> The old man was striding ahead of me, his cane clacking against the cobblestones.
"Hurry up, kid! If we get there after ten o'clock, all that's left are the scraps!"
> "…Scraps of what?"
> "The good deals, you idiot!"
> He suddenly turned into an alley half-hidden by a big sign:
→[ CANTERBURY & SONS — Scriptorial Supplies Since 1672 ]
> My eyes widened. "…There are shops just for Scriptors?!"
> "Of course. You think you'd find spiritual ink at the grocery store?"
-----------
> As he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled.
A strange smell hit me immediately, a mix of ink, leather, and old parchment.
> Inside, entire shelves overflowed with:
papers in white, gold, black.
fine brushes, big brushes, curved brushes.
ink bottles labeled "Enhanced Power," "Controlled Flow," or even "Guaranteed Light Effects."
> An old man with glasses popped up from behind the counter.
"Ah! Shin! Long time no see, you old rascal!"
> "Heh heh, Canterbury! Give me your best practice paper. And a small bottle of spiritual ink… for this kid here."
> The shopkeeper peered at me over his glasses.
"Oh ho… A newbie, huh?"
He patted my shoulder.
"You look sturdy, kid. Are you already writing in the air, or still scribbling on paper?"
> I stammered, "Uh… a bit of both…"
> "Hah! Then you need this."
> Canterbury pulled out a roll of white paper, thicker than cardboard.
"Special beginner's paper. Helps you make cleaner strokes."
> The old man grumbled, "And give him a brush, too. But not one of those cheap ones that shed hair everywhere."
> Canterbury gave him an offended look.
"I only sell top quality, you miser!"
> After a few heated exchanges, they handed me:
a one-meter roll of paper.
a finely carved black brush.
a small bottle of dark blue ink.
> I stared, speechless. "…All this just to learn how to write?"
> The old man turned to Canterbury.
"Put it all on the kid's tab."
> I froze. "…Huh?! Why ME?!"
> The old man shrugged.
"What did you think? That I've got a stash of gold hidden somewhere? I'm a poor old man!"
> I pointed at him accusingly.
"But YOU dragged me here!"
> He raised an eyebrow, mysteriously.
"Don't expect me to pay."
He took on a dramatic tone:
> "A true master spends nothing… he imparts wisdom."
> I groaned. "…Cheapskate."
> I opened my wallet, looking utterly defeated.
"You'll pay me back one day… right?"
> "Of course, kid."
He burst out laughing.
"The day the sea turns into sugar water!"
> I paid, sulking, while the shopkeeper handed me the bag.
We left the store. The old man brandished the paper roll.
"All right. Now, to work. Back to our alley."
---------
> A few minutes later, we were back in our isolated spot.
The old man unrolled the paper on top of an old overturned barrel.
> "First exercise."
He lifted his cane.
"Write 'FIRE' for me. But perfectly straight. No shaking. No lines too thin or too thick."
> "…Huh?! But why?"
> "Because every variation in thickness or curve can change your rune's nature and instead of a flame, you'll end up with nothing."
> I swallowed hard. "…Super reassuring."
> He pointed the brush at me.
"Go on. You've got until noon to give me ten clean pages."
> I picked up the brush, trembling. I tried writing:
F I R E
> The old man glanced at it… and burst out laughing.
"HAHAHA! Looks like you just drew a duck!"
> I sighed. "…This is gonna take forever."