake, because nobody just gives you stuff for free."

"Your brother’s partly right and partly wrong," Allen said, considering how to properly explain something he’d spent considerable effort clarifying even to himself, back when it had first, confusingly manifested. "Can I tell you how it actually works? It’s a little complicated, but I think you’re smart enough to follow it."

Rosalind nodded solemnly, settling down cross-legged on the ground beside him with the particular seriousness children reserved for being trusted with genuinely important information.

"There’s actually two separate systems," Allen began. "The first one’s called Investment Returns. It doesn’t just give me things for being nice, or for wanting stuff. It only works when I genuinely, actually care about someone or something, and choose to invest real effort into that care. Time, attention, real emotional commitment. When I do that sincerely enough, it converts into points I can spend."

"Spend on what?"

"At first, on healing," Allen said, his mind drifting briefly, warmly, toward Myria, Irene, Everlyn, and Vivian, toward everything those early points had eventually, painstakingly restored. "My wives were all hurt, a long time ago, in ways doctors couldn’t properly fix. I spent years earning enough points to buy back what they’d lost, one considerable purchase at a time."

"That’s really sweet," Rosalind said, with the particular blunt sincerity only a child could manage.

"It was hard," Allen admitted. "Took a long time. But eventually, once all four of them were properly healed, I had points left over, and that’s when I discovered the shop had a lot more in it than just healing elixirs. Equipment. Abilities. Even bloodlines, sometimes."

"So it does just give you stuff."

"Sort of," Allen said, "but only stuff I’ve genuinely earned through real care, not stuff I just want. That’s the part your brother’s missing. I can’t buy anything if I haven’t actually invested something real first. The system only responds to genuine feeling. It can tell the difference."

Rosalind considered this with visible, thoughtful focus. "What’s the second system, then?"

"The second one’s called the 1000x Multiplier," Allen said. "It doesn’t give me anything new by itself. What it does is take something the first system already granted me, and make it considerably stronger. Like, my very first ability was a pretty small, modest bloodline. Barely noticeable, honestly. But the Multiplier took that same bloodline and turned it into something a whole lot more powerful."

"So you need both."

"Exactly," Allen confirmed, genuinely pleased by how quickly she’d grasped the distinction. "Neither one works properly without the other. The first system gives me the seed. The second one helps it grow into something considerable."

"That’s kind of like Hegeville, actually," Rosalind said, surprising him with the observation’s genuine insight. "Like, you cared about us first, right? That’s why you started fixing stuff. And now the town’s growing into something way bigger because you kept investing in it."

Allen studied her a long moment, something warm and quietly moved settling in his chest at a child’s simple, considerable wisdom cutting straight to the heart of something he hadn’t quite articulated even to himself. "That’s a really good way of putting it," he said. "I might steal that, next time someone asks me to explain it."

Rosalind beamed, delighted by the compliment, before her expression shifted toward something more solemn, more careful. "My mom said a boy died," she said quietly. "At your tournament. Saving people."

Allen felt the familiar, hollow ache of grief resurface, gentler now but never fully absent. "He did," he confirmed. "His name was Haruki. He was a genuinely good person."

"Did your system give you points for caring about him?"

The question, innocent and utterly without malice, still landed with unexpected weight, and Allen considered it carefully before answering. "I think it probably did," he said slowly. "But that’s not why I cared about him. I didn’t invest in that friendship hoping to get something back. I just genuinely liked him, and wanted good things for him. The points are just what happens afterward, when the caring’s already real."

Rosalind nodded, apparently satisfied by the distinction, and reached over to pat his hand with the particular, matter-of-fact comfort children sometimes managed better than adults ever properly learned to offer.

"I’m sorry your friend died," she said simply. "But I bet the system gave you a whole lot of points for how much you cared about him. Maybe that means something good comes from it eventually, even though it’s sad right now."

Allen felt something in his chest ease, just slightly, at the observation’s simple, unburdened wisdom, and found himself, watching Rosalind eventually skip off toward her waiting mother as evening properly settled over the construction site, quietly grateful for a child’s uncomplicated ability to hold grief and hope in the very same breath, without needing either to cancel the other one out.

"Thanks, Rosalind," he murmured, watching her go, and turned his own attention back toward the half-finished schoolhouse rising steadily against Hegeville’s darkening evening sky, letting the day’s small, unexpected kindness settle alongside everything else he still carried.

Myria found him there a while later, having finished her own considerable rounds of the day’s construction progress, and settled beside him with quiet, familiar warmth, following his gaze toward the schoolhouse’s rising frame.

"You look lighter than you did this morning," she observed.

"A little girl explained my own system back to me better than I’ve ever managed myself," Allen said, a faint, genuine smile still lingering. "Told me it’s kind of like Hegeville. You care about something first, and then you keep investing, and it grows into something considerable."

"She’s not wrong," Myria said, something soft entering her usually composed tone. "That’s exactly what this town’s become. What our whole family’s become, really, if you trace it back far enough."

"I think I needed to hear it from someone who wasn’t carrying any of the weight we’ve been carrying lately," Allen admitted. "Just — simple. True, but simple."

Myria leaned into him, quiet and grounding, and they sat together a while longer, watching the last of the construction crew’s lights flicker off one by one across the darkening site, the day’s small, unexpected grace settling comfortably alongside everything else still waiting, patiently, to be properly faced.

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