Haus pivoted to sneer at the group: "You sprouts have no future tagging along with her. And you—" He jabbed a finger at Elina. "I'll be waiting in intermediate arcana when you're still stuck here in year three." His cronies guffawed as they strutted off, triumphant.
Lanen's mind flooded with retorts—none suitable. A fight was unwinnable; shouting "Don't bully the young and poor!" too cringeworthy; a dignified rebuttal, beneath him.
He glanced at Hale, whose expression mirrored his own bewilderment. At least Sophia seemed unfazed.
Elina fumed. "How'd you cross paths with that oaf?" Lanen asked.
"He's a brute who picks on weaker kids. I stopped him once—he lost, and since I'm faculty's pet, he couldn't retaliate. Now he seizes every chance to snipe."
Lanen shrugged. "Best avoid him. I swear he radiates stupidity—proximity might be contagious."
"Agreed," Hale chimed in. "Let's move on. Look—the biggest magic supply shop's ahead!"
Elina brightened instantly. "Right! Abel's Grocery is the oldest around. Follow me!"
Abel's "Grocery"
Despite its name, Abel's Magical Supplies was the district's most comprehensive emporium. Lanen stocked up on premium drafting paper, leather-bound notebooks, pencils, ink, and—after hesitation—a vial of "meditation-accelerant" vapor serum.
Hale and Sophia made similar purchases (minus the serum), while Sophia added a self-balancing compass ("Watch—it stands upright on its own!"). Elina opted for reagent jars and a reusable, slow-decay rune slate for revision.
At checkout, the shopkeeper painstakingly tallied their bills with vertical arithmetic, unfazed by his own sluggish pace. Lanen handed over two silver coins and a clinking handful of coppers—all square with round holes, a design meant for stringing (though few did so nowadays).
Banknotes exist but feel abstract. People crave tangible wealth, Lanen mused as they exited.
The Roar of Progress
On Arcana Day, Mechanical Design's inaugural class unfolded amid the thunder of industry.
The Solihull Factory—Lorendan's largest—housed furnaces glowing crimson, machines devouring raw materials, and assembly lines where workers performed robotic motions. Issued thick ear guards, students followed their instructor's gestures through the cacophony.
They witnessed:
Presses stamping steel and timber.
Lathes drilling, cutting, bending.
Conveyors ferrying parts to be painted, polished.
Gears—spur, helical, planetary—meshing in precision.
Runic arrays humming at critical junctions.
It was awe-inspiring.
After touring two colossal workshops with a factory executive, the group removed their ear guards outside.
"What you've seen is the might of machinery," the teacher declared. "Fire birthed tools; tools birthed magic; magic birthed civilization. Now, machines fused with magic propel us as the world's foremost power."
"This year, you'll learn basic mechanical design, calculations, and even hands-on lathe work. These skills are invaluable—mechanical fields dominate the job market and always will!"
The executive added: "Solihull employs dozens of engineers, hundreds of assistants, and tens of thousands of workers. We're a top employer for Atlantia graduates. Consider us when job-hunting!"
During Q&A, Lanen pushed forward: "What's their daily shift length?"
"By the factory's grace, just fourteen hours for generous wages—a blessing of fortune."
Most students nodded.
Lanen's blood ran cold.