I control the AI ​​empire thanks to the geniuses in my group.

The restaurant was small, with only about twenty seats. The low ceiling was stained dark brown by years of fire and tobacco smoke, and there was a variety of food smells.

It didn't smell particularly pleasant, but in the chill of a London morning, this warmth was more precious than anything else.

Behind the counter was a stout middle-aged woman, kneading dough vigorously while calling out to customers.

At this time, the restaurant was already sparsely populated with people.

Su Zhou glanced around and saw that most of them were dockworkers, coachmen, and small vendors.

Their clothes were wrinkled, their hands were covered in calluses and chilblains, and their faces had a sallow complexion from long-term sleep deprivation and malnutrition.

This was the reality of daily life in 17th-century London.

There were no gentlemen's wigs and top hats, no red wine and poetry in salons, only coarse bread and thin porridge.

This was clearly not Newton's first time here.

The female boss, without stopping her kneading of the dough, simply raised her chin and asked, "The usual?"

"Two portions." Newton held up two fingers and led Su Zhou to sit in the corner by the window.

As usual, it was served quickly.

Two bowls of steaming hot oatmeal porridge, and two slices of dark bread spread with a thin, almost transparent layer of butter.

Su Zhou looked at the breakfast in front of him, his heart unmoved.

In modern times, this would be equivalent to the lowest-priced meal at a fast-food chain. Even KFC's breakfast is much better!

He picked up a spoon and scooped up a mouthful of oatmeal porridge, and was surprised to find that it tasted alright, at least it was hot, and there was a little bit of salt in it.

Newton ate very quickly, showing no enjoyment whatsoever; it was more like a routine.

Su Zhou ate his bread while observing his surroundings.

At the next table sat a young man in his early twenties, dressed in worn-out work clothes. He was so thin that his cheekbones looked like they were about to pierce through the skin.

He had only a bowl of the cheapest porridge and half a piece of ordinary bread in front of him. He ate very slowly, chewing each bite for a long time.

Further away, two dockworkers were complaining in hushed tones that their work for the day might be canceled because their employer said they didn't have enough cash on hand to pay wages.

"The newly minted shillings haven't been issued yet, and the old coins have been confiscated. Whether we can spend the money we have now depends on luck."

"That's right. Last week I took a crown to buy tobacco leaves, and they broke it open and said it was fake. I've never seen what a real crown looks like in my life."

Su Zhou listened silently, feeling a little heavy-hearted.

The period of major recasting.

In 1696, in order to resolve a severe currency crisis, the British government ordered the recall of all old silver coins that had been clipped or worn, and to replace them with new, milled coins.

The policy's initial intention was good, but its implementation was disastrous. Old currency was withdrawn, but the production of new currency couldn't keep up, leading to a sharp decrease in the amount of money in circulation, soaring prices, and the most vulnerable people bearing the brunt of the impact.

Counterfeiters took advantage of the situation, manufacturing counterfeit currency and flooding the market, further exacerbating the chaos.

For the wealthy, this is merely a fluctuation in numbers on paper.

But for these people who live on a daily wage, every coin in their pocket is crucial.

As Su Zhou was thinking, a commotion suddenly arose from the counter.

"This money is wrong!"

The female boss's booming voice rang out, and the entire restaurant instantly fell silent.

All eyes were focused on the counter.

Standing in front of the counter was a middle-aged man, not very tall, wearing a gray coarse cloth coat full of patches, the fabric at the knees worn white.

His hands were rough and cracked, with black grime stuck under his fingernails that couldn't be washed off.

He was clutching a half-eaten loaf of bread in his hand, frozen in place.

The female shop owner grabbed a coin, examined it over and over twice, and then slammed it onto the counter with a loud thud.

"One shilling? Do you think I'm blind? This thing isn't even worth a penny!"

She scratched the edge of the coin hard with her fingernail, and the silvery-white surface peeled off like powder, revealing the dark gray base metal inside.

"Fake!"

A collective gasp filled the restaurant.

The middle-aged man's face turned deathly pale.

"No, no way!" His voice trembled with anxiety. "This is the money I earned yesterday carrying goods at the docks. My boss gave it to me personally. How could it be fake?"

"You can't tell me anything. All I know is that you bought my things with counterfeit money."

The female shopkeeper pushed the coin back, put her hands on her hips, and leaned forward: "A bowl of porridge and bread, two pence, give me the real money."

"I..." The middle-aged man searched through his pockets, pulled out the few coins he had left, and held them out in his palm.

There are three in total.

Three and a half pennies.

"That's all the money I have; the rest went to my child's medical treatment..."

His voice lowered.

"There's no work at the docks today, and I don't even know where I'll get paid tomorrow..."

The female boss's expression wavered slightly: "Either give me a penny, or this is the last time."

The middle-aged man looked down at the half-eaten piece of bread in his hand, his lips trembling slightly.

"But...but I really earned this money..."

He felt extremely wronged: "I carried goods at the dock all day long, from before dawn until sunset, carrying sacks weighing over 80 pounds, one trip after another..."

He clutched the counterfeit coin in his hand: "The employer said it was one shilling, so I believed him. I don't know how to tell the difference between real and fake coins, how could I possibly tell?"

No one spoke in the restaurant.

The dockworkers lowered their heads, because they couldn't tell either.

Su Zhou stopped holding the spoon.

Looking at the hunched back of the middle-aged man, he suddenly realized that during the Great Reconstruction, the average daily income of London's working class was about two shillings, or twenty-four pence, while a basic meal cost two pence.

In other words, one-twelfth of the money this person earns through a day of hard work might be fake.

He couldn't even tell the difference.

These are the real victims of counterfeit money.

Counterfeit money flows from the hands of counterfeiters, changes hands multiple times, and eventually settles at the bottom of society, where it is paid for by those who are least able to distinguish it and least able to bear the loss.

"Boss, I really didn't know it was fake..." the middle-aged man pleaded.

"Rules are rules. I've encountered this kind of thing several times a month. If I let it all go, I might as well close down my restaurant. Go talk to your boss yourself."

Just then, a pale hand gently placed two coins on the counter.

Newton said, "Two pence is his porridge and bread, plus two pence for a glass of milk."

The middle-aged man and the female boss were both stunned.

Su Zhou was also somewhat surprised.

The female shopkeeper recognized Newton, and her attitude immediately changed. She took the coin and neatly put it into the cash box, then quickly poured a glass of milk and handed it to him.

The middle-aged man turned around and stared blankly at Newton.

"Sir...you..."

"Give me that counterfeit coin." Newton ignored his thanks and simply held out his hand.

The middle-aged man hesitated for a moment, then instinctively handed over the counterfeit money in his hand.

Newton took the coin and examined it carefully under the candlelight.

He muttered to himself, his fingers slowly stroking the surface of the coin: "The base material is a lead-tin alloy, with a thin layer of silver plating on the outside... The plating process is quite good, more refined than ordinary street vendors, something a small workshop couldn't do."

He flipped it over, squinted at it for a few seconds, and then put the coin into his coat pocket.

"Sir...the money..." the middle-aged man said weakly.

"I'll keep this counterfeit coin."

Newton looked at him, his tone unusually gentle: "What's your employer's name? Which dock does he work at?"

"Taylor, at the old docks in Warpin."

"How much did he pay you in total?"

"Two shillings..."

Newton nodded, hesitated for a moment, and then took out another shilling from his pocket.

The next second, the middle-aged man found himself holding a brand-new coin with neat edges.

"Here you go, this is real. If you receive money that you can't tell if it's real or fake in the future, you can go to the mint to have it authenticated."

The middle-aged man held the coin, his hands trembling slightly. "Sir, you...I..."

"Let's go eat." Newton didn't want to say anything more and turned back to his seat.

The middle-aged man bowed deeply to Newton's retreating figure, standing there bowing for a long while before finally sitting back down in the corner with the coins in his pocket.

Su Zhou looked at Newton as he walked back.

The other person was silently looking down and repeatedly rubbing the edge of the counterfeit coin with their fingertips.

"It was undoubtedly Charona's doing."

"Su, when do you think Charona will be sent to the gallows?"

P.S. Please give me your monthly votes and recommendations! I'm currently on the recommendation list, so I can't update too much. I'll make it up to everyone by updating 10,000 words a day after the book is officially released. Please don't let the book sit unread!