There were a lot of things I expected to happen when we started poking around this abandoned space station. Maybe we’d find some forgotten alien relics, maybe some security drones would get cranky, or maybe—just maybe—we’d stumble onto something valuable.


    I did not, however, expect to own the place.


    The moment my hand brushed against what I assumed was just a maintenance console, the station pulsed to life. Lights flickered on, panels powered up, and a synthetic voice crackled through the intercom.


    "Primary Administrator confirmed. Welcome, Station Master."


    Everyone just stared at me.


    "Uh," I said, still processing what just happened. "What?"


    Vrixibalt, ever the scientist, immediately scuttled forward, waving his data tablet. "Impossible! This station is centuries old! It should have been locked out to all unauthorized species!"


    "Well, apparently, I''m authorized." I turned back to the console, watching as alien text shifted—shifted—into something I could actually read. "And, uh… I can understand this now."


    K’zik, the exasperated insectoid, clacked his mandibles. "That is not normal. What did you do?"


    "Nothing! I just—" I gestured at the console. "Touched it."


    The intercom voice returned, this time with an oddly cheerful tone. "Administrator John, please confirm station preferences. Would you like to initialize default settings or customize operational parameters?"


    I blinked. "I have no idea what that means."


    "Understood. Deploying standard operational framework. Claim tax assessment pending."


    "Wait, wait—tax?"


    Vrixibalt practically shoved me aside to examine the console. "Yes, yes, that makes sense! The station must still be connected to a galactic administration network! If you''ve been recognized as the new owner, then of course there would be legal and financial requirements attached!"


    "Legal and—what now?"


    The lights flickered again, and then another message popped up on the console.


    Claim Fee Due: 15,000 Galactic CreditsPenalty for Non-Payment: Immediate Station Repossession


    I groaned. "Of course. Of course there''s a bill attached to this mess."


    K’zik sighed. "You are somehow the only being I have ever met who can acquire a derelict space station and end up in debt because of it."


    Vrixibalt, meanwhile, was buzzing with excitement. "This is incredible! If you truly have administrative access, you could reconfigure this station into whatever you need! A mobile research facility! A battle platform! A deep-space trading hub!"


    I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You’re telling me I have access to an all-in-one miracle station, but I have to pay a fee before I can do anything with it?"


    "That is correct," the station helpfully confirmed.


    I resisted the urge to bang my head against the console.


    At this point, the rest of the crew had recovered from their shock and were throwing in their own opinions.


    Torsa, the ship’s pilot, leaned against the wall with a smirk. "So, what’s the plan, Station Master? Gonna start charging rent?"


    Zilith, ever practical, crossed her arms. "First thing we should do is assess what this place can do before worrying about ownership fees. We don’t even know if it’s worth keeping."


    The Custodian, the station’s resident AI, finally made itself known, its voice an oddly soothing monotone. "This facility possesses modular transformation capabilities. Once the claim tax is paid, the station may be reconfigured to suit the Administrator''s needs."


    I latched onto that detail. "Wait—reconfigured? You mean, like, turn into different things?"


    "Affirmative."


    A slow grin crept onto my face. "So, theoretically… I could turn this into, say, a fast ship? Or a cargo hauler? Or… a war platform?"


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "Affirmative. However, administrator authorization is pending until claim tax is paid in full."


    Right. The bill.


    I turned back to the crew. "Okay, so, bad news: we need to come up with 15,000 credits or risk losing this place. Good news: once we do, we can make it whatever we want."


    Vrixibalt was practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Then we must secure those funds immediately! The scientific potential alone—!"


    K’zik, meanwhile, was far less impressed. "Or we could not go into further debt and just leave before this becomes our problem."


    I groaned. "K’zik, it’s already my problem."


    Torsa clapped me on the shoulder. "Look at it this way—now you’ve got real motivation to make money."


    "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Guess I better start looking for a side hustle."


    Because, apparently, my luck had once again landed me in the middle of an interstellar financial nightmare.


    And the worst part?


    I was actually considering paying the damn tax.


    I had long suspected that my so-called "luck" wasn’t just a fluke. No, at this point, I was convinced it was some kind of cosmic joke at my expense. Sure, it kept me alive, and sure, I somehow always managed to land on my feet, but there was always a catch.


    Take my latest stroke of fortune, for example. I now owned a highly advanced, modular space station capable of transforming into whatever I needed. Fantastic, right? Except, of course, there was a 15,000-credit tax fee standing in the way of actually using it.


    "Alright, let’s think this through," I muttered, pacing back and forth. "There’s gotta be a way to cover this cost."


    Vrixibalt was already deep in thought, scrolling rapidly through his datapad. "If we had access to a proper trade hub, we could take out a financial lien against the station itself—"


    "Yeah, let’s not get into space mortgages," I cut in. "Last thing I need is some galactic repo agent breathing down my neck."


    K’zik let out a clicking sigh. "What I don’t understand is how the station even determined that exact amount. Shouldn’t there be some kind of standard valuation process?"


    As if in answer, the station’s AI, the Custodian, chimed in.


    "Clarification: Fee is calculated based on original purchase contract, adjusted for economic drift and currency deflation."


    "Wait, what?" I turned back to the console. "You mean this fee isn’t in modern credits?"


    "Correct. Claim tax is based on original agreement under the Galactic Unified Economic Treaty of Cycle 37."


    Everyone exchanged glances.


    "...What cycle are we on now?" I asked hesitantly.


    Vrixibalt’s eyes widened as he did the math. "Uh… Cycle 178."


    I groaned. "Of course. Of course it’s based on outdated currency."


    Zilith frowned. "How much would 15,000 credits from Cycle 37 be worth now?"


    Vrixibalt quickly ran some calculations, and his mandibles twitched. "...About 3,000 modern credits."


    I blinked. "Wait—so all I actually need is three grand?"


    "Affirmative," the Custodian confirmed.


    I couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s way more doable!"


    K’zik shook his head in disbelief. "Your luck continues to defy reason."


    "Yeah, well, I’m not questioning it," I said, clapping my hands together. "Okay, so 3,000 credits. That’s still a decent chunk of change, but it’s way better than 15K. Let’s figure out how to get that money fast."


    Torsa leaned against the console. "We could take on a quick job. A transport run, maybe?"


    Zilith nodded. "Or salvage work. The station itself might have materials we can sell."


    Vrixibalt, however, was grinning. "Or… we can exploit the loophole."


    I raised an eyebrow. "I like the sound of that. Explain."


    He pointed at the screen. "If the station is still recognizing outdated currency, it means its financial registry hasn’t been updated in centuries. That means…"


    "...We might be able to pay with old money?" I finished, catching on.


    "Correct," the Custodian confirmed. "Station accounts remain linked to preexisting financial institutions. If historical credits are deposited into an eligible account, they may be used for tax payment."


    My grin widened. "So all we gotta do is find a stash of old credits and deposit them?"


    "Exactly!" Vrixibalt beamed. "And given the number of derelicts and forgotten caches in this region of space, it’s entirely possible such funds still exist!"


    K’zik crossed his arms. "Or we could just pay the 3,000 credits like normal people."


    "Where’s the fun in that?" I shot back.


    Torsa smirked. "I say we go relic hunting. What’s the worst that could happen?"


    Zilith sighed. "You really shouldn’t have said that."


    "Too late now," I said cheerfully. "Alright, team! Let’s go find ourselves some ancient space money!"


    Because, honestly, if I wasn’t going to take the weirdest route possible, I wouldn’t be me.


    And if my luck was any indication… we were definitely in for a wild ride.