Abel blinked in surprise, clearly confused. "I don't follow. What do you mean?"
"This tool is entirely my own invention," Lanen explained. "I'm planning to file for a patent. I even have some capital—enough to scale up production. But I lack distribution channels. I don't know the right people."
Abel said nothing, his expression growing thoughtful.
Seeing Abel listening so intently gave Lanen even more confidence. He continued, "But you, Mr. Abel—you run a well-stocked, constantly updated store. You must have a wide network. If you're interested, why don't we partner up? We can manufacture this tool together and distribute it through your channels."
Abel fell silent, mulling it over.
"And what's in it for me?" he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
"We'll agree on a fair profit split—on both production and sales. As for how big the potential market is…" Lanen leaned in. "Think about it, Mr. Abel. Across the country, neighboring nations, even the entire continent—how many shopkeepers and merchants, like you and your West Street peers, would pay to boost their accounting speed? All of them might want an abacus. The market is massive, untouched, and bursting with opportunity. All we need to do is invest in production—and collect the gold and silver."
Lanen painted the vision like a master salesman.
Abel thought for a moment, then nodded. "You've got a sharp eye, Mr. Banneray. I agree with you."
"So, shall we team up? People say you're reliable—and I trust that. I'm a student of the Atlane Magic Academy. That title should carry some weight, too. We have no reason to distrust one another."
"Give me ten minutes. I need to think."
"…Of course, Mr. Abel."
The seconds ticked by.
After three or four minutes, Abel looked up and said, "All right."
"Excellent. You won't regret this." Lanen could hardly contain his excitement—it felt like landing a big investor. "Shall we meet tomorrow afternoon to discuss specifics? I'll be free."
(He planned to skip Magical History—he was so far ahead in the textbook the teacher wouldn't notice.)
"Tomorrow works. I'll be waiting at the shop."
"Looking forward to it." Lanen extended a hand.
"Likewise," Abel replied, shaking it firmly.
They parted on good terms.
Though the afternoon sun was still bright, the breeze had grown louder, and the air had a touch of chill.
"If I ever get a say in education policy, I swear I'll get rid of this ridiculous rule," Hale puffed between breaths as he jogged beside Lanen.
"Agreed. It's completely inhumane," Lanen shot back.
They were in P.E.
Wearing robes.
Lanen had wanted to complain about this on day one, but the novelty of a new school and new classes had distracted him—until now.
No matter the sport, doing it in robes was absurd. Case in point: running laps.
Before every P.E. class, they had to jog in robes around the field, chanting as they ran. The teacher claimed, "Running helps stretch your stiff little joints, which prevents injuries during the lesson—and saves me from getting docked pay. So running is mandatory. No exceptions."
Sound logic—but impractical. Robes were not made for exercise.
Still, it was tradition. As long as P.E. had been a part of the curriculum, this rule had existed.
Lanen remembered reading the historical context: In early magic academies, mages often fought in wars or went on dangerous expeditions. Physical fitness was essential. So P.E. became part of magical education.
At the same time, the iconic robe was seen as just as vital. Records showed that mages would rather die than fight without it. So the curriculum was built around improving agility and stamina—while wearing robes.
Lanen figured the reason this rule still existed was simple: the students who suffered through P.E. weren't the ones making the rules, and the rulemakers never had to take P.E. again.
Huff… puff… huff… puff…
"Tweet—!"
The whistle blew. The group slowed to a stop at the edge of the field.
"Now I'll demonstrate the three types of standing long jumps," the teacher called out. "Pay attention—this will be graded. We'll cover the forward jump, the side jump, and the back jump. These were once life-saving techniques, long ago…"
The teacher was passionate. Lanen, less so. He stifled a yawn.
Maybe I'll drop P.E. from my self-study list, he thought. There's no point previewing a class where only practice matters. Theory just makes me sleepy.
Suddenly, Lanen felt Hale poke his lower back.
Turning his head, he followed Hale's gaze toward the road next to the field.
A small procession was walking past.
What caught their attention wasn't just the unusual timing—few people were out at this hour—but the man leading the group: a police officer.
In this day and age, police were rarely seen. Their presence almost always meant something bad had happened—or was about to.
Behind him walked a middle-aged couple.
The woman was crying, dabbing her eyes with an oversized handkerchief. Her husband looked somber, occasionally wiping his own eyes with his sleeve.
The three walked out of sight—toward the principal's office.
"Who were they?" Hale whispered. "Have you heard anything recently?"
"I'm not sure," Lanen murmured. "But I have a bad feeling."